At one end of the ivy-draped practice field, a potbellied man limps along, the cuffs of his baggy trousers rolled above his socks. Alone with his thoughts, he shakes his head in dismay, mutters and then scratches something on a much folded sheet of white paper. You might think he was a curmudgeonly equipment manager or an eccentric classics professor. But what gives his identity away, more than the familiar face or the trademark retro eyewear, is the manner in which the behemoths on the field cast periodic glances his way. They know that on that sheet of paper Joe Paterno...
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