Companions in Courage (25 page)

Jerry retired after the 1999 season, logging thirty-two years as an assistant and twenty-three years as defensive coordinator.
He made his name developing twelve first-team All-America linebackers. His book,
Developing Linebackers the Penn State Way,
chronicles his approach and attention to every detail.

Before Sandusky became the defensive coordinator at Penn State, he was offered the head coaching job at Marshall University.
He accepted and then declined. That sudden turnaround defines the compassion and courage of Jerry Sandusky more than all his
achievements as a coach.

After negotiating a contract agreement with Marshall and agreeing to it, Jerry came downstairs to announce the news to his
family. The first child to greet him was a young foster kid he and his wife, Dottie, were caring for. The youngster ran up
to Jerry and asked him if they could go outside and play ball. He looked out the window and the other kids were outside playing
in the snow. In that moment, Sandusky made another decision. He knew he couldn’t go to Marshall and leave these kids.

He wanted to be a head coach. But more than that, he wanted to give these needy children what he knew they needed—attention,
direction, and love.

Prior to the Marshall decision, Jerry and Dottie had been developing a group foster home. Those plans grew into the “Second
Mile,” a nonprofit charitable foundation for disadvantaged youth. Today the program has twenty full-time employees and services
a network of volunteers, fund-raisers, and school and community programs that help give thousands of kids a chance to live
productive lives.

As the Sanduskys’ involvement grew, so did their family—Jerry and Dottie adopted six children, Ray, E. J., Kara, Jeff, Matt,
and Jon. Matt, twenty-one, speaks for all the Sandusky kids: “My life changed when I came here. There were rules, there was
discipline, there was caring. Dad put me on a workout program. He gave me someone to talk to, a father figure I never had.
I have no idea where I’d be without Mom and him. I don’t even want to think about it. And they’ve helped so many kids besides
me.”

In many ways, what Dottie and Jerry do harks back to Art and Evie’s recreation program in Washington, Pennsylvania. E. J.
describes his dad as “a frustrated playground director.” He fondly remembers the kickball games his father organized in the
family backyard: “Dad would get every single kid involved. We had the largest kickball games, with forty kids.”

Competition and passion made Jerry go. At the summer football camp, the feature was not just football. It was the entertainment
competition between the “Great Pretenders”—fellow Penn State coaches Joe Sarra, Bill Kenney, and Sandusky—and Spider, also
known as assistant equipment manager Brad Caldwell. Spider always won. Sandusky finally outdid Spider by going to the great
lengths of having him arrested by the campus police. When he gave his farewell address at the Penn State Quarterback Club
dinner, Jerry reviewed his memorable years as a coach but also announced with great joy that Spider had finally lost.

Whether it’s a backyard kickball game or an important bowl game, the common ingredients are commitment and passion. All-America
linebacker LaVar Arrington recalls an incident that took place in Miami during Penn State’s game against the Hurricanes on
September 18, 1999. Arrington had gotten carried away by the frenzy of the game and was exchanging taunts with the crowd.
Sandusky spotted him and charged toward him. He tripped over a wire, scattering equipment and landing on his face, all the
while screaming, “Don’t do that!” When Arrington turned to see what all the noise was about, he saw his coach sprawled on
the sidelines, yelling at him. He couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

“He gets caught up in the moment sometimes,” Arrington said.

On November 13, 1999, Jerry Sandusky ran out onto the Beaver Stadium field for the last time as a Penn State football coach.
He received a standing ovation and was greeted by his sons Jon, a defensive back, and Matt, a team manager. They hugged one
another, and thousands of kids felt that embrace as they watched in the stands and on TV. With tears in his eyes, Jerry told
his sons to get lost because he had a game to coach, and then he headed for the sidelines.

What will he do now? He will continue to help run the Second Mile program, do volunteer work with the athletic department’s
Life Skills and Outreach programs, coach at football camps, write another book, and—who knows?— maybe even coach somewhere
again.

LaVar is right. Jerry Sandusky does get caught up in the moment. Thank God he does. It doesn’t matter whether he’s trying
to outperform Spider at a summer football camp, beat back the poverty and injustice that affect young kids’ lives, defend
his goal line against the best teams in America, or organize backyard kickball games, Jerry gives his all. He brings passion,
vision, and commitment to his every effort.

Thanks to Jerry Sandusky, Happy Valley and a whole lot of people have been a little bit happier for a long, long time.

I
n a fifth-floor studio on West 25th Street in Manhattan, kids learn how to fight. No, it’s not what you think. This place
doesn’t have a boxing ring, a wrestling mat, or martial arts instructors. It’s a club for fencers run by Peter Westbrook,
the bronze medalist in fencing at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympic Games. Peter, who left his job with IBM and the
New York Times
to start a fencing program for kids in upstate New York, knows that life on the streets is very much about protecting yourself
from danger.

He grew up in the Hayes Homes Housing Project in Newark, New Jersey, and, like many young kids, ran with the “fast” crowd
in his neighborhood.

“I was very slick. I used to hang out with some real fast people,” he says.

Mariko, Westbrook’s mother, grew concerned about the direction of her son’s life, so she took a job at a nearby rectory so
Peter could attend Essex Catholic, a private high school. Once at Essex, Peter joined the fencing team, which became the first
step toward turning around not only his own life but those of many others.

The transformation took time.

“I didn’t change right away. But fencing gave me an outlet for my aggression,” he says. “The first time I had that sword in
my hand, I realized this is a fighting sport. God knows I did my share of fighting. But over time, as I watched my friends
either go to jail or die, I realized I didn’t want to take my hurt out on other people anymore.”

Peter continued to excel as a fencer, a relief and a source of pride for his mother, since Samurai warriors were a part of
her Japanese heritage. He won a scholarship to New York University and achieved Olympic stardom. A combination of successful
sales skills and fencing expertise led him to establish the Peter Westbrook Foundation with Mika’il Sankofa, the only four-time
NCAA champion and an Olympic teammate. His plan was simple: Expose kids from different cultures to fencing and to one another;
provide academic help; and give them a constructive outlet for their emotions. He began the program with $10,000 and seven
students.

The Westbrook Foundation now has sponsors and is able to charge $20 a year or whatever each kid can afford. Peter, who is
of African-American and Japanese descent, runs a weekly class for eighty to one hundred kids and an after-school program for
his top thirty students. When the Olympic fencing team arrived in Sydney for the 2000 Games, three of the six fencers were
products of West-brook’s program.

In addition to making a difference in hundreds of kids’ lives, Peter’s work has produced Keeth Smart, a two-time NCAA saber
champion, and Akhi Spencer-El, the first American to be ranked as the world’s Number 1 in sabre.

The story of Harvey Miller, one of Westbrook’s students, is an example of what happens at the club. Two years ago, Harvey
fit the profile of a kid going nowhere. He was flunking out of school and hanging out on the streets of Queens. He hadn’t
passed a course at school in two years. When Miller’s mother heard of Westbrook’s program, she gave him an ultimatum: “It’s
either fencing or boot camp.” Harvey chose fencing.

Peter went with the young man to school to talk to the counselors. Harvey agreed to attend daily and to take night classes
to make up the courses he had flunked. In the second term of the 1999 school year, Harvey earned a place on the honor roll.

“In fencing I was a natural. I fenced well and that inspired me to do well in other areas of my life,” Harvey says.

Harvey Miller finished third in saber at the North American Cup in South Bend, Indiana, in early 2000 and competed in the
Junior Olympics in Sacramento.

“I have no doubt. Fencing and Peter saved my life,” he says.

On the floor at the club, Coach Sankofa barks out the commands and the fencers move in unison, “Advance. Retreat. Lunge. En
garde.”

The class—short kids, tall kids, black, white, skinny and plump kids—goes through its fencing routines. Peter Westbrook watches
with pride as his pupils learn lessons that give them a fighting chance at the club, in competition, and on the streets where
they live.

“I just knew fencing would help these kids, just as it helped me,” Westbrook says. “Some of them have a natural fighting spirit.
Give them some technical training, encourage a sense of self-discipline, convince them to give back to others, and God will
take care of the rest.”

In a world full of violence and weapons, what a wonderful thing to see Peter Westbrook not taking, but giving, at the point
of a sword.

W
hen they played high school football together, Jeff Sherer protected Steve Beuerlein.

Now it’s Steve’s turn to look out for his friend.

Sherer played offensive tackle for Servite High in Anaheim, California. His buddy, the quarterback, went on to fame at the
University of Notre Dame and then into the NFL, where he’s now the Carolina Panthers’ Pro Bowl passer.

Beuerlein makes a good living as an NFL player, using his brains and his body. Sherer, thirty-four, can hardly move at all.
Sherer suffers from Lou Gehrig’s disease—otherwise known as amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. This terrible and debilitating
disorder of the nervous system progressively weakens its victims and ultimately kills them, usually within two to five years
of diagnosis. Gehrig, the New York Yankees first baseman, died when he was thirty-eight. ALS also claimed pitcher Jim “Catfish”
Hunter in 1999.

Sherer learned he had the disease in 1998. From then on, Beuerlein and thirteen others who played with them at Servite joined
to support their friend in any way they could—emotionally and financially. They’ve helped provide for the family, paid medical
bills, and staged an annual golf tournament to raise even more money for the Sherers. When Steve went to Hawaii for the Pro
Bowl, his first in his thirteen-year career, he brought Jeff and his wife, Marya.

Last May, at the invitation of Pennsylvania senator Arlen Specter, Beuerlein testified before a U.S. Senate subcommittee to
raise awareness about ALS. He was more than glad to do it. With him were Jeff and Marya, to bring home dramatically what ALS
does to those who suffer from it and also how it afflicts their loved ones. Jeff and Marya have three children, the youngest
just five months old at the time of Steve’s visit to the Senate and the oldest a mere four years. Steve did the talking, using
his status as a professional football player to touch hearts.

He talked about Jeff and the progressive weakening ALS inflicted on his old teammate. “This once-tremendous athlete no longer
has the use of his arms or legs. His five-month-old son, he has never been able to pick up and hold and say that he loves
him. Imagine the pain and frustration that goes with that.”

No stranger to speaking to large groups, Steve Beuerlein had much more to talk about than how the Panthers might do next season.
His stature brought with it an obligation he happily met.

“It’s an example of the opportunity we have as professional athletes,” he says. “People tend to pay a little more attention
to you. I’ve always looked at it as one of my responsibilities, to stand up for the things you believe in and to try and make
a difference in a positive way if you can.”

Good point. There is so much competition for funding that a spokesman with star power can really make a difference. It’s a
shame that decisions might be made based on that, but it’s also a reality.

“In Washington, we have what we call ‘disease wars’ going on right now,” says Steve Gibson of the ALS Association. “Without
bringing high-profile people in to tell the story, you really aren’t able to put a face on the horrors of a disease like ALS.”

Horrors is the right word. Jeff Sherer spends most of his days in a wheelchair and cannot move his arms or legs. A machine
aids his breathing at night. Speech doesn’t come easy, yet his mind remains active. He can form thoughts; ALS won’t let him
express them. Imagine his anguish when he wants to tell his children he loves them or to thank his wife for her kind and loving
attention.

“Jeff is always wondering why he is the one who has this, like a lot of people would in his situation,” Marya says. “It’s
one of those things that makes you realize there is a reason for everything and a purpose. You feel like what you’re going
through isn’t for nothing.”

Steve Beuerlein can’t cure his friend. But he can help and he did help and he will continue to do so, using his public standing
to advance a cause.

“There are very few times in your life when you really have a chance, an individual chance, to do one thing that can make
a big difference and really have a significant impact. This might have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.”