How to Deal with the Horror of Sexual Abuse-A Modest Proposal from Penn State FansPosted: November 14, 2011
I don’t follow sports. If I did, I certainly wouldn’t follow American university sports–it inspires an inexplicably ardent devotion most often seen in cult followers and, sorry folks, but they aren’t even professionals.
Allegations of the ritualized sexual abuse of children by assistant coach Jerry Sandusky currently unfolding at Pennsylvania State might have opened the door for a conversation about the monstrous exploitation employed by powerful men in large organizations and the apparently automatic cover-ups that occur in their wake (who knew the driving force behind The Second Mile—founded by Sandusky in 1977 in an effort to recruit fresh meat, er, I mean, help troubled boys—was to take heat off the Catholic Church?). Instead it has exploded like a dirty bomb and scattered nuclear jizz across the headlines, diverting the discussion toward the unjust removal of beloved head coach Joe Paterno.
This is the desired outcome for terrorists, political- or media-inclined, and their jerry-rigged concoctions of radioactive paste slathered over a crock pot reworked into a low-yield ordinance explosive. The name of the game is “collateral damage”, an otherwise fascinating diversion from Parker Brothers, outside of the tiny print on the rule sheet and unfair advantage given to the dealer of the cards. Among those caught in the crossfire in this instance are ESPN commentators grasping for the correct movie reference for the Penn State highlight reel (The Man Without a Face doesn’t yield much in quotable dialogue); Ashton Kutcher, who relinquished control of his Twitter to a PR flack due to an ill-advised defense of ole’ JoePa (and when you can’t count on sitcom stars for steerage in stormy seas, what is a nation to do?); and…there’s one more group pinned down in all this, but I can’t remember who…I want to say “the victims of Jerry Sandusky’s rapey tendencies” but that doesn’t seem right. Oh, right! The publishers of Sandusky’s now inconveniently-titled memoir Touched. Join me in a moment of silent prayer for the good people at Sports Publishing LLC. Don’t worry…it gets better!
I, for one, am glad that this sordid event has hit with such force and anger. It’s about time we saw an appropriate response to a hideous act. That’s why the students at Penn state rioted and good on them for getting involved in some old-fashioned civil disobedience. What’d JoePa do to deserve this kind of treatment? Other than soft-pedaling his assistant coach’s penchant for molestation to Penn State Athletic director Tim Curley, not going to the police with the information, not forwarding this information to The Second Mile, not banning Sandusky from Penn State grounds and not, in an admirable act of restraint, curbing Sandusky’s face until it looked like a pile of bloody diarrhea squirted onto a plate of caucasian-colored nachos.
As usual, the tragedy has landed squarely with the kids. Not the ones Sandusky allegedly buggered in the Penn State showers, or those he allegedly pimped out to high-rolling pedophile friends—I’m talking about the students. Firing Paterno midway through the season puts the Lions’ season in jeopardy and if the students don’t have another championship to look forward to, what do they have? Their studies?
Paterno is the winningest coach in college football history and that doesn’t come without breaking a few eggs, or whatever else hovered into the groin-level vision of Sandusky’s one-eyed serpent of desire.
Now I come to this discussion with a particular view, having been sexually molested at a young age in the storage utility unit of the apartment building where I grew up. Sure it’s left a mark on me, specifically in a distrust of utility workmen who display an unusual interest in my hair colour and skin texture (still soft, mind you—moisturizing is key). Rape happened to me and no one tipped over a cop car in rage (you need a group for that, by the way—I’ve tried it solo and my back has yet to forgive me). It’s hard not to feel a little hurt by that.
But you know what? If my defiler told me that his repugnant use of me as an outlet for his desires would have helped the Toronto Maple Leafs finally win a Stanley Cup again, that would make the whole thing worthwhile. I mean, if you’re going to receive a sound buggering that results in thirty-plus years of crippling self-doubt, two nervous breakdowns, a suicide attempt and crushing sexual dysfunction, it would ease the burden to know that it all happened for a good cause (I mean, come on: the Leafs are an original six and haven’t held Cup glory since ’64—breaking the Ballard curse has to be worth an overly-sensitive gag reflex, right?).
So if the Penn State faithful are willing to tear up the quad and suffer pepper spray from insensitive police officers (take your Gestapo tactics to Occupy Wall Street, pigs!), then one can only surmise they must think the rape of vulnerable boys is worth a national championship or two.
Or maybe the only logical fuel for it.
So kids, if you’re really a fan of the Nittany Lions then I think we both know what you need to do. Hang out in a Penn State shower and wait for an award-winning plunging from a high-ranking member of the coaching squad. If you’re already a Penn student, sorry, you’re a little old to satisfy the Sandusky-like urge. So why not offer up a younger sibling? Perfect seasons don’t win themselves and, short of a maniacal focus on the fundamentals and an unwavering need to win, the wedging of an Old Spice-scented cock into a minor’s cornhole is, really, quite a modest proposal.