This was the image that was supposed to endure, the image that generations of trusting, ebullient Penn Staters had been raised on, the image that had not yet been sullied by the spreading stain of horrific scandal:

Out of the tunnel and into the golden glory of autumn sunlight they come, the ground shaking beneath them, legions of imposingly large young men, armored and helmeted and led by a feisty rooster of a man who punches the tart October air, exhorting them on, and you swear you hear the call of bugles, the fading echoes of the thunder of cannon fire.

 From where does this image spring? From the poets and the...]]>