Death and mercy came to Joseph Vincent Paterno on Sunday. Surrounded by his beloved wife, Sue, and their family, the coach was carried off on the phantom shoulders of the hundreds, even thousands, of young men whose lives he enriched over six decades at Penn State.
Death comes to us all. It is mercy when it eases pain too great to bear. For Paterno, the pain of what transpired over the past months was surely as great as the cancer that officially claimed him. He is free from that pain now.
There was pain over the loss of his job, of course, and over the inability to leave it on his own terms after such a long and stellar career.
But his deepest pain was for the university to which Paterno devoted his life. To say he was the Nittany Lions' football coach would be to say that Steve Jobs worked in computers, or that Walt Disney was a cartoonist. The man was larger than the university where he worked, than the sport that he coached.
That was both his greatest achievement and, in the end, part of his downfall. If you appreciated Paterno for assuming his position as a much-needed conscience of college sports, and for his singular status as the most important man in Happy Valley, then you had to be disappointed by his failure to meet his own standards when confronted with Sandusky's heinous alleged behavior.
This is not a contradiction. Indeed, there was the distinct impression that Paterno was disappointed in himself. He said in an early statement that he wished he had "done more." His interview with Sally Jenkins of the Washington Post published on Jan. 14 - his final say on the matter - was tinged with sadness and regret. If you cared about Paterno, if you believed in him, you detected sorrow in every word.
This is the third and final time Sandusky's name will appear in this column. It is unfortunate that his name is linked with Paterno's at all. There is no getting around the connection - not after the breathtaking sequence that began with the release of the grand jury report and was followed with the dismissal of Paterno, the housecleaning in the Penn State administration, the revelation that Paterno had lung cancer, and now, with shocking finality, his death.
For decades, Paterno made time stand still in State College. His team dressed and (sometimes to its disadvantage) played as if the calendar still said 1965. Paterno conducted himself like a courtly gentleman of some previous era. He wore the same thick glasses, sported the same thick black hair, ran onto the field in the same high-water khakis.
Nothing ever changed. And then everything did. Suddenly, cruelly.
It is possible to believe that Paterno could not continue representing Penn State as its head coach and also believe that he'd done so with great distinction for an incredibly long time.
It is possible to believe he should have done more when confronted with real evil and also believe that he was a good and decent and admirable human being.
It is impossible to turn back time and give everyone involved a do-over. Joe Paterno, the man, is gone now. It is sadly true that much of what he believed in and represented was already gone from college sports and society at large. But quite a bit of what remains does so because he instilled it in lives he influenced directly and indirectly, in former players and Penn State alumni and those who admired him and his teams from afar.
Joe Paterno was a force for good for most of a long and wonderful life. When the full measure is taken, that will outweigh the terrible events of these last months.
Penn State already has hired a new football coach. It will never have another soul. That was Paterno. That is Paterno. Time will take care of the rest.
Contact Phil Sheridan at 215-854-2844, email@example.com, or @Sheridanscribe on Twitter. Read his blog, "Philabuster," at http://go.philly.com/philabuster and read his columns at www.philly.com/philsheridan