You'd have been amazed.
During your early-morning strolls - during your entire life here, really - you were always so obsessed with X's and O's that I doubt you paid much attention to the world that was blooming all around you.
You probably never noticed how much things had changed since that afternoon in May 1950 when you and Rip Engle rolled into town in the coach's Cadillac.
But while you were busy studying game film on Michigan State or schmoozing some recruit's parents, you made a big difference here.
That's what your father always counseled, wasn't it?
"Whatever you do in life, Joe, try to make a difference."
In fact, you made such a difference, and the outpouring of sentiment here since your passing on Sunday has been so overwhelming, that I'm surprised no one has yet suggested that they rename this place Paternoville.
I mean, let's face it, State College was a cow town and Penn State a cow college when you arrived here as a restless 23-year-old. The only way you got here back then was via these narrow mountain roads. And there really was no reason to get here.
Now, thanks to the Nittany Lions football program you built, and its huge following, there are interstates such as 99 to get you here and get you out. There's an airport big enough to accommodate Big Ten charters. The university is first-class. There's even a couple of spots where you can get some good macaroni and a Jack Daniels.
Penn State's campus, which back then was little more than a cluster of buildings surrounding Old Main, has expanded like Ralph Friedgen's waistline. There are more than 40,000 students here now. Every one of them knows you and will remember you forever.
