JoePa's Greatest Call Ever

By Roy Exum · Thursday, February 2, 2012

I'm a big believer in miracles, especially after starring in a few. If you look for them when you scour the various newspapers and websites like I do every day, you can find them after you get a knack for it -- unexplainable and totally unexpected events of wonder that happen just when all hope is hanging by a hair.

I guess it's been almost 20 years now when my youngest brother, only in his late 30s at the time, wrecked us all with the tearful pronouncement, "I've got less than three months to live." He had gone for a routine physical, one of those life-insurance deals, and an X-ray revealed something bad on his lung. Without telling anybody, he went to a specialist and it was found that a deadly form of cancer not only had him in its steely grip but that it was quite inoperable.

There ain't a lot of "quit" in our crowd so with prayer chains galore and a furious flurry of phone calls to everybody we could think of, pure fate and the Lord Above led us to Emory Medical Center in Atlanta where there was a wizard who dared to figure that if he could shrink the tumor with massive chemotherapy and intense radiation, there was a very slim chance. All any of us needed, you understand, was just a chance and ever since that is all I've ever wanted for Christmas -- just a chance.

Anyway, we drove down and talked to this guy for two hours. Everybody knew this was a high-stakes game and the doctor was forthright about the whole thing. He made sure everybody knew that "if" the chemo worked and "if" the radiation worked, the surgery could still kill my brother before he ever got off the OR table but it was a no-call. Are you kidding? Compared to what?

As we were leaving the physician's personal office, I glanced around and on his bookshelf he had a bunch of Penn State stuff everywhere. He even had a framed picture of Joe Paterno (unsigned) and I asked if he'd ever met JoePa. He said "no" but revealed that growing up he would go to PSU games in Beaver Stadium all the time and that Joe was his all-time hero. The doctor loved coach's "success with honor" motto -- he even had it in a frame -- and was a deep and devout Penn Stater. I dared not utter another word.

Let's get back to miracles for a minute. The way I was taught to pray is that you never ask for God's favor but pray His will and His blessing will be done. You pray for stuff like comfort, perseverance, and strength but ... well, you don't just up and yell, "Heal my brother!" Our tribe's thinking is that God already knows our torments, our fears, and our tribulations and that worshipping the Savior is the better and safer way.

That said, I'm not so proud I won't ask for a little nudge every now and then. Driving back from Atlanta in a mighty quiet car, as I silently asked the Lord to give the doctor that strength and, incidentally, to please make sure the surgeon's hand was extra-steady, I figured maybe a personalized picture of Paterno might give the doctor a little more zip in his approach to my brother's nearly impossible case. You know, just a little nudge ...

So I called State College and Joe was out. I explained who I was and what I needed to his secretary. I can't remember if I told her I had a vote on the AP poll at the time and also headed the Heisman Trophy voting in Tennessee, but I did tell her to make sure the photo went out in the first-class mail as soon as she possibly could.

Two days later, I got a frantic call from Emory. It was my brother's doctor. "DO YOU KNOW who just called me!! Coach Paterno! He heard I was treating your brother and we talked for 35 minutes! I can't tell you ... you have no idea ... Joe PATERNO! ... you never told me you two were great friends!"

Talking to the hyped-up surgeon was hilarious. Coach Paterno knew where this guy had grown up in Pennsylvania, even talked about a special restaurant in his little town, and knew his high school coach. He told a couple of funny stories, the doctor said, and was curious about my brother. Joe then made the doctor give him his oath the Atlanta doctor would pay a personal visit the next time he was in State College and also promised that pictures (signed), a football (signed), hats (signed) and a bunch of Nittany Lion gear was already boxed up and on the way.

I remember my brother's surgery was the day before Thanksgiving that year and the next afternoon, watching him struggle to breathe without one of his lungs, was the grimmest Day of Thanks I ever spent. Late that same night, when I finally got home, there was a note that Joe Paterno had been calling all afternoon. He'd left his cell phone number.

And my brother? He lived for another 10 years. That's one reason why I am such a big believer in miracles, most particularly when they get a little nudge from somebody as great as Joe Paterno.

Isn't it funny how sometimes, so very suddenly too, we remember silly stuff like that?

royexum@aol.com

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