Coach James Franklin welcomed Central PA’s beat writers to the press room wearing an elegant, late 18th century Viennese suit of clothes, in a brilliant OSU-red with gold embroidery, and a powdered wig of the same era. His eyes, sullen and war-weary, yet warmly empathetic and affectionate, begged the crowd silently to sit.
Once assembled, but without even a murmur between them, Coach and the press corps locked eyes, frozen in place. Seconds passed like hours. A whirlwind rush of mute communication swept through the room, too frenzied, too raw, too brutishly blunt, despite the still silence, for any possible understanding beyond base, naked emotion.