There were questions to be answered this summer. Important questions. And Paterno knew it. He granted more interviews during this off-season than any in recent memory.

Because these days, a lot of people, it seems, are claiming they know what's going on in the old coach's head. Players and -- especially -- fans and writers have tried to explain why he wants to continue coaching and why he signed his four-year contract extension in May. Paterno had to speak this summer before everyone else did it for him.

It was obvious he was ready to do that as he sipped his beer and deftly answered questions. Paterno didn't say much -- other than that he's excited about the season; that he was touched by the four-year contact extension the university offered him in May, despite his team's 3-9 record the year before; and that he wants to coach "one more great team."

It was also obvious that he was anxious to be done with the interview chore so he could start mingling with guests at the banquet. When the interview was over and he was about to leave the room, a boy stopped him and thanked him for a letter he received from the coach, congratulating the boy on becoming an Eagle Scout.

Paterno remembered the letter immediately and, raising his right hand above his shoulder, he prompted the boy to recite the Boy Scout pledge.

Flabbergasted by the coach's cordial greeting, the boy stumbled and stuttered over the words he had most likely said a thousand times before.

Paterno chuckled knowingly, gave the boy a pat on the shoulder and was off, wandering down a hallway to the crowded banquet room where he would touch dozens more with his golden charisma.

*****

There is another side of Paterno, less golden in its charm but still existing for good reasons.

Along with his sense of dedication, it could be the side most responsible for his success and consequently the adoring public that so rarely sees these less desirable traits.

It is his players who see these things. And they are not easily endured.

"Everybody thinks he is a saint, but he can be caustic," said Steve Stilley, who was a running back at Penn State from 1969 to 1972.

In their eyes, he is negative, sometimes even cruel and often sarcastically degrading.

But that's just the way he has to coach, former players said. He has little time for building deep personal relationships with every player. Too many players, not enough time and, if a player needs a friend, that's what position coaches are for in the Penn State program anyway.

Yet a friend is always what he seemed to be, any former player Paterno recruited would say about the first time they met him. A masterful salesman, he walked into many of their living rooms with a good-natured chumminess -- and a knowledge of what he had to do to get them into a Penn State uniform.

Rudy Glocker, who played for Paterno from 1989 to 1992, and his family remember that first meeting well.

"I remember it was longer than I thought it would be, three hours longer," said Glocker, who is now a vice president at Goldman Saccs in Boston, Mass. "He was very impressive."

What his dad, Carl, remembers is how Paterno had to sell Penn State to the Glockers.

"He knew what he had to sell," Carl Glocker said. "And he is a schmoozer."

As a top high school football prospect who also had high SAT scores, Glocker was somewhat of an anomaly. His parents were the sensible types; they wanted him to play for an Ivy League school. Rudy, on the other hand, was slightly intrigued by the attention he got from coaches like Paterno and then-Florida coach Steve Spurrier, men who he'd only seen on a television screen.

Between the three, Paterno sized up what each wanted in a school, and he saw a way around the dilemma. He pitched it to the Glockers: "If Rudy is the student I think he is, when it's time for him to apply for graduate school, I will write the letter of recommendation, and I will get him into an Ivy League school."

After Glocker's in-home visit -- and subsequent commitment to Penn State -- he rarely saw Paterno again until he was on the practice field as a freshman, which is common for most Penn State football recruits. By then, former players agree, the charmer who had treated them so delicately during recruiting was gone, replaced by a merciless martinet.

For Keith Dorney, an All-America offensive lineman in 1977 and '78, that change in temperament came as a shock, since he chose Penn State mostly because he thought Paterno was a "nice guy." At his first practice freshman year, Dorney made the mistake of suggesting that Paterno, the nice guy, had put him in the wrong position when he said: "Coach, I thought I was going to play defense."

"Ahh, nuts, Daunny," Paterno angrily snapped back. "Get out of here."

While Dorney would get used to the Brooklyn-bred coach pronouncing his name "Daunny, " the caustic disposition Paterno often displayed toward his players was harder for him to accept.

"The only meaningful conversation I had with the man as a player was during my recruitment," said Dorney, who is now an English teacher and professional writer living in Sebastopol, Calif. "He rode me unmercifully, I thought, during my career."

After one game during Dorney's senior year -- a 49-21 win over West Virginia, no less -- Paterno berated the All-America tackle in front of the team for 15 minutes, saying he was "selfish" and "could have cost us the game" for committing two holding penalties. Almost in tears, Dorney hurriedly left the locker room after Paterno's harsh words to see his parents standing there to greet him. He wanted to quit, he told his parents, trying not to sob.

"You can imagine, it was pretty embarrassing for a 21-year-old," Dorney said.

He didn't quit, though. He finished out the season and was named an All-American for the second straight year. Ahead of him was a successful nine-year career in the NFL, during which he was named a Pro-Bowler in 1984.

And despite the many days he spent hating Paterno, Dorney dedicated an entire chapter to the coach in his first book Black and Honolulu Blue, a memoir of his life, particularly his days as a football player.

In the book, Dorney wrote: "I'm frequently asked, 'What was it like to play for Joe Paterno?' I tell them that if I could, I'd go back and do it all over again. I think that's the biggest complement I can give him."

Dorney's sentiments reflect one of the few bottom lines former players can reach when discussing Paterno. Yes, he was tough -- sometimes intolerably so -- but it was for a good reason, and they were better off for the discipline he instilled in them.

In fact, many former players wonder if Paterno has eased up on his hard-line ways lately with the program limping into the 2004 season after a woeful 3-9 record in 2003.

"I hear people say he got softer," said Dennis Onkotz, who was an All-America linebacker at Penn State in 1968 and '69.

Onkotz, who now owns an insurance business in Boalsburg, is someone who would know how strict and unyielding Paterno can be.

At the beginning of his sophomore year, Onkotz was second on the depth chart -- until the first-teamer he backed up was caught in a bar the night before the second game of the season. The next day, that player was off the team, and Onkotz was a starter for the rest of his college career. Paterno was that decisive.

In the last two years the program has endured a plethora of off-the-field incidents, and former players say they hope Paterno hasn't wavered on his sense of discipline since their playing days.

"If he does that, he's done," said Irv Pankey, who played offensive line at Penn State from 1976 to 1979 and then in the NFL for 12 seasons. "That might have been part of the problem last year, to be honest with you."

Stilley, who is now a sales manager living in Medford, N.J., points to the retirement of long-time Penn State defensive coach Jerry Sandusky as part of the program's downfall. Stilley is also suspicious of Fran Ganter's move to an administrative position. He believes the former assistant head coach was "pushed out" and set up for failure by an entangling play-calling system on offense.

"You have [quarterbacks coach] Jay [Paterno] in the booth and Joe on the sideline and Fran is supposed to be offensive coordinator, so you tell me what's going on," Stilley said.

All are very interesting theories. But then again, how much can these men really know for sure? It was hard enough knowing what Paterno was thinking when they were in the program. Having been detached from it, for decades in some cases, makes it that much harder.

Dorney, for one, says that the old coach can turn Penn State around based simply on a "look he saw in Paterno's eyes" and nothing more.

To these former players, Paterno remains in their memories as an omniscient and distant figure that presided over his football program much like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He did so with an unyielding sense of goals and purpose that only Paterno himself truly comprehends. And the degree of separation created a man that, though often appreciated, was seldom understood by his players on a personal level.

"To this day, I'm not sure of his motives," Dorney said. "I don't know if he is one of the world's greatest humanitarians or just a raging egomaniac."

*****

Sue Paterno, perhaps the one person in the world who knows the real the Joe Paterno, is not a hard person to contact.

Her phone number is right there in the State College area phone book. Just dial a few numbers and you can talk to a famous football coach. Or his wife.

You wouldn't expect a man like Paterno to have a listed phone, but he does. In that fact might lie the greatest dilemma that comes with being Joe Paterno.

As Sue will say, there are good reasons why they have that listed number.

The main reason: she fears that they would be difficult to contact in the event of an emergency if they had an unlisted number.

Concerns like this aren't inconsistent with a mother who nearly lost one of her sons when he fell off a trampoline at a friend's house on Oct. 14, 1977.

On that day, she was lucky someone did get in touch with her, listed number or no listed number. When it happened, she was in a van driving with some of the other coaches' wives to Syracuse for Penn State's game with the Orange the next day. Hoping to find her, Joe looked up the vehicle's license plate and had it tracked by state police. A few hours later, a trooper pulled behind the van somewhere between State College and Syracuse and blared on a megaphone: "Follow us. We have an emergency message." And soon Sue was on her way home.

It was "a miracle" David Paterno survived, but since then Sue has always been cautious. And that's why the number is staying in the phone book.

Paterno admirers, however, like to mention it as something that makes him seem down-to-earth and approachable. But like so many things that make him appear accessible -- like the banquets or fundraising dinners at which he speaks or the recruits' parents he has over for dinner -- it forces him to give up a piece of himself.

On many nights, around 2 a.m., the phone will ring and every time Sue Paterno's heart will leap from her chest as she springs out of bed to get the phone. Is it an emergency? she'll wonder frantically. Did something happen to one of the kids? Or the grandkids?

But no. It is just a drunken prank caller with nothing better to do than pester the Paternos.

It would be nice to think that Paterno could not act like the celebrity he is and get away with it. That he could have the listed number and live an undisturbed life in a small town, but that is, of course, not the case. The public's interest and curiosity in him is something both he and Sue have to deal with every day.

It's one of the special things about Paterno: people he's never met are so interested and so often inspired by his ideals. Even more impressive is how his appearance always seems welcoming and how he always seems like the ordinary, well, Joe.

But when does the man get to rest? Where can he spend time with his grandkids without the constant reminder that he is Joe Paterno, legendary football coach whose team went 3-9 last season?

Take, for example, the trip Sue and Joe made to the Jersey shore this summer with some of their children and grandchildren. So he could get some relaxation at the beach, Joe got up very early in the morning to walk the shoreline. When the rest of the world started to awaken, Paterno headed back to the house, where he'd study playbooks and analyze gameplans the rest of the day while Sue and the kids lounged on the sand.

Sometimes he'd take a break from his work, just for a few minutes to walk down to the beach to see how the family was doing.

It didn't take long for the beach-dwellers to notice Paterno. Someone of his fame is going to be recognized anywhere he goes, and the distinctive thick glasses and crooked nose certainly don't help either. They started approaching from everywhere -- autograph seekers and fans wishing to give the coach their two cents.

"The toughest part is people won't leave him alone," Sue said. "He'll be playing with the kids and someone will ask for an autograph. Then he gets the guilt trip because he says, 'No. No autographs when I'm with the kids.'

"They dehumanize him."

That process isn't necessarily a derogatory one. For many fans, he is beyond human; he is god-like to them to many ways. But Sue knows he isn't. She's his wife, and she's seen his weak moments.

When David Paterno was in the hospital in 1977 after falling off a trampoline and it was doubtful that he would ever recover, Sue remembers Joe talking to his son's neurologist one night. David's dire condition led the coach and the doctor to lament about how neither man could spend enough time with his family. They stood in a hallway and sulked about what they had given up to be such accomplished men in their careers.

But Sue never allowed for any of this catharsis. "You both do what you have to do," she told them.

And she never did begrudge Joe for spending so little time at home, but she says it was never easy.

As the children became teenagers, they started to wonder why everyone else's dad was around more often, and nearly all of the household responsibilities always fell to Sue. Just having the last name "Paterno" can also be difficult.

People regularly approach Sue in the supermarket with an opinion to pass along to her husband.

Especially lately. Everyone pretends to know what's wrong with Paterno and his football program. But Sue usually just nods and doesn't pay any attention; she knows how little people understand her famous husband.

"Nobody out there really knows him, except his family," Sue said. "And even they don't know him as well as me. I can read him when other people can't."

*****

It was finally Paterno's turn to talk, and those seated in the crowded banquet room at the York Outdoor Club could not have been more delighted. Finally, they would hear the man that had given them a reason to buy a seat at the fundraising dinner.

What they heard was Paterno at his finest. Ever resourceful, Paterno managed to incorporate many details from the night's event into his impromptu speech.

Earlier in the banquet, Penn State swimming coach Bill Dorenkott mentioned that he and his wife just had another baby, and the 77-year-old coach jumped at the opportunity for humor.

"With all this talk of babies," he said. "I just want to make one announcement: Sue's expecting."

As the rest of the crowd roared with laughter, one man yelled: "Way to go, Joe." To which Paterno responded: "As soon as I got that new four-year contract I said, 'Let's go, baby.' "

He went on to thank the attendees of the banquet for their support of Penn State athletics, calling them "friends." He also praised the other varsity coaches at the university for making Penn State one of the best all-around athletic departments in the country.

And before it was all over, he was making an impassioned speech that had the crowd revved up as he pounded his fist on the podium and promised that he is working harder than ever to make the team better. And the crowd cheered for Paterno, who poised himself as the pillar of strength they had come to know and love.

There was a point, though, when he showed a gentler side.

It came when Paterno reminisced about the early years of the annual event at York. Once again, he paid tribute to his departed friend Barney.

"God bless Barney," he said to the people seated at their dinner tables. He then told them about the woman who asked him if he wanted something to drink. "I said, 'Yeah, I want one of Barney's beers.' "

Then, Paterno paused and -- looking directly at Barney's widow, Rose Thomas, who was seated in the audience -- he said: "She gave me a Budweiser."

And there was an audible, heart-felt sigh throughout the room, for those gathered had been touched by the grace of Joe Paterno.

They had seen his charisma, his comedy, his compassion and his idealism.

And that they had only been brushed with greatness -- and that they would never come to truly know the man beyond this night -- hardly seemed to matter at all.