A man who inspired greatness

Twelve years spent in Catholic girls schools, and four more at a women’s college do not give you much of an opportunity to cross paths with legendary athletes.

The first time I really felt excited and electric about a school team was during my first year in law school when Villanova made it to the NCAA finals.

It was hard to pay attention to the tournament since I was also trying not to flunk out of contracts and civil procedure, but I managed to follow the progress of the Wildcats and their irrepressible Italian paisan of a coach out of the corner of my eye.

And then, on April 1, 1985, I stopped everything I had been doing, adjusted the hot curlers on my head (there were men in my classes for the first time, so sue me) and watched as my team, my Wildcats, my freaking alma mater beat the heavily favored Hoyas. Augustinians crushed the Jesuits, and we owed it all to a round, passionate little Italian with less hair than heart.

Rollie Massimino was more than just a coach. He was, like the tragically re-imagined Joe Paterno, a cult figure of such warmth and volatility that it was hard to have a neutral opinion.

It was hard, in fact, to have a negative opinion unless you were a thin-skinned local news reporter who didn’t much appreciate the fact that Rollie wouldn’t treat you like royalty.

This column is not a sports column.

I am not qualified to write about statistics and techniques and batting averages and even the effect of concussions.

Every now and then I can come up with something about why Michael Vick deserves everyone’s forgiveness, or why Vince Lombardi was a saint and only the meanspirited hate the Packers, or why handsome baseball players who are cut down in the prime of their lives break our hearts.

These are human interest stories, not sports gems, and I know my place.

But now, my place is at the keyboard, writing about Rollie Massimino and the changes he made in my life.

I’ve been told that I put too much of myself in these columns, and that I should try and be more universal because readers don’t want to know about my own personal Camus moments.

And yet, I think I will be speaking for everyone of us, Villanova grads and those who simply watched from the sidelines, when I say that Rollie Massimino was the single most beloved coach in this area for the last five decades.

He certainly gets a run for the money from JoePa, but that memory has been (in my opinion unfairly and deliberately) tarnished, to the point that it is inextricably tied up in human tragedy.

Phil Martelli will have his shot in that pantheon, as will Rollie’s protégé and surrogate son Jay Wright.

Fran Murphy is up there too, and John Chaney has his own cheering section (although as someone who has been surrounded by Owls all of her life and has to fight to get one Villanova banner in the lower corner of one tiny cracked window, I’m not holding pom poms for him).

But this is about Rollie now, and it will always be about him. I watched the film of the 1985 championship about a dozen times on Wednesday night after hearing he’d passed away, and each time I started crying as if I were back on my old bed, eating barbecue potato chips and watching the television between my fingers.

It is a visceral thing, this winning. It is a memorable thing, this love for a team, and a time, and a man.

I never met Rollie in person, even though I’m sure we passed each other on campus hundreds of times.

We occupied different air space, but I knew he was there just as I knew that God was in the chapel.

It isn’t sacrilege to speak of Rollie Massimino in the same sentence as God, not because we adored the man but because we were inspired by his presence to believe in greatness.

That was confirmed for us all, in 1985.

Rest with those angels, Rollie, and be easy on them.