The main school in western PA is Pitt (Pittsburghers consider Penn State to be central PA or PA-at-large). Pitt football plays Penn State about once a year, and the ludicrous talent differential between the teams usually means the game gets decided somewhere in the first quarter. But Joe Paterno was a special kind of asshole, so he always kept his top squad in the game to run up the score for no other reason than because he could. Most people in the Pittsburgh area fucking hate(d) Joe Paterno since long before his assistant coach started touching boys. My grandfather was one of the nicest people I ever met, except on the topic of Paterno*. A Penn State bumper sticker parked at Pitt was maybe not a great idea. Trump was basically standing on Pitt campus when he fist-bumped a dead rape enabling shithead whose name is a special kind of dirt in this part of PA**.
Good job all around!
(*) Typical joke, now a bit dated: A football fan dies, goes to heaven and makes a beeline for the nearest game. When he gets there he sees a manic wild-haired coach running up and down the sidelines, abusing players and harassing the refs. “Hey,” the fan says to an angel in the next seat, “I didn’t know Paterno was dead.” “Paterno is fine,” the angel says. “That’s god. He just thinks he’s Joe Paterno.”
(**) Knowing the kind of jagoff who likes Trump, I bet there were plenty of Penn State diehards in that room.
Thanks to valued commenter tinare for pointing out that Pitt and Penn State don’t play much football any more. Considering that I know almost nothing about college ball, it should give you some sense how deep the not-love for Paterno runs in these parts.