John Beale, Post-Gazette photos Penn State fans go wild during the Nittany Lions' win against Ohio State Oct. 8.

By Chico Harlan, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

UNIVERSITY PARK, Pa. -- Sometime in 1998, a German DJ known in the electronic underground as Splank used his personal computer and a soundcard to experiment with some beats -- an evil pattern of synch noise -- not knowing at the time that this musical flow would, seven years later, cause one of America's largest stadiums to move within its own concrete.

Splank, in his bare studio, created a basic tune, both simple and contagious. He called the track "Kernkraft 400," though years later, hundreds of thousands of fans in a foreign country would mistakenly call it "Zombie Nation." Really, Zombie Nation was the name of Splank's one-man electronica band. And Kernkraft 400 was his first breakthrough, an international club hit that chased Mariah Carey off the Billboard charts.

	Penn State linebacker Tyrell Sales is congratulated by fans Oct. 8 after the Nittany Lions defeated Ohio State at Beaver Stadium. Click photo for larger image. More Coverage: Big Ten Roundup: Hawkeyes spoil Alvarez's celebration

Like all songs -- and, like the Penn State football team that would later use the song as its anthem -- the peak led to a downfall. Kernkraft 400 was soon anonymous, preserved only in the musical cemetery known as late-night laser bowling, and, basically, left for dead elsewhere.

How to explain this scene, then, but as a resurrection? Eight days ago, Penn State played Wisconsin at Beaver Stadium, and 109,865 people -- a good 20,000 of whom were students dressed in white, like zombies -- pushed together, as if forming the many parts of one beast. Every time Kernkraft 400 pulsated through the speaker system, the stadium shook with noise. Some students stuffed Advil in their pockets, they would later admit, because the roar gave them headaches by halftime. Others, like Penn State junior Jeff Bast, had spent days camping outside in 40-degree temperatures, just for the chance at a front-row seat in college football's wildest frenzy.

Together, on third downs, the stadium waited. One mob of fans, so listless only a year ago, waited for the song it called Zombie Nation, a tribute to the reawakened dead.

They knew the beat by heart, screaming along to the wordless pattern of O's: oh-oh-oh-ohh-o-o, oh-oh-oh-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ohhh.

Ah, college football's most unlikely love song.

	We had some of the most electric, energetic, passionate student sections I can ever remember, and it seems like I've been here for a long time. That was really rewarding. They genuinely enjoyed this team, and the team gave a lot of energy right back. There was a lot of give and take. "To see Michael Robinson and [senior defensive end] Tamba Hali going over to the student section, there's just a special connection with the student body. From that standpoint, that was the one thing I'll remember as being very special." -- TIM CURLEY, Penn State athletic director

A starting point

So when, and where -- and better yet, how -- did this emotion generate? The natural ebb and flow of winning can convert casual fans into passionate ones, but outright fanaticism requires a deeper connection. Penn State's 9-1 record and No. 6 Associated Press ranking explains it only partially because America is dotted by sports teams that win games but never win hearts.

At Penn State, though, some longtime fans call this team their alltime favorite. Roughly 1,200 alumni turned out at a recent pregame rally in Ann Arbor, Mich. Current students refer to the team's key players -- among them, Paul Posluszny, Derrick Williams and Michael Robinson -- by their nicknames: Poz and D-Will and MikeRob. Before key games this season, dozens of students established a makeshift tent village (Paternoville, they called it), and, by the time Bast had concluded his unofficial term as Paternoville mayor, he already had spent roughly 20 nights this semester sleeping outside Beaver Stadium.

"I think what fans have created in that stadium is completely different than in years before," said Guido D'Elia.

D'Elia's formal title -- Penn State's director of communications and branding -- only hints at his real job: to put the art in party. When a fan base bonds with a team, after all, planning, not simply good fortune, pushes the two together.

When Penn State's season began, several pieces already hinted that the Nittany Lions might have a memorable team -- easily marketed and easily appreciated. Robinson, the Lions' quarterback and offensive captain, spoke with an effortless smile. Fellow captain Alan Zemaitis, a cornerback, trademarked a unique but refreshing manner of conversation, never polished, but always passionate. (He later said that Penn State wanted "to build a mansion" out of its season.)

In early July, D'Elia convinced coach Joe Paterno to allow his three captains -- Robinson, Zemaitis and Posluszny -- a rare news conference, with little purpose beyond speaking about the season. "I think we pushed that envelope more than we would have in normal seasons," athletic director Tim Curley said, "and we got a chance to see more of this team's personality."

Penn State freshmen, normally restricted from speaking with the media, appeared frequently. When Paterno and several players arrived in May at Pittsburgh's Duquesne Club for an alumni get-together, freshman Justin King arrived in a cream suit and light brown wingtips. Fellow freshman Williams traveled to a later function in York.

Even then, Paterno spoke favorably of his team. Problem was, during the previous five seasons -- four of them losing ones -- Paterno faced biting criticism that, eventually, surged into a near consensus for his departure. Before this season began, Paterno's words were met with an undercurrent of skepticism, even distrust. The very quality that ensured his coaching aptitude -- his ability to properly analyze -- had fallen into question.

Then, piece by piece, Penn State began a restoration project. Paterno's tenuous status transformed into a compelling storyline: that of a man turning his doubters into allies. Penn State won its first six games, lacing several with signature plays. Robinson set up the victory at Northwestern by completing a fourth-and-15 pass on the game's final drive. The following week, he collided helmet-on-helmet with Minnesota defensive back Brandon Owens, sending Owens to the ground with a shoulder injury that would end his season.

		NEXT OPPONENT Team: Michigan State. Record: 5-5, 2-5 in Big Ten. Rank: Unranked. Yesterday: Lost to Minnesota, 41-18. Coach: John L. Smith is in his third season at Michigan State and has a 18-17 record. He previously coached at Louisville, where he had a 41-21 record in five seasons. Points for: 34.8. Points against: 28.5. Series: Michigan State leads, 11-10-1; Penn State won last year, 37-13. Comment: The Land Grant Trophy is on the line for this annual Big Ten rivalry. ... After starting the season 4-0, Michigan State has lost five of its past six games. ... Michigan State needs a victory to become bowl eligible.

The moments triggered an avalanche of excitement. Kernkraft 400 boomed more and more frequently, prompting a rave-style phenomenon of noise. National media hypemongers trained their focus on Happy Valley, using catchphrases -- "the return of Penn State tradition" ... "the triumph of a team that stuck together" -- that stirred the Lions' tradition-hungry fans.

In the days before Penn State's game against Wisconsin, students again erected tents outside a corner stadium entrance. That Wednesday night, several players -- among them, Williams and fellow freshman Jordan Norwood -- stopped by, excited to chat and sign autographs.

The two wide receivers noticed a game the campers had established. In an open space, opposing garbage cans had been positioned 25 yards apart. The Paternoville campers broke off into teams of two and staged a simple competition, seeing who could toss more footballs into the opposite garbage can. Williams and Norwood wanted in.

"It was crazy," said Bast. "They didn't have any trash cans made until the very end of their game. Then, Norwood sank one, and then D-Will made the last one to win. He was running around, screaming, like 'What? What?' You know, it's fun, because they're kids. Like us."

Said Dan Victor, another Paternoville camper: "I guess the best way to say it is, we trust this team again."

Then came the salute

Home games now end with a salute. Penn State won all seven of its contests at Beaver Stadium this season, and, after several of the later ones, key players rushed toward the student section, either jumping toward the ledge of the grandstand or waving at the fans, directing them into a roar.

Some programs call the fans the 12th man. Penn State players, this season, sometimes called their supporters the 13th man. Or the 14th man. Such was the advantage.

"We had some of the most electric, energetic, passionate student sections I can ever remember, and it seems like I've been here for a long time," Curley said. "That was really rewarding. They genuinely enjoyed this team, and the team gave a lot of energy right back. There was a lot of give and take.

"To see Michael Robinson and [senior defensive end] Tamba Hali going over to the student section, there's just a special connection with the student body. From that standpoint, that was the one thing I'll remember as being very special."

Reminders of that connection poked up across the country. "Interest has really soared," said Roger Williams, executive director of Penn State's alumni association. "Many [alumni] chapters would have parties where they go to a bar and gather around the TV."

In Happy Valley, meanwhile, Paterno is again treated like every fan's fifth grandparent. Before games, when he paces during warmup drills in the stadium's south end zone, students chant his name and clamor for his attention. Any simple acknowledgement -- even a hand-wave -- displays a power that would make rock stars blush. "It's like Caesar when he goes out there," D'Elia said. "He just raises his hand, and they go bonkers."

When the team arrives by bus at the stadium, fans always have waited, ready to cheer. But this season, delirium replaced applause. Robinson said that some games, fans actually beat on the outsides of the busses. The players, remembering earlier moments without such passion, always cherished the love.

"Sometimes," Robinson said, "I took a moment to look out and really appreciate what is going on."

Funny thing is, the fans he looked at were doing the same exact thing.