One night, there came a knock on Betsy’s door that changed everything for her. “And I went to my door, and I opened it,” she remembers, “and there was a man that completely, seemingly, filled the entire door frame, like there was not a lot of space other than him. And he put out his hand and introduced himself. He said: ‘Hello, my name is Irv Pankey, and I just wanted to let you know that I was in the courtroom today and I listened to what you had to say. And I believe every word that you said. And, you will never have to be afraid, or be alone again. I will be by your side.'”

Irv Pankey was a junior and a natural protector—a tight end who had been moved to left tackle. He was 6-foot-5 and 270 pounds, with a 13-year NFL career in front of him. He had a deep solemnity about him that belied his penchant for good times. He was the roommate of Hodne’s friend Kip Vernaglia. Pankey was part of the crowd that went to the Train Station on Tuesday nights. He and Hodne had ridden in the back of a teammate’s pickup truck on a trip to New York City, drinking beer and peeing over the tailgate. But he had heard Betsy Sailor describe Hodne’s sneakers, and Pankey had seen her on the stand, and he knew bravery when he saw it. “She came forward,” Pankey says. “And that brought things to light—what the situation really was. If she hadn’t stepped up and he hadn’t gone to trial, no one would ever have known. And she started putting cracks in stories. It used to be ‘he said, she said,’ so with him being a Penn State football player, he would have been believed first. Kudos to her for stepping up and sticking to her guns about it. Kudos to her for not being buffaloed.”

They were so different from one another in so many ways. But Irv had seen that Betsy was alone in State College, and in that he saw part of himself: “When I started playing for Penn State, there were 12 African-Americans on the team. So being African American, I think we understand the play. You know what I mean? We have a commonly white school, and we have all been through some of that stuff. We could all relate, so to speak.” He did not want her to endure the isolation he had: “She did not deserve to be a pariah.” But they also had something else in common. Betsy was not just alone; she was singular. She had taken on the institution of Penn State football and, alone among Hodne’s victims, had brought her case to court. Now Irv, alone among his teammates, walked to her dormitory and knocked on her door. Betsy stood up for herself. Irv stood up for Betsy.

He promised to protect her and not only kept his word but made sure that a few of his teammates followed his example. She had been brutally raped by a football player, but she spent the second term of her senior year in the company of football players, mostly Black, who made her feel less alone and less afraid—and who made her feel once again part of the campus she loved. They did not have to say anything; they simply included her, so that if they went to a party so did she.

“It was huge for me,” she says. “It was huge to me that someone from the football team crossed over the line and befriended me. He could have closed ranks, and said, ‘We don’t talk to her; she’s done something against one of our brothers.’ But he did the exact opposite. He believed in me, and I was a stranger. And I was white, and he was Black. And he was my guardian angel.”