I have had the distinct opportunity to see and hear some great speakers in my life. Among my favorites was the great American Army General Norman Schwarzkof. The first time was in Denver shortly after the first Gulf War at a huge insurance company convention. The backdrop on stage was, appropriately a gigantic American flag reminiscent of the opening scene in the film Patton where George C. Scott addresses the troops.

The off stage announcer, with the reverb on high, called into the microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, General Normal Schwarzkof!” That’s all he said. It was enough. The General strode onto the stage and 5,000 people literally leapt up from their chairs and roared. The hair on my arms stood up with the energy in the room. I half expected him to growl out Patton’s actual take-no-prisoners speech. “The purpose of war . . .”

Like all legendary American generals, Schwarzkof is a tough bird. One of my favorite quotes of his was when he was asked if there was room for forgiveness toward those who perpetrated the 9/11 attacks on America. “I believe that forgiving them is God’s function,” he said. “Our job is simply to arrange the meeting.”

The room that day was overflowing with unadulterated awe for this icon of American power and might. His speech was terrific although I’m embarrassed to admit that I remember very little of what he actually said. It was the sheer presence of the man that made the event.

About a year later I was hired to speak to a different group in Vail, Colo. I spoke in the morning and, low and behold, the afternoon speaker was Schwarzkof. The audience was a lot smaller, perhaps 75 and the setting more intimate. In this arena, and with some distance from his last victory, it was a significantly different experience. He was still the same General with the same resume and list of accomplishments. But the context was completely different. Without the formality, pulsating emotion and aura of power, he was more Norman than he was the General. Here his warmth and humanity came through. He was a mortal human being instead of an icon, an incarnation instead of a projection.

Reflecting on the recent events in Purdue football and Coach Joe Tiller reminded me of that experience. Context does not so much change a person as it alters the view of who they are in the eyes of others. Roll the videotape and listen, remember and feel what was said about this same team a month ago. Who was Kyle Orton three weeks ago? What about Joe Tiller?

The magnified adulation of Oct. 10th is as whimsical as the withering criticism of today. The coach especially stands exposed to the fierce windblast coming from critics and furious fans after disappointments. Responding to that insane rhythm would cause anyone heart problems. How do you filter out the same detractors who just a month ago were ready to build your shrine?

After many years as a standup comedian, I realized why so many of my peers became cynical. It was a tough business where there was no middle ground. You either succeeded in the moment or you failed – right then and there. You either made the crowd laugh or you did not. You either killed or bombed; you lived or died by the individual performance.

Coaching at a high profile University has that similarly insane characteristic. Expectations are unyielding. But unlike most other professions, I’m not sure if there is another where your personal success is so dependent on so many other people around you. A coach’s control is ever at the mercy of the moment-to-moment psychological state of players and other coaches. Add to this the fact that your players are adolescents in the throes of maturation and other complicated life issues. Worse yet is the merciless scrutiny of the University’s fan community whose obsession for their team is matched by a passionate opinion about how the program needs to be managed. Three consecutive losses have put a glaring, critical light on everyone in the program.

In comedy, one thing was always abundantly clear – even if lost in the heat of the moment. The guy yelling at me was sitting in the chair down there and did not have the skill or the guts to get onstage himself and try what I was doing. There is a stock line we used when someone was heckling. “Hey, this is my job. Do I come to where you work and tell you how to flip the Quarter Pounders?”

I have thoroughly enjoyed the advantage of living here in Lafayette near the campus. Among the perks – aside from being at the games, of course – is attending the functions where the coaches appear and speak about the team. One such opportunity is the Downtown Gridiron Club where Tiller discusses the last game and even shows game film to analyze the action. The atmosphere is friendly and supportive. The audience applauds as soon as he enters the room. He fields a few written questions and then fires up the film.

The audience is mostly local professionals, some retirees and active alumni. They are bright and successful in their own careers or once were. And we all hang on the words of Coach Tiller. In the aftermath of painful losses the decorum is polite and deferential even though there might be strong and passionate feelings about how the game was planned, coached and executed. There seems to be, in the intimacy of this setting, a feel for the challenges faced by the team.

What then are we to conclude with the swoon? Is it physical? Probably not. Is it tactical? Surely the analysts can rattle off a litany of player actions, coaching decisions, even referee calls to explain a team’s loss. We may not understand all the reasons for the recent team struggles, but there are some things we do know. The skill didn’t leave. The players are still capable of doing what they did three weeks ago. They are still strong, agile and elite college athletes.

I am not a knowledgeable football tactician. Even though I may boldly critique the game planning and play calling to my friends, I don’t presume to know the full story. My perspective is just that – a perspective, and a limited one. The answer to the challenge of righting their ship and resuming winning lies within the team. As Winston Churchill once said, “when you are going through hell, keep going.” I am as disappointed as any fan with the adversity this month. But I remain thrilled by what Coach Tiller, his staff and our players have done with the football program.

The noise from the outside is a mighty distraction. In the end it’s the coaches’ job to fix the problems, not mine. They don’t come to where I work and tell me what to do.