When James Franklin rolled into town, he stopped to take pictures with nearly everyone. One by one. Every single time, he stopped to take the picture.
In those days, Franklin would drop his elbow, raise his hand, and in a simultaneous motion append his thumb to the fingernail of middle finger only for him to extend his index finger.
It was the quelling of a habit he’d picked up at “the previous institution,” where when he’d pose for photos there, he’d drop his elbow, raise his hand and in a simultaneous motion spread out his thumb, index finger and pointer finger to form an anchor.
Every time he took one of those photos – and he must have taken thousands in those first few seasons – he smiled with pride that he was Penn State’s head coach.
You could see it. You could feel it when you took those photos with him. You would buy it.
But somewhere between then and now, that version of Franklin, beaming with promise and belief, got lost.
The final photos of James Franklin at Penn State do not feature an arm extended or a smile of promise. They don’t feature a fanbase that believed in him. They feature him – standing on the field of Beaver Stadium – alone with his arms crossed and his lips pursed. They feature a man who made you believe it all could happen before that belief evaporated over the course of 15 days into early autumn air.
They feature an end to 12 years of football that – unlike those digital photos which capture and display a moment in an instant – will take years to develop a true appreciation for.
On Sunday, Penn State fired James Franklin. Headlines with those final photos spread the word.
And somewhere in between those first photos and the last ones featured in those pieces, Franklin’s passion unraveled. Somewhere in between those first photos and the last ones, Franklin lost Penn State.
Somewhere between now and then, those fans who lined up to take pictures with him – and by the end there weren’t many left who would – got their wish.
Now there is only the future. There is only forward. And the photographs, memories, moments and frustration are all that we have.
Even now – after all of this – I believe that eventually we will remember the Franklin years for more good than bad.
Even in the immediacy, I can quickly find my own examples.
The mental images of Franklin leading Penn State to a win in Ireland – hours after I cut my thumb in preparation for breakfast for my girlfriend – were good.
The night when Penn State students took to downtown, not in anger, but in celebration that the bowl ban had been lifted – while slightly fuzzy – featured moments of drinking on a porch out of a plastic bowl because “they weren’t banned anymore,” a photograph of me asleep on a bean bag chair inside The Daily Collegian offices and Franklin hugging Sam Ficken in celebration on the field of Yankee Stadium a few weeks later.
The evening he answered questions from Nittanyville, hosting us in the team meeting room for over an hour, will be one of the best moments of my fandom. It was in there we saw who he was, not as a coach, but as a person.
The 2016 season will always hold the most mental images – and many of them will always hold the most meaning for me – even if Franklin’s successor is able to achieve what he wasn’t. He beat Ohio State, he hoisted a Big Ten trophy and he even lost a Rose Bowl that was hard to feel bad about. A timeout against Georgia State in 2017, a last-second heave against Iowa and the image of proposing to that aforementioned girlfriend, now wife, in between those games will always be cherished.
By the end of the 2017 season, Franklin became known as someone who would and could develop talent ready for the next level. He carried that all the way to the end with names like Saquon Barkley, Micah Parsons and Abdul Carter. But he also did that with staff members who worked in recruiting and in marketing — even at those working at the lowest levels. He did that with assistants who became head coaches elsewhere. He made people believe in him, and he made Penn State – for a period of time – believe in him.
By 2018 though, the moment when this all began to have precedent for unraveling – a speech about making Penn State “elite” – started to spread the cracks of the foundation.
As those cracks grew wider, Franklin gripped tighter. Known for controlling virtually every aspect of his football program – down to what accounts could and couldn’t send specific posts, Franklin tinkered and tested each new staff member, churning through offensive coordinators and wide receiver coaches with a fast pace. He was a great recruiter but he was also the CEO coach, a context he recently alluded to with a hint of frustration.
The pattern repeated and repeated and repeated – typified moments of an unprepared quarterback in 2021 against Iowa and frustrating play-calling against Ohio State and Michigan in 2023. Still searching — and now forever searching — for that “big” win, more fans grew weary and tired of the same losses and the same excuses. That was until he started to tackle those ghosts. That was until the quarterback, who was supposed to lift Franklin and Penn State over the hump, put everyone involved one drive away from being there.
But one bad throw on that final drive in 2024 set a new precedent – in which 2025 would be not just a season for opportunity but The Season for The Opportunity.
There would be belief that Franklin would finally deliver on his elite promise this season. It was sown by the fact there would be no other reason for the excuses.
There would be money pouring in like never before. There would be hires made like never before. There was the backing from the athletic director in alignment in a way the head coach had never had before. There would be expectations – set by Franklin himself – like never before. All of it generated images and visions of a would-be national championship trophy in the coach’s hands in early 2026.
There was a steady start to the season, followed up by unsteady performances against inferior opponents. But those moments – as uneasy as they seemed at times – still ended with images of Franklin celebrating with his team.
When the season’s biggest moment came though, Penn State seemed once again unprepared, flailing and failing to score while Oregon marched to 17-3 lead. But Penn State – and Franklin — fought back to force double overtime.
Even when that Oregon game ended in a starkly similar fashion to the final game of 2024, Penn State fans believed and bought the promise that even big game losses wouldn’t roll into small game defeats.
Penn State – like Franklin and his team – would always fight back. But at some point over the last 15 days, it all stopped.
It will be an onside kick recovered by UCLA in the first quarter inside of the Rose Bowl Stadium that will be the image burned in my brain of when this all collapsed over a point of no return. In the following moments that afternoon, underneath the California sun he almost left for at one point, Franklin, grossly unprepared for that what-should-have-been-small moment, had his team grossly unprepared for the test they were about to face from an interim offensive coordinator, just days on the job — one who did not know how to man the buttons of his headset.
With remarks of travel and shortened depth, he tried to find more excuses to peddle. But by the time Penn State fans trickled into Beaver Stadium for what would be Franklin’s final game a week later, all of the sold goods in those initial moments when those initial photos were taken had expired like old film, left exposed in the sun.
There was only animosity and apathy left, and even barely that. The final images of Franklin at Penn State were being taken as Northwestern ticked clock away.
There are probably thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of photos of Franklin over the last 12 years. Some taken by fans. Some taken by media. Some taken with cameras. Some taken in minds.
In those final photographs you can see how much Franklin has changed.
He looked weathered. He looked tired. He — the person who singlehandedly at first willed Penn State into a new era of football one photo at a time — did not look like he could do it anymore. He looked like he did not want to do it anymore.
Hey everyone, it’s the “cameraman” here. In reality, I was about 10-12 feet away from James Franklin when this occurred, but the perspective is condensed. Anyway, since you’re curious, here’s the photo and you can see my whole gallery at @pennlive. Storm clouds brewing. pic.twitter.com/KOFJZ6i50l
— Joe Hermitt (@JoeHermitt) October 12, 2025
It was not the same man with a broad grin all of those years ago. Just in the way you’re not the same person you were 12 years ago.
Why and how? We will never truly know. I’m not even sure he — who controlled so much — will ever understand how this spun out of control this fast, this painful.
It’s uncertain how we will look back on this collection of moments and photographs from this era. They’re still developing. They’re still raw. For certain, there were good ones and for certain, there were bad ones. Even as tension-filled as it may seem right now – Franklin deserves a mixture of blame and credit for the spot he put Penn State in: A better one at times. A lost one at this time.
But what was also certain: He was not the same man flashing the No. 1, a place his team never reached at the end of the season, with his hand all those years ago.
It’s certain that the final image of James Franklin at Penn State has been taken.
I highly recommend Joe Hermitt’s collection of images he posted that inspired me to write this. If you’ve enjoyed this content, please subscribe to Stuff Somers Says With Steve on YouTube. Or join our newsletter by entering your email below.
