Late last week, when former Governor and U.S. Senator Jay Rockefeller passed away at the age of 89, the tributes naturally poured in for his decades of public service, his work on healthcare, and his fierce devotion to West Virginia.
But if you want to understand how a kid from a legendary New York dynasty truly embedded himself in the fabric of the Mountain State, you have to talk about autumn Saturdays in Morgantown—and the massive gamble it took to build what we now know as Milan Puskar Stadium.
Back in the late 1970s, the idea of ditching old, crumbling Mountaineer Field down near the downtown campus wasn’t met with universal cheers.
In fact, the initial reaction from plenty of traditionalists was outright hostility. Critics groaned about the multi-million dollar price tag, complained that moving out near the hospital and the Evansdale area was a logistical nightmare, and argued the state had bigger fish to fry than a playground for a football team.
Why fix what wasn’t working, they asked, other than the fact that the old stadium felt like it was held together by copper wire and optimism?
Enter Jay Rockefeller. Standing at an imposing six-foot-six, Rockefeller didn’t just tower over most of the state legislature—he loomed over the entire debate.
People used to joke that the only reason he pushed so hard for a massive, upper-deck stadium is because it was the only place in Morgantown where he wouldn’t constantly bang his head on a low ceiling.
Jokes aside, once the funding bill cleared, Rockefeller rolled up his sleeves. He waded through the political mud, helped settle the fierce site-selection debates, and stood right there with a shovel at the 1979 groundbreaking.
Without that bold, controversial push for a brand-new home for Old Gold and Blue football, WVU sports history would likely be quite different. No roaring crowds of sixty thousand plus, and no modern anchor for the state’s athletic pride.
Jay Rockefeller came to West Virginia as an outsider, but he understood that football here isn’t just a game—it’s a communal heartbeat. And long after the concrete dried, that towering legacy still stands tall.