If Westering had critics, they would denounce him for operating the corniest kind of cult or perhaps an indoctrination center for impressionable Boy Scouts. But Westering apparently has no critics; he is loved by everybody who knows him.
"He's probably the guy that parents in America would most want their kid to play for," says Ross Hjelseth, the former president of the NAIA coaches' association. "Frosty's in a class by himself."
Former players stress the significance of the time they spent with Westering. "Frosty had a dramatic impact on my life," says Larry Green, an insurance-agency manager in Seattle who played for the Lutes in the mid-'70s. "He gave me a sense of purpose and direction. He made me realize how good I could be." Don Poier, a Lute defensive end in the early 1970s who now runs a television production company in Seattle, calls Westering "one in a million. There were some real roughnecks on our team, and Frosty turned them right around." Craig Fouhy, an offensive tackle for the Lutes from 1972 to '75 who is now a high school football coach in Everett, Wash., recalls that Westering "had a million clich�s and lived every one of them. I came from a single-parent situation and had my share of problems. Frosty just took me by the hand. I hear his voice ringing in my head every day I live, in everything I do."
Westering's more recent players offer similar testimonials. Marc Weekly, PLU's 1993 NAIA All-America quarterback, says, "I went from being a cocky young freshman to learning to love other people as a senior—and I give Frosty all of the credit." Ted Riddall, PLU's All-America linebacker, was sinking under the weight of personal problems—he had recently been divorced, lost interest in playing football and quit school at the University of Montana—until he joined the Lutes in 1991. "Frosty," he says, "was a role model. He turned my life around and gave me guidance."
Westering has no hobbies and no plans lo retire. Professional teams have contacted him about taking assistant coaching positions, but Westering has always declined. "The real work is right there," he said, gesturing toward his players on a sunny August afternoon on the beach at Gearhart. He stooped to remove his shoes and socks, then limped out into the surf with his bullhorn and encouraged his players to follow him into the Pacific. They did. All of them. One hundred young men at the edge of the continent, following Frosty Westering. It was so corny and so moving—the endless expanse of water, the stout old man with his craggy brow, the crowd of boys with their hearts afire—that it made you happy-there are still such things in the world.