White Fang and the Golden Bear

by Joe Wessel

  In that same letter, I updated my parents on my prospects to catch on with a college for a football scholarship, or at least the prospects of becoming a walk-on where I might have the opportunity to earn a scholarship. Here’s how that pursuit was going according to the letter:

  Well, I just got out of Pulliam’s office. He said that William & Mary would be a good choice for me. He said Notre Dame I would have a tough time. He mentioned Lafayette. He said that Dan Henning is probably going to get the William & Mary job. Hope so. He said that no one is there to look at the film at William & Mary. He was going to send it to Georgia Tech first. He said that I can take the Virginia film at Christmas break to Tulane.

  While I worried about the prospects of a football scholarship, John battled for his life. They pumped him with huge doses of chemo. They figured his big body could take it. Instead, that treatment demoralized him while whittling down his body to nothing. I set up another visit to see him, but the night before I was scheduled to leave, I received a note during study hall to report to the Commandant’s office. It was there that I learned that John had died on December 7, 1979, Pearl Harbor Day. Though it’s been almost forty years, I remember that night like it was yesterday.

  It snowed, leaving several inches on the ground. The barracks were settling in for the night. Sitting on a bench at our parade ground, I couldn’t understand how God could let this happen to somebody so good, so vibrant, so full of life, and so faithful in our shared Catholic faith. The loss hurt so badly, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I just sat there reliving all of our days of fun and what we shared over the previous three years. We had a bond that would never be broken. We often compared our bond to the 1971 movie Brian’s Song. I never could have guessed that we would have lived out the story of Brian Piccolo.

  The final words that John Stack wrote to me were as follows: “Joe, remember all the good times we had. I finally have someone who I can be myself with. I love you brother. And get that scholarship.”

  Of course, Dad was there for me through a truly harrowing time. Harold Kushner wrote a book in 1981 titled When Bad Things Happen to Good People. He dedicated the book to the memory of his young son, Aaron, who died from an incurable disease at the age of fourteen. Later Dad gave me that book while I still struggled to make sense out of the death of the brother I never had.

  Prior to John’s death, I never felt such pain and loss. I prayed often that I may never experience that again in my life. But that’s not how life is. Life is precious, because it is fleeting. Looking back at having gone through something that painful at an early age, I’m not sure how many people have that happen to them. It did give me a sense of “I got through the first one, I can get through the next one, too.”

  John’s family gave a viewing to a few close friends. I’ll never forget how emaciated he was. He’d been a strapping 225 pounds. When he died, he weighed 160.

  Dad had visited John when he had business in Memphis. He came back with a dog he found somewhere and decided to name him Memphis. We had that dog for many years, and he served as a great companion and a great reminder of John’s struggles at St. Jude’s.

  As far as offering soothing words of comfort to his only son, my father’s way back then was short and meaningful. He wasn’t about to let me wallow in pity. Grieving was okay, but we have to move on. “Life is full of sadness,” he told me. He also encouraged me to take John’s remembrance with me in everything I did. I embraced that thought. I can’t tell you how many times working out or running that I wanted to stop or quit. Then the memory of John would kick in, and I would think he would love to have the opportunity I have. Doing what I was doing at that moment. Keep going!

  Gerry Sandusky (not to be confused with the now-notorious Jerry Sandusky, formerly of Penn State), who played basketball at Cooper City High School and went on to play basketball at Towson State, was friends with me and John, as well. His father worked as the offensive line coach for the Dolphins, and their family had already seen tragedy when Gerry lost his brother, who played football at Tulsa. We would we see each other on school breaks, and we used to have deep talks about John and Gerry’s brother, too, how their deaths left such an empty hole in our lives. Why did they die and not us? I think those conversations helped me navigate the grieving process to some degree. But there’s another part of me that never really recovered from John’s death.

  Gerry ended up playing tight end on the football team his last two years at Towson.

  There are few friends in life that you come across and with whom you may not talk on a daily or weekly basis. Yet when you do, you just pick up where you left off the last time you spoke with them. Gerry Sandusky is that type of friend. Our relationship has always been one of mutual admiration, and we always seemed to confide in each other. I think from day one we just connected. We had mutual interests, we saw each other for who we were, we both lost a person dear to us to tragic illness, and we both had goals in our life both on the field of play and off. He also is the best Howard Cosell impersonator you will ever hear and has maintained his sense of humor through the peaks and valleys of his life. Gerry and I speak once or twice a year still. He has been the sports director for WBAL in Baltimore for the last 20-plus years and is the play-by-play announcer for the Baltimore Ravens.

  Thanks to friends like Gerry, I was able to take Dad’s advice and keep going through it all. Not that it was easy. During my only football season at Fork Union, I injured my throwing hand in the fifth game. Our defensive coordinator came over to me while I was stretching and asked if I’d ever played defense. I told him no, and he said, “You can’t throw. You want to play defense?”

  I wanted to be on the field, and defense looked like my only choice. Next thing I knew, I was playing defensive back, against the North Carolina freshman team.

  In time, defense suited me, and I thought that might be my ticket to continue playing football, since I played it well. Only there were no scholarship offers at the end of the season. Nobody even gave me a look other than William and Mary, then they didn’t want to take me, because I needed another ten points on my SAT. VMI and The Citadel were possibilities, but I didn’t want to stay in the military academies. After high school, I’d counted on Duke and Miami showing some interest in me. The prospect of one, or both, wanting me had played a part in my decision to attend Fork Union. Their minimal interest motivated me, but they never called. I had no interest from any schools other than the University of Virginia, which flirted with me about the possibility of walking on. They never got back to me.

  If John’s death hadn’t been enough, the scholarship thing, or lack thereof, began to really demoralize me, and I voiced my anger on both fronts to Dad.

  In a letter dated February 28, 1980, I wrote:

  Dear Dad,

  I really can’t wait to get home. This place is really for the birds. I have a lot of things that we have to talk about and I’m not going to even try to write about them all, I’ll just wait till I get home and we’ll talk. There are a couple of things that are important now and are on my mind. First is the scholarship bullcrap. Dad, I’m getting so disgusted with the whole situation. I know you and Mom keep telling me something is going to turn up. Well, as the days go by and the weeks go by, they turn into months and still not a damn word. What really surprises me is that I haven’t even been approached by the likes of schools like Randolph-Macon, VMI, Citadel. I mean everyone has at least heard something from them. But not me. I know I came up here to grow, get stronger, mature and get my SAT’s up, but you know and I know the real reason why I came up here and that was to get a scholarship. I know Mom tries to look at the bright sides of things and I should, too, but it’s hard to look at the bright side when the dark side is so dark.

  Second of all, if you’re not a blue chip, you’re worthless. I’ll tell you a story that really turns me off. I can’t believe people can be such big liars. I was with Ronnie at North Carolina and one of the coaches asked me what I played. I told him
. He said that they had their fill of DB’s and QB’s, and that they used up their 30 scholarships. One week later they signed a QB/DB that was no bigger than I was. Today I found out that one of our linemen that played for us signed with LSU. LSU told me four weeks ago that they used up all their scholarships. LSU contacted the kid three weeks after I got the letter from them. You know what else surprises me is that I haven’t heard a word from Richmond, and William & Mary. I thought for sure I should of heard from them. At least an interest letter. Dad, I’ve really been thinking about my future. I say to myself one-hundred times a day, “Maybe you’re just not good enough.” Maybe I’m not but I just can’t end like this. I’ll have a sour taste in my mouth for as long as I live. Tell me what you think about this? …

  Dad responded with his direct approach that I should stay the course, and that good things were destined to come my way.

  Despite the disappointment of not having any football offers, and the uncertainty about my future, I continued to participate in athletics at Fork Union. I competed in diving. I ran indoor track. And I played baseball, which allowed me to get to know the volunteer baseball coach, Jackie Jensen. Initially, I had no clue who he was.

  Turns out Jackie had played in the major leagues from 1950 to 1961, and he’d earned American League Most Valuable Player honors in 1958 while playing for the Boston Red Sox. He hit thirty-five home runs during that MVP season, and he led the league with 122 runs batted in. Jackie would have played longer, but he retired in his early thirties due to an intense fear of flying.

  In college, Jackie played for the University of California and became the first to play in the Rose Bowl, the World Series, and the baseball All-Star Game.

  He’d been an All-American running back in 1948, his junior season at Cal, becoming the school’s first player to rush for 1,000 yards in a season. Jackie placed fourth in the Heisman Trophy voting the year Doak Walker won the award.

  Jackie was such a genuine individual. He would drive the vans with us to games. I’d sit up front, and we’d talk about baseball. His first wife had been his high school girlfriend, Zoe Ann Olsen, who won the silver medal in diving at the 1948 Summer Olympics. Since I competed in diving, that triggered a couple of conversations. Jackie had a soft-spoken way. What he said about the baseball swing made sense. Of course, you bought in given the weight of his background. He had a pretty impressive backside of his baseball card. Jackie encouraged me to switch-hit, and I started hitting home runs from both sides of the plate, which I’d never done before. I played well enough to garner three or four offers from small colleges in Virginia to play baseball. Of course, baseball offers are never worth much. They only cover a portion of the tuition.

  I learned a great lesson from Jackie that I employ every day in my business life. He didn’t try to change my swing; rather, he took the ability I had and continued to give me tips. Then he let me decide the course of direction. Similarly, throughout my business career, I have hired different people who bring their unique talents with them every day. My job is to help them develop those talents, give them tips or thoughts on how to succeed, give them empowerment, and then get out of the way so they can do what they do.

  Jackie Jensen certainly enriched my baseball experience at Fork Union.

  He taught me so much about baseball and a lot of other things. I stayed in touch with him for a little bit after Fork Union, prior to his sudden death in 1982.

  Despite being surrounded by great mentors like Jackie, I was still in search of an opportunity to play college football. During Fork Union’s spring break, my Dad and I took my sister Margie back to FSU, where she starred in volleyball. During that visit, I managed to arrange a visit with Bobby Bowden. A family friend, Bill Dawkins, who had been an All-American linebacker at FSU, had already put in a call for me. Dawkins and my mom were classmates at FSU, and he was the head coach at Miami Norland Senior High School, where my mother was the assistant principal.

  When Dad and I visited Coach Bowden, we sat across from him, both of us seemingly awestruck. Coach Bowden immediately asked me in his big Southern drawl, “Were you number eighteen in that film versus North Carolina?” I told him I was. At that minute, the sale was over. I was bought and delivered.

  Coach explained that he had five questions when evaluating recruits:

  Can he graduate from FSU?

  Is he dependable?

  Can he run?

  Will he fight and not quit?

  Can we beat the Gators with him?

  At the time, FSU and Nebraska were doing a lot to strengthen their programs by building up their walk-ons with “culture people.” Several walk-ons had done well at FSU—Monk Bonasorte, the starting free safety, being one of them. All I wanted was a chance. So, like my mother and sister, I elected to become a Nole.

  You could say Dad was pleased with the situation. For him, it was a win-win, especially with Margie already being there. Little did either of us know that it was the prospect of being a walk-on for the FSU football team and the ensuing decision to take the plunge that would one day lead to the most memorable of days that Dad and I had ever experienced together.

  CHAPTER 10

  FSU Early Years and the Golden Bear’s Son

  PRIOR TO ARRIVING AT FSU, I spent the summer working out in Miami with the Dolphins. I continued to build my relationships with certain players there, some of whom I got to know better than others, like Earnie Rhone and Tim Foley.

  Earnie taught me the sacrifice required to overcome injuries and how to remain focused when doubt crept in as a professional or even a dedicated college athlete. Man, that guy worked hard, but he remained low-key and was a man of faith—just a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy.

  Tim took me under his wing and taught me how to backpedal and how to be a defensive back. Everybody looked up to Tim, who was truly a born leader and had such an influence on my life—not only in football, but also by his spiritual walk following the Christian faith. Tim openly expressed his thoughts on leadership. One of them I embraced right away, and the thought still resonates with me today. He told me if he could get the other ten players to perform at a higher level, his job would be easier. This leadership thought I carried into business and still adhere to today.

  The anticipation of my freshman year had filled me with mixed emotions. I’d waited all summer to be informed about the schedule and my reporting date, but such a date never arrived. I finally decided to call George Henshaw, FSU’s offensive coordinator, whom I knew, since he also performed the bulk of the recruiting in the Miami area. Coach Henshaw told me that I was not on the two-a-day reporting list. My heart sank. Disappointed, I told him Coach Bowden had told me otherwise. Coach Henshaw was about to leave on an overseas vacation, but he said he’d look into the matter before he left. I received a call the next week. They told me they got me into training camp. I can honestly say that if not for Coach Henshaw, I probably would have never played at Florida State. Frankly, I’m not sure I would have even gone to the school, as I might have tried one of the smaller Virginia schools. To say I’m eternally grateful to Coach Henshaw would be a huge understatement. When I arrived in Tallahassee that fall, I got to observe Coach Bowden. Everybody felt his charisma.

  Since I played defense, I didn’t see him during practices as often as the offense did. He handled things just as the CEO of a big company might handle them. Offense was his baby, so he would be hands-on where the offense was concerned, though he still let the coaches coach. But he rarely got involved with the defense. Still, he watched everything, even when you’d least expect it. He always walked around with a pencil and an oversized index card, taking notes that he would review. If he had concerns about something he wrote on that note card, he’d address that concern with the coaches and/or the team.

  In the fall of 1980, Florida State football had ten All-Americans returning to the team, including Ron Simmons and Bobby Butler. They’d gone 11–0 the previous season prior to suffering a 24–7 loss to Oklahoma in the Orang
e Bowl. Not only did that loss dash their hopes for an undefeated season, it also cost them a shot at winning the national championship.

  The 1980 team returned ten of eleven starters on defense. The loss to Oklahoma remained fresh in the coaches’ minds, and they made sure that loss remained fresh in the players’ minds, as well. Training camp was the most brutal I ever experienced in eighteen years of football, as a player or coach.

  At the beginning of camp, a heat wave hit Tallahassee that propelled the mercury levels on the local bank’s digital thermometer to 103 on consecutive days. Unlike in today’s environment, freshmen arrived back then knowing that the odds of anyone getting any playing time were nil to none. As a nonscholarship walk-on who had to fight his way to get into training camp, my odds were even worse. I tried to make the best of the situation, but the never-quit attitude ingrained in me from Dad got tested daily. After the first three days with two practices per day, we put on the pads.

  In the locker room, there was a list of three to four names assigned to wear this big puffy suit over your football gear during a given practice. Basically, the suit ran from your hips to your knees. Ostensibly, that new gadget helped defensive players learn how to tackle better without hurting the ball carrier. However, the suit restricted your ability to run, so the runner had difficulty running while wearing the suit.

  Just picture yourself being a freshman football player and ten starters returning from one of the best defenses ever to play at FSU were running full speed at you while the coaches yelled, “Knock the snot out of him! Knock him back!”

  If you cringed or shied away, the coaches made you go again. I think wearing that suit served two purposes. First, it helped the defense get better at tackling. And second, it gave the coaches insight about the players who were tough and wouldn’t quit even though they had to wear the suit.