White Fang and the Golden Bear

by Joe Wessel

  Charlie died of pancreatic cancer in 1970 at age fifty-six. In the aftermath of his father’s death, Jack better understood how much his professional golf career had meant to his father. At that point, Jack rededicated himself to golf.

  I had told Jack the truth the first time I met him. Steve’s boisterous nature never bothered me. That was Steve being Steve. Even to this day, he still cuts me off. And he’s quick to respond to something that he may not know anything about, but he will give you his opinion.

  We enjoyed each other’s company, we hung out, we played some golf, and we forged a lasting friendship.

  Going up against each other in practice at times, Steve and I would bust balls. There’s no question about that. Neither of us was getting a whole bunch of reps either, so a lot of times we were standing over on the side together. More times than not, he went up against the cornerbacks because he played wideout.

  Steve had arrived at FSU far more heralded than I. Unfortunately for Steve, the guys in front of him were a solid group. Jesse Hester, Hassan Jones, Weegie Thompson, all of them played in the NFL.

  I had a great camp that fall of 1983 after getting moved to strong safety. When they announced the starters to begin the season, the sheet read: Free safety—Brian McCrary, Strong safety—Joe Wessel. My persistence, hard work, and patience had paid off.

  We opened the season in a night game at Doak Campbell Stadium on September 3 against East Carolina. A crowd of 46,261 fans witnessed perhaps the worst game of my life.

  Though the Pirates lacked national recognition, they returned ten starters on offense and had great athletes and future NFL players throughout their roster. ECU ran the option, and their quarterback, Kevin Ingram, ran the offense masterfully. However, unlike many option quarterbacks, he was an equally proficient passer. After college, he played several years in the Canadian Football League. Their running back, Ernest Byner, went on to play fourteen years for the Cleveland Browns, Washington Redskins, and Baltimore Ravens. Their tight end, Norwood Vann, went on to play for the Rams and the Raiders. They also had All-American Terry Long, who was one of the most athletic offensive linemen I ever played against. He went on to play eight years for the Pittsburgh Steelers, then tragically ended his life in 2005.

  ECU ran the “freeze option offense.” That meant the quarterback took the snap, stepped back from the line of scrimmage, and froze, or paused. That pause gave the offensive guard (Long) the chance to pull while the tight end would down block, or arc block, outside. The fullback would run into the line of scrimmage, the quarterback would either give him the ball or fake it to him and continue down the line, running the option with the running back. He could keep the ball or make the pitch, based on how the defense reacted.

  Since I played strong safety, my job called for me to read the tight end and see if he blocked down or arc blocked. Sometimes he would run a pass route instead, which mandated that I cover him. We had successfully practiced for the freeze option. You had to be disciplined with your assignments to stop this offense. And we were prepared in that respect. What you can’t prepare for when playing an option attack, if you don’t normally play teams that run the option, is the game speed of the option. You can’t simulate the option team’s game speed in practice. ECU’s game speed proved to be so much faster than what we had practiced. Part of that could be attributed to the quality of their athletes.

  They threw a bomb over my head off a play-action fake for a touchdown. Later in the game I had Byner one-on-one at the goal line, and he juked me so badly, I fell on my face. He then walked right into the end zone. Those two touchdowns earned me a trip to the principal’s office—a phone call from defensive coordinator/defensive backs coach Jack Stanton, who sat in the press box. Stanton could be a ballbuster, and he fired me, telling me, “Get on the bench, and if you move, you’ll never see the field again.” That’s how pissed off he was.

  Nevertheless, we ended up beating East Carolina, 47–46. They were a good team that went 8–3. Their only losses that season were to FSU, Florida, and Miami by a total of fourteen points.

  The next morning’s Tallahassee Democrat featured a picture of our free safety and me chasing Norwood Vann. Seeing that picture wasn’t the best way to start my day.

  Stanton stood true to his word. I didn’t see the field much for the remainder of that season.

  The following week, we played No. 13 LSU in Baton Rouge, which was a big TV game. Leading up to the game, a headline read, “Defense Sees New Faces in the Lineup.” Yet I was the only change. Man, that put me in a funk.

  Still, I never thought about quitting. “Keep your eye on the bird.” Dad’s saying kept me focused.

  Dad had always preached to finish what you were doing. In his eyes, you never started anything you weren’t going to finish. Even if you were just doing yard work. I told Dad about my situation, and he tried to make sure I didn’t lose my head. He told me time and again, “Keep your options open. You’re going to make the right decision.” My mother, with her athletic background, reinforced the message, as well.

  Dad pushed me to gather all the information I could. That way I could make smart, rational decisions. Hasty decisions were the enemy. He’d tried to live his life using that philosophy and managed to ingrain that philosophy in me everything I did. Further, he told me, “In war, you can’t make hasty decisions. You might have to make quick decisions, but think things out and be thoughtful in the decisions you make.”

  I think Dad understood Stanton’s position because Dad adhered to discipline. Because of Dad, I accepted Stanton and respected him, since, in a way, he reminded me a lot of Dad. Both had nonverbal communication for me where positive reinforcement and acceptance were concerned.

  Dad came up to two or three games. We talked every week. He continued to give me reinforcement, like, “Hang in there. This is what you’ve worked for, regardless. I know it hurts.” That week-to-week conversation came even when we lost or I didn’t get to play. He and my mother would put my situation into perspective.

  Eventually, I managed to arrive at a positive outlook. In a letter to my parents dated October 25, 1983, I wrote the following:

  … I realized that football is not everything. I can’t let it run my life like I’ve let it.

  We finished with an 8–4 record, capping the season with a win over North Carolina in the Peach Bowl.

  At the Peach Bowl, Pat Milligan, a starting defensive back who walked on with me in 1980, and I drummed up a deal. We planned for him to run off the field toward the end of the game and I would go in to take his place. I figured that would be the last play I ever played at FSU after what had transpired.

  Then Jack Stanton got fired after the season and went to the Atlanta Falcons to coach under Dan Henning. I found that somewhat ironic. You get fired from a college job and you get hired as the secondary coach with the Falcons, an NFL team, which competes at a higher level of football. That just shows you how crazy coaching is.

  I’ve come to realize that Jack had been ahead of his time and was probably better suited to coach in the NFL. Nobody was a better technician in relation to defensive backfield play.

  Mickey Andrews was hired to be the new defensive coordinator/defensive backs coach, which completely changed my outlook and fortunes. I would have another chance. At least that’s what I hoped for.

  CHAPTER 12

  Golfing with the Golden Bear’s Son and White Fang

  GOLF CAME BACK TO ME a little in high school, but mostly, my teenage years centered around team sports—football, basketball, and baseball, which didn’t leave a lot of time for golf. Occasionally, I’d play a round with Dad when we were not in the Keys fishing or diving.

  Once I moved to Tallahassee, the country club sports of tennis and golf started to pique my interest. Barry Voltapetti, one of the offensive linemen on the team, loved playing tennis as much as I did, so we would go and turn on the tennis court lights at local apartment buildings on Sunday evenings and play until the wee hou
rs.

  Sometimes I’d get invited to play golf, and in turn playing golf became a passion during my first summer at FSU.

  The school golf course “Seminole” sat close to The Reservation, a lake that students frequented to go swimming, boating, or canoeing. In addition to being a great man, our athletic trainer, Don “Doc” Fauls, was an avid golfer. Once in a while, I would join him and his assistant trainer, Randy Oravetz, out at Seminole. Doc loved golf, loved to talk about the swing, and he was always willing to offer tips to enhance performance.

  Doc remained open to helping rehab athletes from all sports, even professionals. Mark Lye, who played on the PGA Tour back then, would come to Tallahassee to get treatment from Doc. I wound up playing with Mark on several occasions and marveled at the consistency of the ball contact he made and the seemingly effortless swing. Mark’s putting was impressive, too. He putted cross-handed, a style that I’d never before seen. Few professionals putted cross-handed back then, though a lot of professionals use the cross-handed approach today. I guess the success I saw Mark have while putting cross-handed made an impression on me, because I’ve been putting cross-handed ever since. What stood out most from watching Mark play was how he could recover from bad shots. It seemed like no trouble could prevent him from making par. He could get up and down from a water fountain. Playing with him taught me just how good professional golfers were. Mark could seemingly do anything he wanted to do on the golf course, yet he finished with just one career win on the PGA Tour—the Bank of Boston Classic on September 11, 1983.

  Eventually, I had the opportunity to play whenever I wanted to at the FSU course. I started to get the itch the more I played and the better I got.

  The first time I played a round with Steve Nicklaus was at the FSU course. Unsurprisingly, Steve played like you would have thought the son of Jack Nicklaus would play. He could shoot 74 or 75 without ever breaking a sweat. The things he could do with a golf ball weren’t things guys my age could do. He could draw a ball, do whatever he wanted with it. And the way he made contact, you could tell he was different. He could crush a golf ball. It was scary.

  I recall thinking, Geez, if I could ever play golf like that, I’d never step onto a football field. But you had to understand Steve’s confident personality. He came off as, “I don’t need golf. That’s easy.” Having his own unique identity seemed to be his cause, which perhaps was why he played football. God knows what he could have done if he’d played on the PGA Tour, because he was probably one of the better athletes in their family. He stood six-foot-two. He wasn’t six-four like his brother Jackie, but he wasn’t small like brother Gary, who stood five-ten. Gary went on to play golf at Ohio State like his father, before he turned professional in 1991.

  I’d bet if Steve had to do it all over again, he would have played golf and tried to make that his profession.

  To Steve’s credit, when you played with him, he wasn’t out there just screwing around. It’s been my experience playing with talented golfers like Steve that often they act indifferent about what they shoot. Not Steve. He maintained a competitive nature, though he wasn’t some hotheaded golf brat, either. You’d never see him throw or break his clubs. Steve just wanted to whip your ass on the golf course, just as the rest of us do.

  We’d play as much as our schedule would allow.

  Whether I played with Steve or others, golf started to become a big part of my life. I began playing more with Dad on vacations and breaks from school.

  When I accidently threw and broke my Ping putter, Steve took care of me. That’s what roommates do.

  “Here, use this one,” he told me, handing over a Bull’s Eye putter that looked beat up and had white paint flaking off it. Anybody who has ever played golf understands how old clubs wind up in the garage. In that respect, I could only imagine how many old clubs the Nicklaus family had floating around in their garage. Based on that fact, I didn’t feel particularly beholden to Steve’s offering, nor did I attach any real significance to that moment—at least not initially.

  I never felt comfortable with that putter the few times I played with it, and I quickly stopped using it. Technology upgrades during that time made the ball come off the putter cleaner and with less shock to the hands. To me, the football player, that Bull’s Eye felt like a butter knife on the end of a stick. Plus, that Bull’s Eye looked like an old putter, so that wasn’t cool! I had no idea that the putter was close to twenty years old. Nor did I know that flat stick had a glorious past, a future to be determined, and a famous name: White Fang!

  CHAPTER 13

  Block That Kick!

  MICKEY ANDREWS’S ARRIVAL TO FSU as the defensive coordinator/defensive backs coach after the 1983 season meant everything to me.

  Mickey had a unique way about him. He’d bust your balls, then he’d come back and put his arm around you when you were walking off the field. He had a good football mind, and he knew how to motivate kids. But he also brought a hell of a lot of personality to the job—an element that showed he cared about you. It’s not that Jack Stanton didn’t care about you, but he represented the old guard. Mickey signaled the transition to the new guard. He’d ask, “Hey, did you break up with your girlfriend? Do you have a test? What’s going on? You don’t seem like you’re into it.”

  He’d been an all-around athlete, playing center field on the University of Alabama baseball team and he’d been an All-American defensive back and wide receiver on two of Bear Bryant’s National Championship football teams. He just brought a different feel to the defense.

  Mickey wasn’t floored by our level of talent when he reached FSU.

  Coach Bowden had told Mickey that he wanted to simplify the defense by using one defensive front and one coverage throughout spring practice. Coach Bowden’s intention was to get better by stressing fundamentals. That philosophy fit Mickey perfectly. He always believed that the game of football was not so much about the X’s and the O’s as it was about the players.

  Plus, where Mickey was concerned, everybody started with a clean slate when he began his new position as defensive coordinator.

  Mickey said recently, “Sometimes when you make a change, defensive coordinator, defensive back coach, whatever, it gives a guy new life so to speak. I think Joe just needed a chance. Just needed to know that somebody really cared about him and was more interested in him for more than just being a football player. With that opportunity that he was given, it just kind of clicked for him.”

  Mickey and I really did click. Recently, he told Bill Chastain about what he’d seen in me when he arrived in Tallahassee:

  “Joe reminded me of me when I was playing ball. He wasn’t going to overwhelm you with his size or his strength. Basically, he was just a slow white guy who had only one speed, and that was wide open. You knew you were going to get that every play. He was consistent with it. One of the main things that Joe and I connected on was the effort and the intensity that he played with.”

  After all, max effort had been ingrained in me thanks to Dad. I knew I wasn’t fast, and the only thing that I could control was how hard I played. Use my brain with what speed I did have. I wasn’t going to run a 4.5 forty-yard dash. If I had run a 4.5 or 4.4, I could have taken a wrong step and still made it up. That’s the same thing as somebody doing it the right way and not having to make up. It was nice that Mickey recognized that.

  Mickey was just one of those guys—he was honest. Maybe he did see something in me that he saw in himself. Initially, he probably buried me after watching film from the previous year. I’m sure Chuck Amato and Coach Bowden were telling him about the holdovers on defense. I probably fell into the categories of “You know, he can’t play” or “He just hasn’t done it.”

  Mickey might have liked my effort, but when I finished spring practice prior to my senior season, my name could be found in the fifth spot for free safety.

  We didn’t even have a fifth-team depth chart when I first got to FSU.

  Coach Bowden to this d
ay makes the claim he figured I’d make a visit to his office before the start of my senior season and tell him that I was quitting, that I’d decided I was just going to get my degree, yet I can honestly say quitting never crossed my mind. I had another semester of school. I knew I had to take twenty-one hours to graduate. I reckoned that I’d done the football thing for four years, so why not stick it out and see what happens?

  Thank God I didn’t quit. One guy got hurt, another came back out of shape, and a guy flunked out. They were forced to use me. At first, I only played on the punt-block team. Then a need arose for somebody to fill the nickelback in our nickel defense, which is a defense that uses five defensive backs instead of four. I backed my way into winning that nickelback job.

  I had the best 10-yard times on the team, but one of the slowest 40-yard times for a defensive back. Being quick for ten yards helped me block punts, as I could get off the line and accelerate.

  From the outset of fall practice, I went out early before practice with the punters and kickers. I’d line up, and when the center snapped the football, I’d start running. My goal was to get as far past the punter as I could. I told our punter, “Look, I’m not going to block the punt. Don’t mind me.”

  I would just sprint toward the punter on most every snap. That’s all I would do—practice that. Once we started doing some things live at practice, the coaches started noticing what I could do. Next thing I knew, I found myself on the starting punt return team for all the two-a-day practices.

  I would study centers prior to the game when the punters and kickers went out early. Our deep snapper was J.D. Dowell from Tampa. I learned to get jumps, like a base stealer against a pitcher. I thought of it as a nine-and-one-half-yard dash. The punter lined up around fourteen to fifteen yards behind the line of scrimmage, and the goal was for me to get airborne at nine-and-a-half yards. I needed to cover that distance in about 1.7 seconds. Speed helped, but instincts were more important. I’d cut across the punter’s face and try to penetrate as far as I could in the time that it took him to get off the kick. I got used to doing that, and I had a knack for it. On field goals, I mapped out steps—one, two, three, get in the air. I guess I had a knack for blocking kicks, too.