by Joe Wessel
Mickey said that he arrived at FSU and stressed that one of the ways that they were going to get better was in the area of blocking kicks.
“Joe just had a knack for getting off the ball, like people talk about base stealers in baseball,” Mickey told Bill. “You have to find something in there that’s going to give you an advantage if you don’t have great speed. And he was like that. He would really study the films and look at the snappers. Any little mannerism or twitch that he could gain an advantage on. That’s what he did.
“Also, he was wide open just about on that first step. It was something that he could help the team with and he was amazing at that time, how many kicks he blocked in his career. And he never lined up more than a foot from the line of scrimmage. It’s crazy how many blocks he had that year. That really helped us win some games that season.”
My efforts paid off. As the backup safety, I became the No. 1 nickelback in passing situations, and I ended up starting two games at free safety when Brian McCrary got hurt. We played a lot of zone defense and didn’t play a lot of man-to-man. When I did have to cover somebody, I normally found myself covering a tight end or a running back coming out of the backfield. Rarely did I find myself one-on-one with a wideout.
We won our first four games of my senior season in 1984, against East Carolina, Kansas, Miami, and Temple. The first blocked punt of my career came in our 48–17 win over East Carolina, and it led to a touchdown. My second came in the next game, a 42–16 win over Kansas. Bruce Heggie grabbed that one and returned it for a touchdown.
Both of my blocks were somewhat unheralded by the media. The Tallahassee Democrat ran a photo of the one against East Carolina, but the caption identified me—the guy who blocked the kick—as Mike Lively, a reserve kicker on the team.
Following the Kansas game, the Associated Press credited Joe Russell as the player who blocked the punt. Even the scoreboard got it wrong, spelling my name WESSAL.
After that, it became a running joke on the team. I told teammates that I’d become the Rodney Dangerfield of college football, getting no respect.
Playing against Miami in the Orange Bowl in our third game of the season brought a special thrill. I’d spent a lot of time in that old stadium. My family and a lot of friends came to that one, and, even better, we won, 38–3.
We played Temple in the fourth game, and I blocked a field goal and a punt. On the field goal, Eric Riley picked it up and scored.
We were one of the first teams to have practice on Monday nights, but it made sense. Waiting until Monday night, rather than Monday afternoon, gave the coaches an opportunity to do more of the playbook and the scouting report on Monday afternoon. Then we’d practice on Monday night at Doak Campbell.
In contrast to Coach Bowden, Mickey Andrews could be very emotional.
Coach Bowden dropped two F-bombs within earshot of me in five years. When Mickey first arrived, F-bombs spewed from his mouth a mile a minute, which didn’t exactly jive with the rule in Coach Bowden’s playbook prohibiting cussing on the field. We were 4–0 and headed to Memphis for our next game against Memphis State and were in the midst of our regularly scheduled Monday night practice when Mickey, with a dip secure in his mouth, yelled, “Eric Riley, there’s scouts out here and you’re out here f***ing around.”
Right away, we saw Coach Bowden start toward our group. We began giggling around Mickey, because we were like, “You’re in trouble now.” And we always laughed about the differences between Mickey and Coach Bowden. Mickey came into a different environment than he’d been in in the NFL and the USFL, where cussing had been commonplace. But at FSU, Mickey’s cussing didn’t sit well with Coach Bowden. Mickey got the message and changed his tune over time.
Going to Memphis for the game against Memphis State afforded me an opportunity to pay it forward. St. Jude’s Children Hospital always had a special place in my heart, since that’s the place where John Stack spent the final months of his life. To honor John, I wanted to visit St. Jude’s on that trip. I approached Reverend Ken Smith and our strength coach, Dave Van Halanger, who were both active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes organization, and they helped facilitate that happening.
Six of us visited the hospital including Eric Riley, Eric Thomas, Jerry Riopelle, Louis Berry, and Parrish Barwick. We took a bunch of posters and t-shirts to give to the kids. As soon as we got there, a nurse took us aside and said, “You’re going to see things that are not tasteful. We just take things a day at a time here.” When she said that, it really hit us. That was our whole theme that year—one down at a time. That visit did more for me than anything we did for the kids we visited. Such a visit can really bring you back to earth.
Unfortunately, we tied with Memphis State, 17–17. The following week, we played in front of the home crowd at Doak Campbell Stadium, and we lost a 42–41 heartbreaker to Auburn.
This tough loss set the stage for our next game, on November 3, 1984, when we traveled to Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe, Arizona, to play Arizona State. It was there that I made perhaps my greatest impact on the football field.
We fell behind, 17–0, before most of the crowd of 68,754 had arrived, but we cut the deficit to 20–17 by halftime. I accounted for one of the scores in the second quarter when Lenny Chavers blocked a punt. I picked up the ball at the 8-yard line and ran it into the end zone for our first touchdown. In the fourth quarter, I blocked a punt at the 34-yard line and scored my second touchdown, putting us up, 52–30, a lead we would not relinquish. My two touchdowns on blocked punts tied the NCAA record for the most blocked punts for touchdowns in a game.
We were disappointed when we finished our schedule with a 7–3–1 record, but we were still Bowl-bound. We earned an invitation to play the University of Georgia in the Citrus Bowl on December 22, 1984.
Prior to the Citrus Bowl, I graduated with a marketing and business degree. When I walked across the stage during the commencement ceremony, my family and friends hollered, “Block that kick!” A photo of me hugging Dad ran in the Tallahassee Democrat the following day. In the photo, you can see the sign hanging from my back that I wore to graduation. It read: “Dad, I made it. I ♥ ya Wessel Clan!”
In later years, Dad would comment on how proud he was to have all three children graduate from college. Mine took a little longer. Nonetheless, I walked across the stage that day. A week later, I would experience my final football game as a player in Orlando at the Citrus Bowl and an opportunity to make Dad and the rest of the Wessel clan proud once again. Lucky for me, I was a part of FSU’s special teams unit, which had an amazing knack to produce results. During that regular season alone, we had blocked eight punts and returned six for touchdowns. What we did came to be known as the “FSU Block Party.”
Oftentimes, a block came down to a mixture of things, like getting the jump on the center. Most of my blocks didn’t come on their first punt. Instead, we’d talk on the sidelines about the weak spots in their line. Sometimes I could see the panic in the punter’s eyes. Those were the guys who normally rushed their kicks because they knew we could block punts. Normally, guys who punted for big averages did not get off good punts against us.
Yet the game against Georgia was no cakewalk. After all, Georgia had the hands-down best placekicker in college football in Kevin Butler. He’d go on the next year to be an integral part of the Chicago Bears, who stormed to the Super Bowl and crushed the Patriots. Butler had such a powerful leg that Georgia would be in field goal range any time they got close to midfield. He’d kicked seventy-eight field goals during his career, including a 60-yarder that season that had beaten Clemson on the final play of the game.
The Citrus Bowl had a sellout crowd for the game that was shown to a national television audience. We were down, 14–0, at the half and still trailed, 17–9, with just under four minutes to go when Georgia had to punt.
I didn’t think about the fact that the final minutes of my days playing football were about to tick off the scoreboard, and I tried not
to focus on the fact that every time Georgia had to kick in that game, my family held up a sign in the stands that read: “Block That Kick Wessel.”
In fact, they were still waiving that sign when Georgia lined up to punt. We ran a play called “Block 10.” Ten defenders rushed the punter, five on each side. Stretching the protection was the principle of the play. In theory, if we overloaded the pressure outside, the opposing team stretched its protection outside, which opened holes on the inside. And vice versa if we overloaded the pressure inside.
Georgia adjusted to the left outside, which opened a hole on the inside of the line.
Our nose guard, Lenny Chavers, broke through the middle of the Bulldogs’ line to block Chip Andrews’s punt. I’d been lined up on the right side and had been close to the punter, but Lenny got there first. The ball ricocheted off Lenny and went backward. I scooped it up at the 14-yard line, then scooted into the end zone to cut the lead to 17–15. That gave us nine blocked kicks for the season, setting an NCAA record.
We went for two points.
Coach Bowden had a reputation for trick plays, and what we ran personified that reputation. Our quarterback, Eric Thomas, took the snap, then pitched the ball to the right toward our tailback, Tony Smith. Before the ball got to Tony, Darrin Holloman, our wide receiver, grabbed the pitch and headed in the other direction. Darrin split two defenders to get into the end zone to tie the game.
Our sideline went berserk, but we had to regroup to finish off the game. Plenty of time remained on the clock, particularly since they had a weapon in Butler’s powerful right leg.
Neither team could get anything going in the next two possessions. Then Georgia began a drive with less than two minutes to go. At this point, their quarterback, James Jackson, looked down the field and tried to connect with his wide receiver, Jimmy Hockaday. Fortunately for us—and me—Hockaday couldn’t make the catch. The ball went right through his hands and directly to me, allowing me to make my first career interception.
That gave us a chance to get something going on offense and possibly win the game. Instead, we sputtered and had to punt back to Georgia with 21 seconds to go. Jackson tried two deep passes that fell incomplete. I couldn’t believe what happened next. With seven seconds left on the clock, Georgia coach Vince Dooley sent out Butler to try a field goal. In hindsight, Georgia probably should have tried something short to get Butler a little closer. For some reason they didn’t, leaving a lot of real estate between Butler’s big foot and the goal post.
Butler looked as though he’d lost something in the grass while searching for the perfect spot to have his kicking tee placed on the Orlando Stadium’s turf. (Back in those days, college kickers could use a tee on field goals.) He finally settled on a spot between their 39- and 38-yard lines, which meant he’d be trying a 71-yard field goal. If he made the kick, Butler would have set a record for the longest field goal in college football history. Having seen Butler kick, I knew that the prospect of him making the kick wasn’t totally out of the realm of reality. He’d nailed one from 72 yards during pre-game warmups. If Georgia’s all-time greatest kicker—a distinction he owns today—made the improbable kick, Georgia would walk off the field with a 20–17 win.
Butler’s foot blistered the football, which seemed to explode before arching high and straight up the field toward the goal post.
I thought he’d made the kick. He’d made such good contact with the football, but ultimately it fell just short, allegedly landing two or three yards shy of the crossbar. Amazing.
Later, I heard that Butler had tried to put a little more arch on his kick to avoid the possibility of having us block his kick.
Final score: FSU 17, Georgia 17.
Given where we’d come from, that tie felt like a win to us. And given where I’d come from, I couldn’t have scripted a better way to end my career. The spring before, our coaches had told me I needed to do something special, or better than anybody else, if I dreamed of setting foot on the field. I managed to do so with my ability to block kicks. All told, I blocked four punts and a field goal that season, and I scored four touchdowns.
Coach Bowden recently told Bill Chastain: “Joe Wessel became a legend at FSU. He led the nation in blocked punts. You can’t hardly find a guy who can block a punt…. His last year, he might have been the team’s most valuable player.”
NBC interviewed me after the game while Dad and Mom weaved their way down to the field to give me a hug amid a bunch of reporters. Jack Nicklaus stood next to the door to our locker room. The Golden Bear shook my hand and congratulated me on the game, the season, and graduating. He also gave me the keys to his Park City, Utah, townhouse to use on the skiing trip I made with college friends, which became a yearly ritual. We stayed at his house at Country Club of the Rockies a couple of years later. That experience marked the first time I saw a big screen TV in a house. Remember, this was the 1980s, so it was a rear projection model.
I guess that was one of the perks, or opportunities, of being Jack Nicklaus’s son’s roommate.
CHAPTER 14
Coaching Decision
DURING MY FINAL SEASON AT FSU, I began to entertain the idea of becoming a football coach. Heck, my teammates had already been calling me “Coach.”
I’d gained so much knowledge over the years, the prospect seemed like part of a natural progression. I’d defended Mark Duper and Mark Clayton. I’d backpedaled with Tim Foley. I’d intercepted Dan Marino’s and David Woodley’s passes. Earl Morrall had been my first quarterback coach. I’d been around Don Shula, Howard Schnellenberger, and Bill Arnsparger. I also had experiences from playing high school, prep school, and college football.
Looking outside of sports also occurred to me. My degree from Florida State opened doors, and I had a nice offer from Proctor and Gamble to sell Citrus Hills Orange Juice and Folgers Coffee in Fort Lauderdale for $17,500 a year. A company car came in the deal, along with a $500 expense account.
Despite the nice offer, I continued to think, I have this football experience, why wouldn’t I want to stay in it and try to make career out of it? I’d been in that arena for a decade. Dad told me I should pursue what I wanted to do. He had a staunch belief in people fulfilling their dreams. He also offered feedback while I weighed my decision.
Since Dad didn’t have a coaching or football background, I think he could look at my situation more objectively. I knew the football side, but he asked questions about the business side of the job and the life I’d lead. What would the job do to me? What were the upsides and the downsides? Dad’s feedback proved instrumental to making my decision. I decided that I absolutely wanted to go into coaching, a profession I felt I’d be passionate about. I just needed a job. I kept an open mind about where I wanted to go.
Mickey Andrews liked the idea of me going into coaching, too.
“I thought [Joe] would be a good coach,” Mickey said recently. “He understood football. He had a good football mind. He was a smart guy. You just felt like he could be a teacher. He could teach. He could motivate.”
Following our 17–17 tie with Georgia in the Citrus Bowl, Vince Dooley walked alongside me when I left the stadium after the game. The famed Georgia coach, who knew I had just graduated, asked, “What are you going to do?”
FSU linebackers coach Gene McDowell had just become the head coach at the University of Central Florida, and Arnsparger held the head coach position at LSU. Both offered me opportunities. I told Coach Dooley about those opportunities, prompting him to yell to Ray Goff, one of his assistants and the man who succeed him as Georgia’s head coach following the 1988 season, “You make sure Joe comes back by to see us because I want him to be one of our GA’s.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll come by.”
I stopped in Athens, Georgia, on my way to Baton Rouge. They interviewed me for one of their graduate assistant jobs, but they were on the quarter system, so they couldn’t get me into school in time. LSU could. Plus, Arnsparger was a defensive guy, and I ha
d a Dolphins connection with him. He’d coached under Shula from 1970 to 1973 and from 1976 to 1983. I also had my mother’s connection from her card games with B.J. Arnsparger.
My gut told me I needed to be at LSU, so I chose to be a graduate assistant making $7,500 a year, meaning I’d go to graduate school and coach football in Baton Rouge.
As I embarked on a coaching career, Steve Nicklaus began his working career, also. We stayed in touch and from time to time would see each other when I would come home for vacations. I even remember one time bringing Dad with me to play with Steve at Loxahatchee Club, which Jack had just built.
Grad assistant work is hard. You’re not making much money, and you work to please and impress in hopes that you will get the chance one day to become a “full-timer.” As bad as those first two years were, though, I knew I loved coaching, so I stuck with it.
CHAPTER 15
Looking for Work and Finding a Girl
CHUCK AMATO, WHO HAD BEEN a coach at FSU, told me, “When you get in the coaching business, it’s a job like any other job.”
I would come to discover that as a player, you don’t see things like you do when you are a coach. Because as a player you play or practice, and then you go back to school. You might have an hour meeting from time to time, then you would go home. A coach goes and watches more film after practice. A player tries to absorb strategy with little input. When you’re a coach, you’re trying to invent a strategy and get it ingrained into your players.
Bill Arnsparger turned over special teams to me my second year, and I helped the defensive backs coach, Mike Archer.
I have a lot to thank Coach Arnsparger for, since he gave me my first job forty-five days after I played my last college football game. The reality is that his wife, B.J., picked the graduate assistants out of the résumés that they had. I guess all the bridge nights that my mother shared with B.J. over the years helped me get my foot in the door.