by Joe Wessel
Wearing that suit brought a lot of humiliation, too. Much of the humiliation had to do with the fact that the coaches had selected you to wear the thing in the first place. But wearing the suit was like your rite of passage. Many of the older defensive players took care of the players who didn’t take the easy way out. They understood how difficult being in our position could be and usually took care of you if you didn’t try to embarrass them. I’m not sure if I felt more like the Michelin Man or the Pillsbury Doughboy while wearing that suit.
The varsity went 10–1 my freshman season, and I played on the junior varsity. Back then, the JV would play a five- or six-game schedule. Our main function was on the scout team, helping the varsity prepare for their next opponent. Junior varsity teams no longer exist.
Miami accounted for the only blemish on the varsity schedule that season, handing out a 10–9 loss in the Orange Bowl. Of course, good alum that he was, Dad came to mind. Because Margie and I both went to FSU, you would think he would root and pull for FSU. I would bet that if either of us were playing he would root for FSU, but if we weren’t playing, he probably stayed true to the U. That’s just the kind of loyalty he’s always showed.
At the end of that 1980 season, FSU again headed to the Orange Bowl to play Oklahoma for a second straight year. This time, the game proved to be a close one that went down to the wire. We were winning, 17–10, with 3:19 left in the game. The FSU band already began to play the first stanza of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” That’s when their quarterback, J.C. Watts, took the game into his hands, driving the Sooners down the field until he connected with Steve Rhodes on a touchdown pass with 1:33 remaining. Oklahoma decided to go for the win, and Watts threw a pass to Forrest Valora in the end zone for the two-point conversion that gave them a lead. Bill Capece’s 62-yard field goal attempt at the end didn’t have enough on it, and we lost, 18–17. That killed our chances of becoming national champions. Although I didn’t play that year in any varsity games, I did dress for a couple games and the Orange Bowl, too.
Added to the daily grind was the constant reminder that I wasn’t on scholarship at FSU, though I very much wanted to be, so I put a lot of pressure on myself. As had become customary, I wrote to Dad when the level of frustration had reached its peak, in a letter dated April 23, 1981:
… The pressure is starting to build up inside of me. The few mistakes I make on the field seem so giant to me because I demand perfection on my part. I feel if I’m going to make it, I have to do everything right. I’m trying to be tough in my tackling, but I must not get used to going and beating my brains out. Coach Stanton yesterday called me out to the field during the scrimmage and told me when I run the ball in drills to take on hits and work on my toughness. He said I have all the tools to make it, but I have to hit and that might hold me back. Dad, I just want to know if they are going to put me on scholarship or not. That sense of security means so much to me. At times I feel like there is no doubt they’ll put me on. Then other times, I’m not so sure. Last night I sat and pondered about it and before I knew it an hour and a half passed by. I think of it constantly and I know I shouldn’t. I pray every night and leave it up to God. I know he’ll watch over me, I just hope what I want is what he wants …
All my love, Joe
P.S. Persistence, tenacity, and perseverance are qualities that I can only attain by a wonderful father who teaches them to me. Thanks.
Dad and Mom both remained supportive of my efforts, and I kept after my goal of earning a scholarship and playing football for the Seminoles.
Nevertheless, there were still quite a few challenges to face. The 1981 season marked probably the hardest schedule ever put together in the modern era of college football. The schedule saw the Seminoles go to Nebraska, Ohio State, Notre Dame, Pittsburgh, and LSU in consecutive games. The press dubbed the schedule “Oktoberfest!” We also played the Gators in Gainesville the last week of the season.
I think Coach Bowden thought our athletic director had been drunk at Octoberfest when he scheduled those games. While taking on those giants sounded like suicide for any team, the strategy turned out to be brilliant. If you won those games, you had instant credibility, and your program suddenly became relevant.
The guy who influenced me the most back then—and still does today—is Brian McCrary. Brian hailed from Germantown, Tennessee, and had been a Golden Gloves boxer. At five-foot-ten, 170 pounds, he could bring a load, which earned him the nickname “Boom Boom.” He is still the most ferocious tackler and instinctive defensive back I’ve ever played with or saw during my coaching career.
Nevertheless, it was his character that impressed me the most. Most Sundays when I was at FSU, I attended mass at 5:30 p.m. College students always filled that mass, since it gave us a chance to sleep in. One day, while sitting around Coble Terrace, our football dorm, I asked Boom Boom, “I thought I saw you at mass last week. I thought you were Baptist.” He said, “Joe, there are so many good-looking girls at that service, I have to go!”
Vintage Boom Boom.
Fast-forward to years later, and Brian was diagnosed with ALS. Like he did on the football field, he fought the disease and did so with a grace and class that inspired me to my core. He died in August of 2018.
Although we had a winning season in 1981 at 6–5, we were not invited to a bowl game. I had been redshirted that year, so my football life contained a lot of practice and no games. I didn’t like sitting in the stands like any other student, so I couldn’t wait for the 1982 season.
I joined the travel squad in 1982. Because I’d played a year of prep school and I’d been redshirted a year, I suddenly became one of the older guys on the team. I served as the backup free safety behind Brian McCrary, a spot he would hold for most of the next three seasons. During that training camp, several of my teammates started teasing me about being “Coach Wessel.”
Part of that “Coach” moniker came from my football knowledge. The strategy of the game came easy to me, and I wasn’t shy about sharing my enthusiasm for the game. My teammates must have seen something in me that I didn’t. Of course, if you’re undersized and slower than most, you better bring some heart and knowledge to the table if you ever dreamed of playing.
I did not play much in 1982. Most of when I did play that season came in mop-up duty. But I patiently continued to wait my turn. We went 8–3 that season with wins at Ohio State, at Miami, and at South Carolina. Our only three losses were against Pittsburgh, LSU, and Florida. The LSU game was a pivotal game in our season. Everybody projected the winner of that game to go the Orange Bowl and the loser to the Gator Bowl. LSU beat us up in a 55–21 defeat. West Virginia, led by quarterback Jeff Hostetler, awaited us in Jacksonville.
Hostetler would lead the New York Giants to a win over the Buffalo Bills in Super Bowl XXV in Tampa, but he didn’t have that same magic against us in the Gator Bowl. We capped off that season with a 31–12 win over the Mountaineers, which earned us a No. 10 ranking in United Press International’s Coaches’ Poll.
Becoming a starter and earning a scholarship became an obsession. My single-mindedness took a toll on my grades, but I had a good spring practice in 1983. That summer, I went home to Miami to take a break from Tallahassee and football. However, I wasn’t about to sit around that summer. I wanted to do everything in my power to prepare for my junior season.
Going home gave me a chance to train and reconnect with many of the Miami Dolphins players from years past. Earnie Rhone continued to help me a lot during this period, whether we were working out together or he was filling my ears with positive information and helpful hints. Jimmy Cefalo was also instrumental in sharing his ideas on how a wide receiver looked at things while I tried to cover him during one-on-one drills.
I also got to work out with Dan Marino and David Woodley, the Dolphins’ quarterbacks. Somehow Marino had slipped to the Dolphins in the 1983 Draft. John Elway, Todd Blackledge, Jim Kelly, Tony Eason, and Ken O’Brien were all selected in the first round before the Dolp
hins stole Marino with the twenty-seventh pick of the first round. Nobody ever really determined why he slipped, though negative rumors always appear around the draft. His illustrious Hall of Fame career would begin that season, and I found myself working against him during my summer workouts.
In addition to covering Cefalo that summer, I got to cover Mark Duper and Mark Clayton, who were phenomenal speedsters and Hall of Fame-type receivers. David Shula was coaching wide receivers at that time, so he would be out there along with Mike, his brother who was a sophomore quarterback at Alabama. Being around those guys really helped me get better.
I had great focus that summer, and I give a lot of credit to the guys I trained with for helping me find that focus.
While I spent the bulk of my time working out, I landed a job at Sportrooms, a racquetball fitness center owned by Tim Foley, my childhood hero and a Dolphin workout partner. Tim told me to talk to the manager, Brian Scott. He didn’t want to meet with me, but I insisted, so I went up and interrupted his lunch. You guessed it, he hired me. Little did Brian know that this new employee would soon change his life forever. That summer, I introduced him to my sister Margie, who worked as the head volleyball coach at Clemson University. Two years later, they were married at Saint Patrick’s Church, the same church my grandfather Louis Wessel helped rebuild after the “Great Miami Hurricane” of 1926.
That summer also featured the moment I had been waiting for, when my parents received a letter that began as follows:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Wessel,
Happy to inform you that your son has earned his scholarship for the calendar year 1983–84, he is a great asset to our family …
Coach Bowden’s signature appeared at the bottom of the letter.
The fact they had waited until they did to give me the scholarship frosted me a little bit, detracting some from the joy of my accomplishment. However, I did understand why they handled the situation the way they did. If I’d gotten injured that spring, they would have wasted a scholarship on me. Business is business.
Bottom line, I had earned a scholarship. Given all I’d been through, that felt like a big deal. My parents had paid for three years of my schooling and one year of prep school. Freeing them from that financial burden felt very rewarding to me. Getting awarded a scholarship also validated eight years of training, running, lifting weights, and film study. Eight years of stress and anxiety on the long road of becoming a major college football player.
Earning that scholarship had been a definite peak in my life. Little did I know that a gorge sat dead ahead, but in the moment it felt truly great.
In typical fashion, Dad let me know how proud he was of my accomplishment and offered the appropriate remarks expressing that sentiment. He also made the statement that would become popular within our family when he told me, “Keep your eye on the bird.”
The story he told featured a man looking down the barrel of a gun to shoot a bird. The man doesn’t see the branches on the tree, he doesn’t see the person behind the branches on the tree, and he doesn’t see the building behind the tree. He focuses and stays locked in on the bird until he kills it. The message being, even at the height of things, I still couldn’t take my foot off the gas pedal. “Keep your eye on the bird. You haven’t shot it dead yet. Keep your focus. Eliminate the distractions.”
Of course, Dad didn’t just deliver the message with words. He also used a prop by employing an all-white cockatiel. I named the bird Yacob. Dad could be quirky with stuff. He’d give you anecdotes and thought processes, but his “Wesselisms” were classic. Not always direct, he often would relay a message through his story, or a song, or through the bird. The message in this case: Supreme athletes, or people who are extraordinary at anything they do, usually are single-minded in what they are and who they are. They don’t have hobbies. It’s what they do. Like the sharpshooter.
The bird’s name came from one of Dad’s favorite sayings, “Don’t be a Yacob.” Basically, this was Dad’s way of saying, “Don’t be a dumbass” or “Don’t be stupid in your decisions.” I don’t know where the term came from, but I’m guessing it was a Yiddish term he heard growing up in Miami Beach.
Dad gave me that cockatiel and wrote me a note that he put in the bird cage when he gave me the bird. I took Yacob to FSU with me, and I had that bird for close to a year and a half. I carted Yacob back and forth from Tallahassee to South Florida during vacations. The bird definitely served a purpose. Every time I looked into that cage, I would be reminded about keeping my focus. Stupid, but simple. And it worked.
Dad at fifteen years old with his mom, Esther, in February 1942. WWII awaits!
Dad during World War II, perhaps on the lookout for the enemy (circa 1942–43)?
Chuck Zink presenting trophies to me and my sister Margie circa late 1960s.
John Stack and Joe Wessel at graduation day, Pace High School, Miami, Florida, May 1979.
Old man of the Sea! Dad with two of his best friends!
Dad and I on #13 East at Oak Hill Country Club, Rochester, New York, circa 1991.
Photo with Coach Bowden freshman year. 1981 Orange Bowl: FSU vs. Oklahoma.
My senior year of FSU football was one of the most memorable years from my college tenure (August 1984).
Philadelphia Eagles game day in 1997. Here I am, getting the players pumped up!
The day I met Jack Nicklaus for the first time, 1983.
Jack taking back possession of his $1 million putter on April 12, 2003.
If I had stopped playing after nine holes … I could’ve always said I tied the six-time Masters champ! October 22, 2003.
Papa Joe and The Golden Bear are all smiles before dinner at Augusta National.
Jack exchanged the $20 for a $10 bill … with a little extra!
Hole-in-one at Oak Hill CC in October 2017 … The aforementioned “Titleist #1.”
Top left—White Fang in its final resting place in the Jack Nicklaus Museum, Columbus, Ohio.
Photos courtesy of Joe Wessel.
CHAPTER 11
Fired as a Junior
I RETURNED TO TALLAHASSEE FOR my junior season in the best shape of my life. I had gotten faster and stronger over the summer. I felt as though I had prepared myself to play in every sense. During two-a-days, they switched me from free safety to strong safety. Normally, the free safety had more speed than I did. A lot of people refer to the position as center field, because, like in baseball, the free safety roamed the center of the field and went to wherever trouble presented itself, whether that was helping a cornerback on either side of the field or handling what happened in the center of the field. A strong safety played closer to the line, and the position dealt more with contact and run responsibilities along with staying on the tight end.
That 1983 season also marked the year the coaches paired me up with a new roommate. He played wide receiver, he didn’t have a roommate, and he was Jack Nicklaus’s son.
Steve Nicklaus is the second oldest of the Nicklaus children, behind Jackie. Nan, Gary, and Michael followed him in that order.
Steve had been in Tallahassee since arriving in the fall of 1981 on scholarship from West Palm Beach Benjamin High School. When Steve first came to Tallahassee for a recruiting visit, what caught my eye, as well as everybody else’s, was the fact that Jack walked onto the field with him. The Golden Bear in Tallahassee, wow! I’d been friendly with Steve during his freshman year, but we didn’t have too much interaction. Steve could be difficult, and I’m sure he felt the same way about me. He was confident and, at times, a bit boisterous. Of course, we battled against each other every day at practice because I played in the secondary and he played receiver. We even talked a little trash … okay, we talked a lot of trash. I enjoyed his company, and I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate.
Given Dad’s love of golf, he offered a predictable response at the news about my new roommate: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I met Jack after the first game of the 1983 f
ootball season. There were a lot of people hanging out in the apartment. Jack walked into the front room and grabbed me by the arm. He didn’t bother to introduce himself before he guided me through twenty or so people to a back room. The first words out of his mouth were “How are you two getting along?” The question addressed my relationship with Steve. He obviously was genuinely concerned about his son and wanted to know if we had any issues. We had been roommates for just over a month, two weeks during which we were in training camp. We were still on our honeymoon!
“We’re getting along fine,” I told him, thinking, What in the world is this all about?
While initially I didn’t understand what happened that night, that first meeting with Jack always stuck out to me. In retrospect, I realized that his thought process began with caring about his kids. That spoke volumes about how ingrained he was in his family life. I always admired that. My initial impression was reinforced the older I got when I heard the stories about Jack. I believe you learn to be that way. That’s not something that comes naturally to everybody. For Jack, it probably dated back to his own upbringing.
Jack’s father, Charlie, had been a pharmacist in Columbus, Ohio, and owned several Nicklaus Pharmacies. When Charlie broke his ankle early in Jack’s life, he introduced his son to the sport while trying to rehabilitate from his injury. The rest is history.
I knew that Jack had vowed early in his professional career that, unless he had his wife and kids with him, he’d never be away from home for more than fourteen days in a row. Given the obligations and pursuits of a professional golfer, that’s a tall order.
Jack credited his father for teaching him how to lose gracefully. Jack singled that out as the hardest lesson for a professional athlete to learn.
