But with a little over 11 minutes left to play we found ourselves on the wrong end of a 21-7 score. We also faced a 4th and 5 from somewhere around midfield, and Riverboat Gambler, as coach Bowden would later be called by some, was busy dialing up a ‘do or die’ play in his mind.
I was standing beside him ready to run the play in. He grabbed my face-mask and looked me in the eyes.
Listen, there are several angles I could share about what happened on that dreadful spring afternoon, once again on the turf within Doak Campbell Stadium that is now known as Bobby Bowden Field, but I will simply share the one forgettable scene.
And then ask you to forget it.
When it was my time to run, I got down in my attempt at a sprinter’s stance…
…on Monday morning I just about knocked Coach Bowden’s door down (I think I just blasted by Miss Sue) and stomped on into his office, pretty much hyperventilating. I’m not kidding. Coach Bowden was probably about to reach for his phone and dial the medics, his eyes widening and his unlit cigar drooping out of his mouth.
Between pathetic little grunts and sniffles - yes, I had tears in my eyes - I basically said something to the effect that I would LITERALLY DIE if that happened again…
Well, that smile fell right to the floor. What the f%#K! My mind went into hyperdrive. “Speed is one thing, athletic ability another, Coach! So what if my straight-line speed is a bit subpar; I can out-quick just about any of them, you know that, seducing them into using their damned speed in a straight line to where I was not going to be…
Though it was obvious that the speed issue was at the heart of my athletic scholarship dearth, I sure as hell didn’t like being reminded of it. Had they just offered the academic scholarship and refrained from that statement I would have probably scooted on over to The Plains of Auburn screaming “War Eagle” all the way. But pride has a way of factoring into a young man’s decisions at times, so I balled that piece of sh#t up and…
“Well, you boys have gone and done it,” Coach Bowden scolded, shaking his head as if in disgust. “Y’all have gone and done something around here that no one else ever has.”
Well, now I was confused. I knew I had done a thing or two that almost certainly would get me in trouble, but something no one else ever had? Let me tell you, we had some teammates that I was pretty sure could outdo me in the trouble department (I won’t list names).
But with a little over 11 minutes left to play we found ourselves on the wrong end of a 21-7 score. We also faced a 4th and 5 from somewhere around midfield, and Riverboat Gambler, as coach Bowden would later be called by some, was busy dialing up a ‘do or die’ play in his mind.
I was standing beside him ready to run the play in. He grabbed my face-mask and looked me in the eyes.
Well, you would have thought his little brother had whacked him from behind with a damp towel. He threw his head around and shouted out some of those very words that he forbid us players from using. If he had a protocol manual back in his office, complete with his NO SWEARING decree, I’m pretty sure it self-combusted at that very second!
It was almost mystical how all of us loose-lipped, rough and tough, ‘crazy as hell’ college football players seemed to develop a certain ‘refinement’ - at least as it related to our language - when we stepped out onto those fields; where, at least for me, it seemed to be THE ONE PLACE that swearing made the most sense!.
Like I said, though, I never heard anyone swear in front of Coach Bowden out there.
Except…
He narrowed his eyes. “Well, Philip, I’ve been thinking about this and I’m not sure you did quite enough during spring practice to get the scholarship. On the right track, but not quite there.”
“You only gave me a chance to do so much,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness.
He gnawed on the cigar and looked at me. Maybe it was my imagination but it seemed that an idea danced behind his eyes for a second.
I was a nobody, or at least that is how I felt.
I was the non-scholarship football player, fighting to catch the eye of the one man who could ‘right that wrong’ - Bobby Bowden, head coach of the Florida State Seminoles.
It was during my first spring practice in 1978. I had avoided the cornerback and was sprinting up the sideline when the ball, thrown a tad bit late, sailed high over my head
