My First Love
Two weeks before my 18th birthday, I met my first love. The rush of emotions was powerful on that Saturday night in early September, 1989. Anticipation, adrenaline, and anxiety intermingled under the lights in Doak Campbell Stadium on the campus of Florida State University. The air was electric with the chants of 80,000 people as Chief Osceola rode in atop Renegade, lifted his spear, and hurled it to the ground. I watched in awe from the sidelines while trying to keep my composure and play the notes to the fight song on my clarinet.
“F-L-O-R-I-D-A S-T-A-T-E, Florida State, Florida State, Florida State, WHOO!” roared the Seminole fans, including my parents and my sister who were in town from Jacksonville for the game. The drums began to beat the Warchant as the teams lined up for kick-off. FSU was playing the Clemson Tigers, a team that they had beaten the year before with one of the most infamous plays in college football history – the “Puntrooskie,” but that’s another story.
“Go Peter Tom Joe Bob Willis,” my friend Donna, a sophomore, shouted when we got back into the stands after kick-off.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Uh, our quarterback?” she said looking at me like I was from outer space.
I did not know much about my first love on that night. All I knew was that I wanted more.
The path to my love for college football began years before in my grandparent’s house on Front Street in Georgetown, South Carolina.
“Fumble!” dad yelled as he straightened up in the green arm chair.
The conversation that he’d been having with Papa Jersey was temporarily interrupted. My sister, Lauren, and I looked up from our game of Sorry! to see what the commotion was all about. Grammie came around the corner from the kitchen because she couldn’t stand the suspense.
“Who are you pulling for, Papa Jersey?” I inquired.
“I’ve got a dime on the Tigers,” he responded with a wink.
“Okay.” That was an acceptable reason for me at the time.
“What!?!” Dad exclaimed next as the ref gave the ball back to the offense and ruled that the player’s knee was down before the ball came out of his hands.
Lauren and I went back to our game, the conversation resumed, and Grammie turned into the kitchen to finish preparing the Thanksgiving leftovers.
There were other evenings after Papa Jersey died when the extended family was gathered around Grammie’s oval dining room table and conversation would turn to football. Typical family arguments would break out about the rivals.
“You know the Gamecocks ain’t goin’ to make it to no bowl game this year, and the Tigers are goin’ to win the ACC,” my cousin, Little Johnny, began.
“Listen, look at the recruits coming into Columbia. This is the year that the Gamecocks will make it to a bowl game.” Grammie countered. A voracious reader of the sports pages, she could hold her own in any debate on the topic. She had had to learn football to keep up with the likes of Papa Jersey and with her nephew, Clifford Lee, or CL as we call him.
“I’m tired of readin’ about ‘Black Magic’ without anything to back it up. What is wearin’ a black shirt to the games goin’ to do for the Gamecocks? Coach Morrison is all talk. Nothin’s goin’ to change for USC. Plus, the Tigers have ACC titles goin’ back years AND a national championship,” CL said emphatically.
I listened in with little interest until the conversation turned to memories of Papa Jersey and his love for football. Papa Jersey had been the voice of the Winyah High School Gators and had moderated a sports radio talk show. The show featured a “board of experts” on regional high school teams.
CL grinned, “I remember when I was playing for the Winyah Gators, and I heard Uncle Jersey over the loudspeaker. ‘There’s CL Cribb, he’s making a break. He’s at the 40, the 45, the 50, the 55, the 60 -- oops -- the 40, the 35, he’s to the 30 . . . . touchdown! That’s my favorite nepheeeew.’”
“What about the time when my friend, Joe Isaac, was running towards the end zone on a breakaway with the safety coming up behind him -- in the middle of his play-by-play daddy yelled, ‘look out, Joe, he’s right behind you!’” My uncle Larry laughed.
When I was accepted at Florida State, dad told me that Papa Jersey would have been proud that I was going to college. He also would love the fact that FSU is a big football school. “He would have had a good excuse to ‘drop a dime’ on the Seminoles!” my dad said. It was a little disguised fact that Papa Jersey moonlighted as the local bookie and always walked around with a stack of parlay cards in his pocket to keep track of the bets.
During my first year at FSU, my love for college football deepened. As a member of the Marching Chiefs, I got to travel to exotic locations – Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Gainesville, Florida; and Tempe, Arizona – to cheer on the ‘Noles. I learned not only who Peter Tom Willis was -- he broke the single season passing record -- but I learned who others were as well: Bobby Bowden, the winningest coach in college football; Dexter Carter, the All-American running back; Lawrence Dawsey, the reciever; Terrell Buckley, the successor to Deion Sanders; and LeRoy Butler, the hero of the “Puntrooskie.” More and more I craved the adrenaline rush of pre-game and the nail biting intensity of 3rd and long. I longed to hear those three little words – 1st and ten.
On the weekend of an away game, I took the opportunity to go home to Jacksonville to visit with my friends. Since the game was not important enough for the Chiefs to travel to, it was not important enough to be on TV. My friends and I made plans to go to a movie and to Applebee’s for dinner.
As it got closer and closer to kickoff, I started to itch. The game was going to be on the radio. Should I stay home and listen to it? I compromised and offered to drive so that I could control the radio.
“Don’t you need a break from football?” my best friend, Cathey, asked as we drove down 3rd Street. “Can’t we listen to something else?”
“I just have to check the score. If we are way ahead, then I’ll change the station during a commercial,” I replied.
“You are obsessed!” my friend Monica chimed in. “You never cared this much about football when we were in high school.”
“There was nothing to care about then,” I said. “FSU football is the most exciting thing that I’ve ever experienced. There’s nothing else like it. You can’t possibly understand since you haven’t seen it. You know that FSU BEAT Miami this year, right? Miami was ranked #1, and we won the game 24-17?”
“Yeah, so what?” they asked, shrugging their shoulders in unison.
“You know how you felt when Jason would say ‘Hello’ to you?” I asked. “It’s like that.” I tried to explain. “We were in the stands just after kick-off, and the drum major blew the whistle to start the Warchant. He had us turn around to play towards the stands, and when we did, all you could see were arms moving. Every Seminole fan in the stadium was on their feet chanting to the beat of the bass drums.”
“Miami’s starting quarterback got hurt early in the game, and this guy named Geno Toretta came in to play for him. He was way out of his league. When he was in range of the Chiefs, someone started taunting him calling out, ‘Gee-No, Gee-No’ and then the rest of the crowd joined in. He ended up throwing six interceptions, which is a big reason why we won. It was amazing!!!”
“It’s still just a game,” Cathey replied.
I tried hard to convince her. “After the game, Tallahassee erupted. The crowd spilled out onto campus and into the streets. Traffic was stopped for hours while we partied on Tennessee Street, the main street next to campus. It is a night that I won’t forget.”
“Well, I guess that we’ll have to come to a game next year.”
Cathey and Monica did make it to a game the following year and afterwards gave their full approval of my relationship with college football. They left Tallahassee wanting more.
FSU played the Gamecocks that season, and Grammie came to Tallahassee with my parents to see the game. It had been one of the most difficult times in her life. Her house on Front Street was swept away that September when Hurricane Hugo ravaged the South Carolina coast. After the initial clean-up efforts, mom and dad encouraged her to stay with them in Jacksonville for a couple of months. Dad thought that a football game in Tallahassee would be a pleasant distraction. The big question was: who would she pull for? Mom and Dad had already gleefully exchanged their Garnet and Black for Garnet and Gold.
“I’ve got to go with where my money’s going,” was Dad’s defense.
“Well then, I’ve got to stay with where my money went!” Grammie laughed.
Grammie pulled for Carolina, although Dad swore that he heard her singing the Warchant when the Chiefs played it even if she didn’t move her arm in the “tomahawk chop.”
The summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I woke up in a chest-wrenching panic with tears streaming down my face. I’d had a nightmare that I had to transfer to the University of Florida. In that terrifying dream, I was completely frustrated and could not stop crying. My friends who were students at UF tried to console me at first. Finally, they got angry at my irrational tears and told me to get over it and accept that: 1) I could never return to Florida State and 2) I would never see the Seminoles play another game. “Gainesville isn’t THAT bad,” they told me as I tried to explain to them what it was that I missed about Tallahassee. No one would listen.
I walked onto the FSU campus in the fall of 1990 with the confidence of someone who was where she was meant to be. There was no more anxiety about auditioning for the Marching Chiefs, meeting my roommate, or making friends. I was nearing the first anniversary of meeting my first love, and I couldn’t wait to celebrate. I now found comfort in the routine of game-day, but the excitement was still there.
There was a new quarterback, Brad Johnson, who had won the position in a pre-season battle with back-up Casey Wheldon. The season started out with promise as FSU won huge victories over such gridiron greats as East Carolina, Tulane, and Georgia Southern. The ‘Noles were off to a terrific season.
Then, the first big disappointment in the relationship came. It was inevitable.
We traveled to Miami to face the Hurricanes. I remembered the thrill of the game the season before and thought that this would be the same. Kickoff was at noon for national television coverage. The air in the Orange Bowl was heavy with humidity. Although we were close to the field, it felt more like we were sitting on the sun. The whole day was payback for how we had treated the ‘Canes in Tallahassee the year before. When we played the Warchant, the fans responded with typical Hurricane fanfare singing “@#%& the Seminoles” with middle fingers extended.
They jumped out to a 24-0 lead while Brad Johnson’s passes fell incomplete. Casey Wheldon came in to relieve him in the 4th quarter, but it wasn’t enough. Miami had gained the upper hand in the rivalry. To this day, I cannot listen to Queen’s We Will Rock You without having a post-traumatic flashback. The hell was extended into the next day. The Marching Chiefs played an exhibition show during halftime of the Miami Dolphins game. We were treated to the same taunting and obscenities of the day before. You do what you have to do for love.
Two weeks before my 18th birthday, I met my first love. The rush of emotions was powerful on that Saturday night in early September, 1989. Anticipation, adrenaline, and anxiety intermingled under the lights in Doak Campbell Stadium on the campus of Florida State University. The air was electric with the chants of 80,000 people as Chief Osceola rode in atop Renegade, lifted his spear, and hurled it to the ground. I watched in awe from the sidelines while trying to keep my composure and play the notes to the fight song on my clarinet.
“F-L-O-R-I-D-A S-T-A-T-E, Florida State, Florida State, Florida State, WHOO!” roared the Seminole fans, including my parents and my sister who were in town from Jacksonville for the game. The drums began to beat the Warchant as the teams lined up for kick-off. FSU was playing the Clemson Tigers, a team that they had beaten the year before with one of the most infamous plays in college football history – the “Puntrooskie,” but that’s another story.
“Go Peter Tom Joe Bob Willis,” my friend Donna, a sophomore, shouted when we got back into the stands after kick-off.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Uh, our quarterback?” she said looking at me like I was from outer space.
I did not know much about my first love on that night. All I knew was that I wanted more.
The path to my love for college football began years before in my grandparent’s house on Front Street in Georgetown, South Carolina.
“Fumble!” dad yelled as he straightened up in the green arm chair.
The conversation that he’d been having with Papa Jersey was temporarily interrupted. My sister, Lauren, and I looked up from our game of Sorry! to see what the commotion was all about. Grammie came around the corner from the kitchen because she couldn’t stand the suspense.
“Who are you pulling for, Papa Jersey?” I inquired.
“I’ve got a dime on the Tigers,” he responded with a wink.
“Okay.” That was an acceptable reason for me at the time.
“What!?!” Dad exclaimed next as the ref gave the ball back to the offense and ruled that the player’s knee was down before the ball came out of his hands.
Lauren and I went back to our game, the conversation resumed, and Grammie turned into the kitchen to finish preparing the Thanksgiving leftovers.
There were other evenings after Papa Jersey died when the extended family was gathered around Grammie’s oval dining room table and conversation would turn to football. Typical family arguments would break out about the rivals.
“You know the Gamecocks ain’t goin’ to make it to no bowl game this year, and the Tigers are goin’ to win the ACC,” my cousin, Little Johnny, began.
“Listen, look at the recruits coming into Columbia. This is the year that the Gamecocks will make it to a bowl game.” Grammie countered. A voracious reader of the sports pages, she could hold her own in any debate on the topic. She had had to learn football to keep up with the likes of Papa Jersey and with her nephew, Clifford Lee, or CL as we call him.
“I’m tired of readin’ about ‘Black Magic’ without anything to back it up. What is wearin’ a black shirt to the games goin’ to do for the Gamecocks? Coach Morrison is all talk. Nothin’s goin’ to change for USC. Plus, the Tigers have ACC titles goin’ back years AND a national championship,” CL said emphatically.
I listened in with little interest until the conversation turned to memories of Papa Jersey and his love for football. Papa Jersey had been the voice of the Winyah High School Gators and had moderated a sports radio talk show. The show featured a “board of experts” on regional high school teams.
CL grinned, “I remember when I was playing for the Winyah Gators, and I heard Uncle Jersey over the loudspeaker. ‘There’s CL Cribb, he’s making a break. He’s at the 40, the 45, the 50, the 55, the 60 -- oops -- the 40, the 35, he’s to the 30 . . . . touchdown! That’s my favorite nepheeeew.’”
“What about the time when my friend, Joe Isaac, was running towards the end zone on a breakaway with the safety coming up behind him -- in the middle of his play-by-play daddy yelled, ‘look out, Joe, he’s right behind you!’” My uncle Larry laughed.
When I was accepted at Florida State, dad told me that Papa Jersey would have been proud that I was going to college. He also would love the fact that FSU is a big football school. “He would have had a good excuse to ‘drop a dime’ on the Seminoles!” my dad said. It was a little disguised fact that Papa Jersey moonlighted as the local bookie and always walked around with a stack of parlay cards in his pocket to keep track of the bets.
During my first year at FSU, my love for college football deepened. As a member of the Marching Chiefs, I got to travel to exotic locations – Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Gainesville, Florida; and Tempe, Arizona – to cheer on the ‘Noles. I learned not only who Peter Tom Willis was -- he broke the single season passing record -- but I learned who others were as well: Bobby Bowden, the winningest coach in college football; Dexter Carter, the All-American running back; Lawrence Dawsey, the reciever; Terrell Buckley, the successor to Deion Sanders; and LeRoy Butler, the hero of the “Puntrooskie.” More and more I craved the adrenaline rush of pre-game and the nail biting intensity of 3rd and long. I longed to hear those three little words – 1st and ten.
On the weekend of an away game, I took the opportunity to go home to Jacksonville to visit with my friends. Since the game was not important enough for the Chiefs to travel to, it was not important enough to be on TV. My friends and I made plans to go to a movie and to Applebee’s for dinner.
As it got closer and closer to kickoff, I started to itch. The game was going to be on the radio. Should I stay home and listen to it? I compromised and offered to drive so that I could control the radio.
“Don’t you need a break from football?” my best friend, Cathey, asked as we drove down 3rd Street. “Can’t we listen to something else?”
“I just have to check the score. If we are way ahead, then I’ll change the station during a commercial,” I replied.
“You are obsessed!” my friend Monica chimed in. “You never cared this much about football when we were in high school.”
“There was nothing to care about then,” I said. “FSU football is the most exciting thing that I’ve ever experienced. There’s nothing else like it. You can’t possibly understand since you haven’t seen it. You know that FSU BEAT Miami this year, right? Miami was ranked #1, and we won the game 24-17?”
“Yeah, so what?” they asked, shrugging their shoulders in unison.
“You know how you felt when Jason would say ‘Hello’ to you?” I asked. “It’s like that.” I tried to explain. “We were in the stands just after kick-off, and the drum major blew the whistle to start the Warchant. He had us turn around to play towards the stands, and when we did, all you could see were arms moving. Every Seminole fan in the stadium was on their feet chanting to the beat of the bass drums.”
“Miami’s starting quarterback got hurt early in the game, and this guy named Geno Toretta came in to play for him. He was way out of his league. When he was in range of the Chiefs, someone started taunting him calling out, ‘Gee-No, Gee-No’ and then the rest of the crowd joined in. He ended up throwing six interceptions, which is a big reason why we won. It was amazing!!!”
“It’s still just a game,” Cathey replied.
I tried hard to convince her. “After the game, Tallahassee erupted. The crowd spilled out onto campus and into the streets. Traffic was stopped for hours while we partied on Tennessee Street, the main street next to campus. It is a night that I won’t forget.”
“Well, I guess that we’ll have to come to a game next year.”
Cathey and Monica did make it to a game the following year and afterwards gave their full approval of my relationship with college football. They left Tallahassee wanting more.
FSU played the Gamecocks that season, and Grammie came to Tallahassee with my parents to see the game. It had been one of the most difficult times in her life. Her house on Front Street was swept away that September when Hurricane Hugo ravaged the South Carolina coast. After the initial clean-up efforts, mom and dad encouraged her to stay with them in Jacksonville for a couple of months. Dad thought that a football game in Tallahassee would be a pleasant distraction. The big question was: who would she pull for? Mom and Dad had already gleefully exchanged their Garnet and Black for Garnet and Gold.
“I’ve got to go with where my money’s going,” was Dad’s defense.
“Well then, I’ve got to stay with where my money went!” Grammie laughed.
Grammie pulled for Carolina, although Dad swore that he heard her singing the Warchant when the Chiefs played it even if she didn’t move her arm in the “tomahawk chop.”
The summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I woke up in a chest-wrenching panic with tears streaming down my face. I’d had a nightmare that I had to transfer to the University of Florida. In that terrifying dream, I was completely frustrated and could not stop crying. My friends who were students at UF tried to console me at first. Finally, they got angry at my irrational tears and told me to get over it and accept that: 1) I could never return to Florida State and 2) I would never see the Seminoles play another game. “Gainesville isn’t THAT bad,” they told me as I tried to explain to them what it was that I missed about Tallahassee. No one would listen.
I walked onto the FSU campus in the fall of 1990 with the confidence of someone who was where she was meant to be. There was no more anxiety about auditioning for the Marching Chiefs, meeting my roommate, or making friends. I was nearing the first anniversary of meeting my first love, and I couldn’t wait to celebrate. I now found comfort in the routine of game-day, but the excitement was still there.
There was a new quarterback, Brad Johnson, who had won the position in a pre-season battle with back-up Casey Wheldon. The season started out with promise as FSU won huge victories over such gridiron greats as East Carolina, Tulane, and Georgia Southern. The ‘Noles were off to a terrific season.
Then, the first big disappointment in the relationship came. It was inevitable.
We traveled to Miami to face the Hurricanes. I remembered the thrill of the game the season before and thought that this would be the same. Kickoff was at noon for national television coverage. The air in the Orange Bowl was heavy with humidity. Although we were close to the field, it felt more like we were sitting on the sun. The whole day was payback for how we had treated the ‘Canes in Tallahassee the year before. When we played the Warchant, the fans responded with typical Hurricane fanfare singing “@#%& the Seminoles” with middle fingers extended.
They jumped out to a 24-0 lead while Brad Johnson’s passes fell incomplete. Casey Wheldon came in to relieve him in the 4th quarter, but it wasn’t enough. Miami had gained the upper hand in the rivalry. To this day, I cannot listen to Queen’s We Will Rock You without having a post-traumatic flashback. The hell was extended into the next day. The Marching Chiefs played an exhibition show during halftime of the Miami Dolphins game. We were treated to the same taunting and obscenities of the day before. You do what you have to do for love.
