End of Season

In light of what has transpired, it seems much too simple to write about an event and more appropriate to reflect on an era.

For twenty five years it was not easy to wear King Louis XVI colors in this State. Sure we had, have and will always have the prettiest women in the World prancing around the Magnolias in the Spring. But below Mason Dixon, pride is defined by what happens in the Fall, and life was tough at our girls school. In the few years prior to His arrival, the FSU administration looked seriously at ending the football program. Then the perfect fit arrived. A rebel fish out of water at West Virginia saw the Spanish moss of a canopied road again and knew he was home. We know that he returned to Killearn every night to the silent oversized painting of the Bear over his fireplace calling him back to Alabama, but fortunately for all of us, that call was never answered...

My father-in-law was an incredibly passionate FSU fan who certainly bled Garnet & Gold. But his greatest pride in FSU may not have been any Saturday trophy moment, but probably the dozens of trips to Tallahassee on a weekday when he would wander onto the Seminole practice field - a hick without a lick - and his friend Bobby would climb down the tower and spend a half hour talking to Bones about nothin...and loving every minute. The first time I truly saw my Mother-in-law break down the day of the funeral was when Coach Bowden spoke to her. He had a gift...and that gift was making every human being within earshot want to be a better person because he was there.

I certainly remember sitting in the hot Doak sun on a Saturday afternoon waiting for the dadgum orb to finally reach the top of the alumni side stands so my slits could finally open to their full capacity. The wife had just personally admonished the band director for the umpteenth time for playing while we we had the ball. But most frustrating of all was that although our offense was awesome, our defense was again a gut-filled moth heading for an F150 windshield. The problem was fairly simple. Our good friends 2 hours South were getting every great defensive player in the State and our current coaching staff was not capable of making our boys play over their heads (Any of this sound familiar?). Then two magic words happened and the Seminoles and Bowden's legacy was changed forever...Charlie Pell.

This amazing man had cheated so spectacularly that he set a never-to-be broken record of 117 NCAA violations in 1984. He did not just break curfew kids...he went on a drunken cocaine filled after-hours binge that culminated in a sit down poker party with Hitler, Stalin and Attila the Hun. He assembled up til now the absolute greatest group of collegiate talent ever on one team. That 1984 squad had 34 players drafted into the League. This group was good enough to hang in there another three seasons with holdover players to compete, but when the probation really took hold, the table for the dynastic Thanksgiving feast was set.

The next few seasons, Bobby convinced every Momma within 500 miles that her cooking was the very best in the South and her son should only attend church with him in Tallahassee on football Sundays. Mildly talented players like Deion Sanders and Derek Brooks made the no-brainer decisions to play their college ball in North Florida. The cycle would not break for 15 years.

1984 was also the year that Mickey Andrews took his act to Tallahassee. Bobby finally had a defense to match his offense. As the Birmingham boy aged and the rooskies were replaced with field goals on 4th and short, MA had his back.

They say that your first time is always the best. Well, maybe not for Noles. For those of us that watched our beloved coach get doused with 10-k and then have to retreat back to the sidelines while Nebaska lined up to kick what surely would be another heartbreaking field goal...Well, you may not be a true Seminole and felt enough football pain if you had 100% confidence that that ball would sail mercifully left. They say that God gives it to those that can handle it. Well, we knew our coach could handle it, but I am not sure all of us could...Relief, rather than celebration defined that first Championship. And, more than just a few of us felt happier for our leader than we did for ourselves.

Now, the second one. That was a celebration. Sure, we had a Polish kicker coming off of an all-night bender and a star wideout that did not always use cash or credit at the store, but it felt right. And it was fun...realllly fun. This was not a gift of some pollster who had a golden dome grudge. This was a 12-0 ain't no one better dadgum dynasty.

The pillars on the bridge collapsed quicker than any of us could have imagined. From Mark Richt mentally checking out early to the Darling death, the Washingtonian QB fall from grace and the subsequent Jeffy elevation, mediocrity melted into view before we were ready.

However, the reason that today is just a little scary for any Nole old enough to have voted in a Reagan election is our image of ourselves as reflected in our Head Coach. Seminoles think of ourselves on a different plane in terms of class. Not every head football coach is a mirror into the personality of its patrons - but ours was. We understand that the South lost most of Florida over the years, but Bowden reminded us that the South still lived in Tallahassee. Overwhelming dignity in the face of incorrigible defeat. Unending graciousness in victory and only matching ridiculous vitriol from others with quiet and silent understanding that their time and relative punishment was coming ("Free Shoes" / "That School up North" etc.). Yes, we want to win. But AS important to all true Seminoles is to win the Bowden Way. That amorphous expectation of class will forever set the standard for all leaders of the Seminole sports nation.

Good luck Jimbo!