The Joker

By Phil Williams

“The Joker”

(#6 in the Bobby Bowden ‘tribute series’)

After a spirited practice under the lights at Doak Campbell Stadium - mid-December, 1979 - in preparations for what would be the first of back-to-back Orange Bowl bouts against the Oklahoma Sooners, Coach Bowden whistled the team up for his ‘end of practice’ talk. To be honest, I can barely remember anything regarding specifics about hardly any of those talks.

But this night I did.

“Where are Keith Jones and Phil Williams?” he barked out. His voice had a certain tone to it, the kind that makes your stomach start to twist up a little.

I started looking around for Keith, one of our two starting safeties (along with Monk Bonasorte), wondering why on earth Coach Bowden would be calling us up ‘together’. I mean, Keith was on the verge of marriage, a regular church attender, living the straight and narrow. I, however, was an ‘out on the town’ kind of guy who saw curfews as suggestions, which, of course, I kind of figured might very well have had something to do with Coach Bowden’s furrowed brows and sharp tone of voice.

Keith and I made our respective ways to the middle of the team huddle and stood in front of Coach Bowden, my mind racing. I glanced at Keith. He gave nothing away, kicking a clump of grass on the ground in front of him.

“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 could 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 Keith Jones, too? Was my boy leading a double life?

I looked back over at Keith. Again nothing.

“Did y’all think we weren’t gonna find out, boys? Huh?”

I thought about making a confession right then and there. To what I did not know, but I was ready for the agony to end. Plus, I just couldn’t figure out what to confess to. My mind couldn’t find anything to stick to it.

Then Coach Bowden addressed the whole team, all of them wondering what the hell we had done, too. I just studied the ground.

“Men,” he said, scanning the squad, “these two teammates of yours have gone - (he paused, wait for it…wait for it…) - they’ve gone and made Academic All-American.”

I looked at Coach Bowden and watched as the corners of his mouth spread up and out into one of the loveliest smiles I have ever seen. God it was beautiful!

“Congratulations, men!”

Well, my mind was a mess. One second about to walk up the steps to the gallows, the next a free man! I reckon I had known there was such a thing as Academic All-American, but it had never crossed my mind that I might one day be named one. Hands began to slap my shoulder pads, and the back of my head, and my butt (yeah, we do that kind of thing), and a chorus of cheers rang out.

Coach Bowden had had his fun, for sure, stringing us along like that. And the team loved it. Another Coach Bowden kind of thing.

By the way, big Ken Lanier, our starting tackle and a future NFL star, happened to be standing beside me. After the hooting and hollering settled down, he sort of shook my shoulder pad to get my attention. I looked up.

He smirked a little and said, “Dang, Phil. I didn’t know you were smart.”

To this day I do not know if he was serious.

Or messing with me like Coach Bowden.