Abreast of the situation: I'm still stunned that the boobs at Florida State forced out my Uncle Bobby.
Although this was common knowledge in the Bowden home, my Uncle Bobby has finally come clean to the media (just in time for the release of his new book…which I ghostwrote): the legendary Florida State coach was ushered out the door like Vince McMahon kicking Capt. Lou Albano to the curb in 1986.
ESPN.com reports: Bobby Bowden says he had always had a good relationship with former Florida State president T.K. Wetherell, but after Bowden’s ouster last season, the friendship likely is beyond repair. Bowden, who embarked on a nationwide tour Tuesday to promote his new book, “Called to Coach: Reflections on Life, Faith and Football,” told The Associated Press he also doesn’t want Florida State, where he was the head coach for 34 years, to “spread the story that I voluntarily, happily resigned.”
The men’s connection began 47 years ago, when Wetherell was a wide receiver under Bowden, his position coach at Florida State.
But after Wetherell, who became the university’s president in 2003 and stepped down in 2009, forced Bowden out last season, the friendship appears substantially damaged.
Frankly, I haven’t been this upset since my cousin Terry was plotted against by the Board of Trustees at the University of Auburn. (And don’t even get me started about how Cousin Tommy was railroaded out of town at Clemson.) Really, this whole thing has the same stink of Jerry Lawler unceremoniously dumping me after he lost the World Unified title to Sid Vicious. This, despite the fact that under my guidance, Lawler had a .832 winning average. During our intense practice sessions, The King also added maneuvers such as the Moonsault, Shooting Star Press and the armbar to his repertoire under my watch. Everybody loves you when you’re winning, but when you lose because of one errant toss of medicated powder to the eyes, you’re fired. But that’s the nature of coaching, I suppose.
Many sources are reporting that my Uncle Bobby Bowden is stepping down as head coach of the Florida State University football team.
According to sports handicapper John “Rainman” Rainey, the legendary FSU coach denied having a nephew named Scott Bowden when interviewed on his radio show in 1996. (Keep in mind that you cannot even listen to the Rainman’s show, which is emitted live from his basement in North Memphis, unless you live on the same street as the Raineys.) But as I explained on the air when confronted by Memphis wrestling announcer Dave Brown, this so-called revelation was not surprising as “Uncle Bobby suffers from a condition just like Lance Russell; he has Alzheimer’s disease, so he gets names and faces mixed up.”
I was proud to carry on the Bowden coaching tradition in the world of professional wrestling. When I coached Jerry Lawler to a Unified World title victory over Sid Vicious years back, I felt at that moment the pride my Uncle Bobby must have experienced when the Noles toppled the Nebraska Cornhuskers to win the national title in 1994. A former standout Christian athlete at Germantown High School myself, I tried to instill in such wrestlers as “Dangerous” Doug Gilbert, “Outlaw” Don Bass and Lady Satan the same values of honesty, integrity and courage displayed by Uncle Bobby and my cousins Terry and Tommy over the years. If wrestling historians one day determine that I was half the coach my Uncle Bobby was, I will die happy.
Outgunned: In her battles with Bowden, Ms. Texas displayed a heart the size of Texas. And tits to match.
It’s only seconds after I offer Ms. Texas (Jackie Moore, a.k.a. Jacqueline in WWE) the use of “my daddy’s credit cards” if she would join my stable of heels on live Memphis television, and the phone at the Memphis Fire Station on East Parkway is already ringing off the hook. My poor father answers the firehouse phone, knowing that one of his friends is on the other line to give him a hard time about his only son’s would-be wrestling career.
After Ms. Texas rebuffs this enticing offer, I proceed to dangle cash in front of the future WWE Ladies Champion, offering all the money I have in my wallet — probably around $40 (my wrestling payoff from the night before)— if she’ll agree to my terms. I punctuate the offer by stuffing the dollar bills down her bra, which was already filled to capacity (unlike the Mid-South Coliseum at that point): “No woman ever turns me down — personally or professionally.”
Seconds later, we’re brawling on the studio floor, as my dad wonders what exactly he did to deserve a son like this and why the hell I didn’t use an assumed name.
Meanwhile, the phone at the apartment of my then-girlfriend, Kristi, rings incessantly, waking her up the second consecutive Saturday morning. Kristi’s mother had been infuriated a week earlier, when I told the viewing audience that I wouldn’t hesitate to hit Ms. Texas because “I smack my girlfriend around when she gets out of line.” Almost reacting like a mark (fan) would, her mom was calling this week to gleefully inform her daughter that I was getting my ass kicked by a woman on TV: “I guess maybe he got out of line. Hahahahaha!” And much like the previous week, Kristi’s efforts to again explain that I was merely playing a character fell on deaf ears. Her mom: “Yeah, he’s playing a character named Scott Bowden. And his character is getting his ass kicked. Hahahaha.”
It wasn’t always easy being a heel in your hometown.
Oh, sure there were the occasional perks. Kristi and I were headed to a Nine Inch Nails concert when I was pulled over by a police cruiser a few miles from the arena. In my haste to make the 7:30 p.m. show, I ran a red light. Trouble was, we’d also been drinking since about 4 o’clock. As the cop makes his way toward my car, Kristi imparts this wise advice: “Now don’t you talk much, or we’re screwed.” I shrugged, knowingly: “Hey, what am I, an idiot? I can handle it.” Right. When the officer asks if I am aware of why he’s pulling me over, I answer: “Of course. Because I wan dat wed wight.” (Elmer Fudd could have answered more clearly.) Annoyed, the officer asks for my driver’s license. As he heads back to the cruiser, Kristi mocks me: “‘Hey, what am I, an idiot? What am I, an idiot?’ Yes! Yes you are! Wan the wed wight!?” Before reaching his car, the officer stops in his tracks. He returns to my “candy-apple-red Mitsubishi Eclipse sports car” (a frequent on-air reference by that Scott Bowden character). Instead of arresting me, he apologizes: “Man, I’m sorry, Scott. I didn’t realize that was you until I saw your name on your license.”
Lawler takes a powder: Bowden did not endear himself to his hometown fans by tossing a bag of medicated powder into the eyes of their Citizen King.
Apparently, Scott Bowden was above the law. And we weren’t even in Germantown (my uh, character’s adopted hometown). Not only did I not receive a ticket, but the officer also followed us to the arena to ensure I wasn’t pulled over again. Me: “So … who’s the idiot now?” Kristi: “Oh, it’s still you.” Could have been worse. Could have been an idiot with a DUI. (Redundant, perhaps.)
My friends used to promote my D-list-celebrity status—and quite loudly. A group of us were attending a Memphis Mad Dogs (one of the city’s many DOA pro sports franchises) CFL football game, when my buddy Todd Yoder announced my arrival: “Look everybody, it’s wrestling manager Scott Bowden!” A group of fans looked over, confirmed that it was me and erupted with the Florida State Seminoles’ war chant and tomahawk chops: “Ohhh, ohhhh, ohhh….ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!” I’m sure my Uncle Bobby Bowden, head football coach of the ‘Noles, would have been touched. Never was that FSU chant more evident than following a pull-apart brawl I had with Randy Hales, after he failed to suspend Lawler after the King tossed a fireball at my prized FSU Starter jacket. (See video below.)
And autographs. I signed my share, believe it or not. But usually only at places like liquor stores and the Mid-South Fair. I was trying to pick up a girl at a nightclub called Six-One-Six, when another girl approached me excitedly with a napkin and a pen, asking for my signature. I obliged. The first girl stormed off after asking me, “Did you just give that girl your phone number?!” One kid at the fair approached me for my signature, and I obliged. He walked a few yards, turned back at me and ripped it up. “You suck,” he informed me as he ran off. Good thing too. ‘Cause I would wrung his neck, the little bastard.
“You suck.” Years before Kurt Angle would make that phrase famous, I had it hurled my way many times, usually along with a beer or a crumpled-up wrestling program. (Rasslin’ fans aren’t all that original.) My then 7-year-old nephew was in attendance one night at the state-of-the-art Big One Expo Center when another young fan in his section bellowed, “Bowden, you suck!” My nephew, Jake Casey, turned around and set him straight: “My uncle does not suck!” So there.
Oddly enough, my heel stint in wrestling management didn’t result in more lucrative opportunities elsewhere. (Of course, with those $40 payoffs I was receiving, an assistant-manager position at Taco Bell would have been a more a lucrative opportunity.) A year after earning my BA in journalism from The University of Memphis in 1994, I had a job interview in the public-relations department at the Memphis Zoo. I thought I was a Cole Haan shoe-in until my prospective employer told me: “You know, this position requires you to represent the zoo: interviews with the media, coordinating on-site activities, etc. I’m concerned that your image in town is less than impeccable.” Me: “No, no. See, that’s a character I play on TV. Nothing more.” I wasn’t hired. And I’ll bet I was the only job candidate with a personal reference from Jerry “The King” Lawler.
I did land a job, however, with Parts Plus Headquarters in Memphis, writing the automotive-parts company’s national magazine and press releases. (My hiring was a huge testament to my writing abilities since I knew absolutely nothing about cars.) Part of my responsibilities included conducting public-relations events at NASCAR tracks nationwide, including the Daytona 500 at Daytona International Speedway. When I arrived home one Monday afternoon after a race weekend in Alabama, I ran into my apartment to quickly change clothes for that evening’s matches at the Mid-South Coliseum. My roommate, Greg Fowler, looked at me with much amusement: “Bowden, you just got back from working Talladega. Now you’re going to manage a professional wrestler. You’re certainly living a semi-charmed-redneck kind of life.”
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