Cousin Ed and the President of Gatorland

Almost every family, particularly the families of the South, will have a character that is usually described as “larger than life”. He may be a father figure or a barroom brawler. The character may be rich or poor as dirt in a two rut road; brave, or maybe just afflicted with bravado, but still will be described as “larger than life”.

In the Hirt family our larger than life character was my father’s first cousin, and thus my second cousin or, as some genealogical freaks would determine, my “first cousin, once removed”. Here is his story.

The year was 1947, World War II was over, and floods of young veterans cast about for institutions of higher learning so that they could ready themselves, with the aid of the G. I. Bill, for the future. One of the schools open to them was the Florida State College For Women in Tallahassee. Ed Williamson, my father’s first cousin, applied there for a position as a physical education instructor, and was hired by President Doak Campbell.

And before the year was out he sent a message to the President of the University of Florida to “Go to Hell” when that worthy ordered that there would be no football at FSU. The Gator president did not take his advice, but Cousin Ed went down in the football history books as the first football coach of Florida State University.

Ed and Jerry David (J. D) Williamson were brothers. Their mother was widowed and had been left to raise them. My father was assigned as their guardian in fiscal matters. The Great Depression was in full force when the two graduated from Leon High School, but they went to the University of Florida on football scholarships. At graduation J. D. became a realtor in Jacksonville and Ed went into high school coaching, first in Newberry and later in St. Augustine and finally Lake City. He was there when World War II began.

Cousin Ed applied for a commission in the Navy, but before it came through he was drafted into the Army. I recall going with my parents down to the railroad depot at River Junction to see him. He was physically fit, but the uniform he wore sagged and bagged on him. He chatted with us for a few minutes, and the train pulled out. A few weeks later he came back through, his Navy commission having caught up with him. His blue sleeve bore the single gold stripe of an ensign, U. S. Navy.

The glamour sea duty for young officers was the patrol torpedo boat, the famed “PT” craft that was fast and armed with torpedoes and machine guns. John F. Kennedy, fated to be our President, commanded the PT 109. Ed applied for this duty, but the Navy, in its wisdom, decided he was not physically fit, so he was given command of an Armed Guard, consisting of twenty eight Navy enlisted gunners, and placed on a merchant ship destined to cross and re-cross the Atlantic, first to England and later to Russia on the infamous Murmansk run.

North Sea convoys could only go as fast as the slowest merchant ship, so they plodded across the turbulent seas at a crawling pace, sought after by U Boats and, when close to the continent of Europe, long range German bombers. And always the storms seemed to seek them out, raging against them, tossing frigid ocean waters across their decks. A man falling over the side would be left to float until he died, which often was within minutes of coming in contact with the water.

When the war ended Williamson came home to Tallahassee, and sought employment at the Florida State College for Women, a facility that was answering the call of returning veterans who would go to school under the G. I. Bill. He was there when the leaders of the university decided that a football team was just what was needed to put the newly minted Florida State University on the map.

There was some dissention about this action. One of the committee said that he had never seen a great university that had a football team. Another came back with “I have never seen a great university that did not have a football team”. That committee member, a gentleman named Coyle Moore, won, and a search began for a football coach that had a PH. D.

After some discussion Cousin Ed was called in, offered the job even though he did not have the PH. D. and he accepted, on the condition that he would hold the position for only one year, “win, lose or draw”.

One day President Doak Campbell called Ed in and read a letter from the president of the University of Florida. The missive stated that the male contingent at FSU would be considered a branch of his school, and there would be no football program. Cousin Ed said: “Tell him to go to hell…..you run your program and we’ll run ours”.

The first season was a losing season, but an interesting one. The call for players went out, and one hundred and twenty five men showed up. There was not enough uniforms or equipment. Attrition took care of the high numbers; Ed only cut one man, a veteran that showed up smoking a big cigar. (Some years later Pete McDaniel, a Jackson County Commissioner and a resident of Sneads, owned up to this ‘honor’. Pete told me that Cousin Ed looked at him and his cigar and said “McDaniel, turn in your shoes”. This was all that the players had been issued).

Cousin Ed asked for an assistant coach. He got Jack Haskin. Jack was made backfield coach. He later was the director of the famous “Flying High” FSU Circus. And that was the entire staff; no other coaches, no trainers, no nothing. In the University Club, overlooking Bowden Field at Doak Campbell Stadium, are pictures of each coach and his staff. Cousin Ed is there, looking stern and grim. Jack Haskin is next to him, also looking stern and grim. Perhaps they looked that way because the team had no name, and was facing their initial match-up.

The first game was against Stetson. FSU lost by one touchdown. A contest was held to select a name. “Tarpons” was bandied about, but that was the name of the women’s swim team. “Senators”, “Falcons” and even “Tallywhackers”, but “Seminole” won out.

Cousin Ed finished out the season, 0-5, and, true to his word, stepped down. Bill McGrotha, longtime sports writer and author of “Seminoles! The First Forty Years”, referred to him as “gentlemanly” and “benevolent”. His players called him “Mr. Nice Guy”. He was followed by Veller and Nugent and Mudra and eventually Bowden.

But none of those gentlemen ever told the President of the University of Florida to “Go To HELL”.