WHISPERER NATION SPECIAL REPORT: The Day the Vaunted Oklahoma Wishbone Died

I have a confession to make. I grew up in the Lone Star state where burnt orange blood courses through our veins and, “Hook ‘Em” are the first two words every football loving tot speaks. I lived the Friday Night Lights, cut my gridiron teeth on the old Southwest Conference, and pledged allegiance to the only bowl game that mattered come New Year’s Day —The Cotton Bowl. Yes, I guess you could say when it came to football, I was Texas through and through with one small exception …

My favorite team … was Oklahoma. There, I said it. 

The Sooners were my team, and It had nothing to do with the fact that my mother was born and raised in Tulsa. In the words of the Might O’Jays, “I’ll always love my mama” … but mama this was about football, not family. I can assure you it wasn’t the uniforms, because other teams did more with Crimson and Cream and I was never overly impressed by their mascot. None of these things were to blame. My love affair with Oklahoma football could be traced back to one thing: the wishbone.

The Victim

The wishbone was the cool, hip offense of the day with a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t-kind of flair that left fans and defenders alike in awe. Any team could line up in the shotgun and begin slinging the ball or the I-formation and dive left or right … but lining up is where the beauty of the wishbone began. Instead of two backs in the backfield, you had three — four if you counted the quarterback who was often just as good if not a better runner than the backs behind him.

Every back wanted to be a part of the wishbone, wanted to be a piece of the most feared offensive attack in football. Even workhorse backs who knew the only way the offense worked was a commitment to sharing the running wealth, even they dreamed of playing in Norman. Billy Sims, Chet Winters, Steve Sewell, and perhaps the greatest high school running talent ever, Marcus Durpree, all chose OU, knowing they’d be one of the men: not the man.

To say the offense was imposing would be an insult. It was overpowering, brutally honest at times, downright insulting at others and when run to precision the wishbone was artistic, poetic, Shakespearean even … an outright thing beauty. And no one, and I mean absolutely no one ran it better than the Oklahoma Sooners … but every good thing, even the wishbone that defined my childhood must eventually come to an end.

Early Evidence

Norman, Oklahoma: October 19, 1985

It started rather inauspiciously, things like that usually do. It was a typical Fall Saturday in Norman with Oklahoma welcoming a non-conference foe to town for what for a game that everyone figured was over before it started. Sure, Miami was just under two years removed from winning the national title, but the following campaign saw the Hurricanes go 8-5. A team with that kind of recent history, surely they were no match for mighty Oklahoma.

Back in the 80’s we watched our games the old-fashioned way … on local networks. ESPN was in its infancy and cable was a luxury: not a necessity. Early that week when I got word that OU-Miami was the Game of the Week, everything in my football world was fine. The proverbial countdown had begun. Saturday arrived and I settled in for the watch and immediately noticed something was different. The Hurricanes took an early 7-0 lead, but OU, behind Troy Aikman fired back with a strike to Derek Shepard, knotting the score at 7.

But as I zoomed out, something troubling caught my eye. The wishbone seemed a step slow and it had nothing to do with the man behind the wheel. No, Aikman wasn’t the typical wishbone quarterback. He was big, strong, with good movement and a cannon for an arm … but the flow of the offense, the explosiveness that had come to define OU wasn’t there, but I wasn’t ready to point the finger at Troy. 

Then with 9:18 remaining in the second quarter, Aikman went down and to the shock and horror of Sooners watching from the stands and on television, he couldn’t get up. Enter Jamelle Holieway, the freshman phenom from California. His skill set was tailor-made for the wishbone so into the fire he went —but even with all his athleticism, shiftiness, grit, and grind the youngster was no match for Miami. Even more concerning to a Sooner fan like me … the wishbone seemed a bit slow … and it had nothing to do with the new man behind the wheel.

I didn’t know it then, but I had just witnessed the beginning of something eerily nefarious.

Crime Scene

Miami, Florida September 27, 1986

The loss in Norman to Miami was their only setback of the year and the Sooners went on to win the national title. But I remained unsettled by what I saw that day. I graduated and began prepping to go away to college, had my mind on Howard University, but as fate would have it my father sent me away to a juco in … you guessed it: Miami, the last place I ever saw myself living. No worries though because fate stepped in a second time as Oklahoma was scheduled to meet Miami at the Orange Bowl, September 27, 1986, and I made up my mind that come what may, I would be there. I had to be there, to see with my own eyes, not through a television, if the truth of October 19, 1985, really was true.

The game started and we … I mean OU drew first blood with a field goal. I felt encouraged because even if it was only 3 points, in that environment with that crowd, where every point looked like it would count, I’ll take it. But my hope proved to be fleeting as the nightmare of the year prior began replaying itself and for the next three hours, it was all Miami to the tune of 28-3 by the end of the third quarter. When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read Miami 28 Oklahoma 16 and honestly it wasn’t even that close.

As the victorious Miami players trudged off the field, celebrating their well-earned victory, I noticed their soaked jerseys, a staple of Saturday warfare. But upon closer inspection … I noticed something else it wasn’t sweat, it was blood… deep, crimson-colored blood. You see, the Hurricanes hadn’t merely won the game. Before 72,000 raucous Orange Bowl fans and millions watching worldwide, they shifted the football landscape. As the reality of it all sank in, I quickly realized I was no longer watching guards, receivers, backs, and tackles —victors wearing the familiar Hurricane orange and green. No, I was watching the gleeful exodus of a band of blood-stained suspects, unquestionable parties to a crime the gravity of which could forever change the face of college football.

Forensics

Miami, September 28, 1986

The next day I awakened to birds singing and clear blue skies, hoping what I witnessed the day before was a nightmare. But upon grabbing the Sunday Miami Herald and turning to the Sports Page, I knew it was real. The Sports Page said in bold, block letters: TOO HOT TO HANLDE. Appropriately titled I thought because the weather that day was brutal, but the headline also gave me pause. Having family roots in Tulsa, I was well-versed in Oklahoma and the weather in Miami, while warm, paled in comparison to Okie heat. Intrigued, I kept reading and as I did, I realized the headline wasn’t about weather … it was about a murder weapon.

To the television I ran as the local CBS affiliate was airing a rebroadcast of the game. Even though I was there, I needed another look to test the theory the article triggered. With each passing play, the Miami team, suspects when the morning began, brutishly morphed into perpetrators. I flashed back to the blood-stained jerseys they wore as they left the field that warm South Florida night. The Hurricanes went to war with the usual garb of helmets, cleats, pads, sweat bands … none of those are hot … but speed is. Speed on the football field is hot … and it kills. 

Out of the shadows emerged a new person of interest, none other than Miami Head Coach Jimmy Johnson, a man who despite his stature up until this point didn’t hold even the slightest hint of complicity. Born and raised in Texas, Johnson played college football at Arkansas and left with a degree in Psychology. Upon graduating he didn’t just run home to mother’s house and hang his diploma on the wall … he used what he learned in those classrooms on playing fields.

Having coached at Oklahoma State for five years, Johnson was no stranger to the Sooners and their explosive wishbone attack. He lacked the talent to compete in Stillwater, but upon arriving in Miami, he found the missing piece, the murder weapon he needed to topple Oklahoma. The wishbone offense was predicated on speed and angles. As long as the Sooner backs could get the proper angles, the offense worked like a charm.

Johnson couldn’t lure the kind of athlete he needed to Oklahoma State. But in Miami … a city that had often been a fertile recruiting ground for Barry Switzer and Oklahoma … Johnson now had the means, he knew there was an abundance of athleticism and the one thing he’d need to beat the Sooners: speed. Psychological warfare, not formations, schemes or lineups, is what Johnson used leading up to their games against Oklahoma. All week he’d remind his players that they were the faster team, quicker, more athletic … had more speed … and by the end of the day on September 27… the evidence was undeniable.

Closing Argument 

The vaunted Oklahoma wishbone died on September 27, 1986, in Miami … the murder weapon was speed, the very weapon the Sooners used to wreak havoc in the lives of others. The fleet-footed Miami Hurricanes at the direction of Coach Jimmy Johnson were the perpetrators, skillfully tearing down walls that all believed to be impenetrable.

Some of you will point to the 1988 Orange Bowl, and with good reason, your logic is sound. But lest I remind you that death and burial are indeed two entirely different things. September 27, 1986, was the death … January 1, 1988… was the burial.

If allowed I might also add a personal recollection that encapsulates what can best be described as a saga. A wise man once confided in me regarding the two saddest things he ever saw. The first was Muhammad Ali during the latter portion of his career, entering a ring when he had no fight left in him. The second was Billy Holiday, opening her mouth; a mouth that once held so much life, reaching for notes that no longer belonged to her.

That man has since gone on to glory. But in his absence, allow me to add another to that motley pairing he so graciously shared … the performance of the Sooner wishbone offense that night as they once again proved to be no match for the Hurricanes, now vaunted in their own rights… taming the Sooners, the name that once authored fear in every corner of the college football universe…bringing the total to three – three sad things and three losses to Miami. 

With that ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I leave the verdict in your hands.