As a New York businessman, Wahoo puts on his size-50 suit and leaves his Long Beach, N.Y. apartment on Mondays—the pros' traditional day off—for important discussions of matters like Wahoo T shirts and possible wrestling contracts in Madison Square Garden. It is quite a far whoop from his home in Midland, an oil town where he and his father, Big Wahoo, used to contemplate the drilling rigs on the burnt prairie. Wahoo may not be as good a middle linebacker as, say, Sherrill Headrick of Kansas City, Archie Matsos of Oakland, Nick Buoniconti of Boston or Chuck Allen of San Diego. Or, of course. Sam Huff. But Wahoo is probably a better wrestler than any of them, and he has improved the Jets' defense, and how many Buoniconti T shirts have you seen lately? A crowd simply could not shout "Headrick! Headrick! Headrick!" with the same delirious glee that it can shout "Wahoo! Wahoo! Wahoo!" The sound is not as joyous, and at Shea Stadium—where a young man drives madly up and down the sidelines in a toy jet plane whenever Wahoo does anything—the sound is mostly for Wahoo McDaniel. "I don't think the other players resent the attention I'm getting," Wahoo said. "They know how I am. I'll play just as hard whether those people holler or not. But it sure does sound sweet." The Jets, with 126,000 paid attendance after three games, agree.