At that point, I was forced to rethink my stance on drinking and drugs and make a decision that wasn’t necessarily performance based. Up until then, my primary reason for not drinking and doing drugs was that it would hurt my performance—my dad’s slides of those cigarette-smoking lab rats had never left my mind. Once the decision moved to a moral ground, however, I still came out at the same place.
What would my mom and dad think? always went through my mind whenever I had the opportunity to take a drink or smoke a cigarette. I had been taught that smoking and drinking were not right for us as a family, and illegal drugs—well, they were illegal. Therefore, they were not for me. But this was a test, because I saw that great athletes could drink and do drugs and get away with it—for a while.
I still hung out with all the guys and went to parties, but I never did smoke, drink, or take any drugs. And the more I was around those things, the more I understood why my decision was a smart one.
Wisconsin is a big rival for Minnesota. Even today, Big Ten alums in our Colts locker room laugh about the rivalry games in the conference. It seems that each week, the teams are playing for something: the Old Oaken Bucket (Purdue–Indiana), the Little Brown Jug (Minnesota–Michigan), the Illibuck (Illinois–Ohio State), the Governor’s Victory Bell (Minnesota–Penn State), the Heartland Trophy (Iowa–Wisconsin), the Paul Bunyan Governor’s Trophy (Michigan–Michigan State), or a bronze pig called the Floyd of Rosedale (Minnesota–Iowa). If somebody’s not handing something over after a game, it just doesn’t seem like a Big Ten game. The Minnesota–Wisconsin game is the longest-running rivalry game, dating back to 1890. The winner gets Paul Bunyan’s Axe.
My junior year, we were playing Wisconsin at home in Minneapolis. The weather all week had been awful, with heavy snow in the middle of the week. I told my folks not to bother trying to make the trip, but by Saturday the weather was perfect, with clear blue skies and the bracing Minnesota cold of late November. It was around thirty degrees, and the snow that had been cleared off the field was piled four feet high along the benches. Wisconsin had trounced us the year before in Madison, and we had some guys from Madison on our team who badly wanted to win. In addition, this was our last game of the year, and we wanted to send our seniors out with a victory. It was an emotional game for us.
As we got into the game, we found we could run at will against them. From the opening kickoff, we could just feel that we were going to win. On the opening drive, we took the ball and gashed their defense all the way down the field with our running game. But I knew I only needed one touchdown pass to set the Big Ten record. So on first down and goal from their seven yard line, I changed the play at the line of scrimmage from a run to a pass. As I was releasing the ball, my arm got hit, and my pass was intercepted in the end zone. When I came off the field, our offensive line coach, Roger French, was there to meet me. “I am so mad,” he shouted at me. “If I had a gun, I would shoot you right now!”
I was glad he was unarmed.
Coach French later went to Brigham Young University and coordinated some explosive passing offenses, but that day—understandably—he wanted to run the ball. Thankfully, our running backs stayed hot, the offensive line controlled the line of scrimmage, and we dominated Wisconsin with the run, winning 24–3. I even threw that touchdown pass to set the record. And we were happy to have Wisconsin hand over Paul Bunyan’s Axe.
* * *
When I arrived in Minneapolis in the summer of 1973, I was eager to start learning the no-huddle offense from Coach Tom Moore as soon as possible. I also wanted to familiarize myself with the campus and begin a summer job.
The school lined me up with a position at a meatpacking plant called Feinberg’s. It was within walking distance from where I was living—about fifteen blocks—which was ideal because I didn’t have a car. My shift started at 6 a.m., which gave me time in the afternoon to work out and spend time learning the offense with Tom.
There were two minor difficulties with the meatpacking job. First, I had never worked so hard in my life, before or since. Second, I always seemed to have stray dogs following me from work to the university’s football offices. I didn’t feel like I was in danger of being attacked, but it took me about three days to figure out what was attracting them—the smell of pastrami.
I stuck with that job all summer, remembering what my dad had taught me about learning from every experience. I definitely learned one thing—I never wanted to work in a meatpacking plant again. It made me value my football scholarship and free college education much more. After that summer, I found jobs on my own, without the university’s assistance. No more meatpacking.
The summer after my freshman year, I had a great job working for Cargill on a research farm in Elk River, just north of Minneapolis. I would pick up three inner-city high school boys and drive them to the farm, where we helped with some of the research projects. Despite the early schedule—we had to be there at 7 a.m., meaning we left around 6 a.m.—I really enjoyed it. The farm tested different types of animal feeds. We would measure the amount of food that was given and what was left over (in the troughs, thankfully) and weigh the animals periodically, among other tasks. We all found it fascinating. I got to know the high school boys through our conversations on the way to the farm since we were usually too tired to talk on the way back. It was one of the first times I really understood that not everyone had a dad at home.
In my third year, I hit the jackpot, landing one of those office jobs I had always heard about—an internship with General Mills. Our team was introducing a new cereal, Golden Grahams, into the national market by testing it in three or four cities and creating an advertising campaign. It was like being on The Apprentice—without the worry of getting fired. I finally felt like I was putting my business courses to good use. But I also realized that neckties and I were not compatible. I still get a headache if I wear a tie for more than fifteen minutes.
By my senior year, my reputation as a football player was building, and the jobs were a little easier to find. I was much better at avoiding early mornings, farm animals, meat-rending machines, and ties. That summer I worked in the sporting goods department of Dayton Hudson’s flagship department store in downtown Minneapolis. Right before the season started, the Minneapolis Tribune ran a preseason Big Ten section with a story about me, along with my photo. With my huge afro and suit, I looked as if I had just walked off the stage from a Sly and the Family Stone gig. The caption asked, “Would you buy a tennis racket from this man?”
Probably a fair question.
* * *
In the end, I carved out a pretty nice college football career under Coaches Stoll and Moore at Minnesota. I graduated as fourth all-time in total offense in the Big Ten, a two-time team Most Valuable Player, and captain my senior year. I was also a two-time Academic All–Big Ten, all the while having a blast running our innovative offense.
We played Illinois my senior year, and they executed very sophisticated schemes on defense, requiring me to make adjustments during the game: “If you see this alignment, we’re getting into this formation,” and so forth, as Tom Moore had instructed me. We won the game, 29–14, and afterward, their head coach, Bob Blackman, congratulated me for the work I had done orchestrating our offense. That meant a lot to me coming from him, because the intricacies of their defense were specifically designed to confuse the quarterback.
As a result of my on-field performance in college, there was no doubt in my mind that I would be drafted and go on to a career as a quarterback in the NFL. I had worked out for scouts and coaches from a number of teams, including the Washington Redskins, who said they would be looking for a third quarterback and that I fit the bill. Some friends thought I might go to the Vikings since my style was so similar to that of Fran Tarkenton, their quarterback at the time.
I shared a fairly small apartment in Minneapolis with my teammate, wide receiver Mike Jones. Mike was from Detroit Central High School and was terrifically talented. Terrell Owen
s reminds me of Mike—a tall, sleek, fast guy who can run, catch, and jump. Mike had hurt his Achilles tendon our junior year and was never quite the same after the injury, but he was hoping to be drafted as well.
Back then, the NFL draft wasn’t televised over the weekend. That year, 1977, the draft was held on a Tuesday and Wednesday, and it lasted twelve rounds. Three of the guys Wayne Fontes had recruited to USC four years earlier turned out to be as good as advertised. Ricky Bell went to the Buccaneers as the first pick overall, Marvin Powell went fourth to the New York Jets, and Gary Jeter went fifth to the New York Giants.
My only goal was to go somewhere in the remaining 330 picks.
Mike and I waited by the phone all day Tuesday, then started our vigil again Wednesday morning. The phone finally rang Wednesday afternoon. The Giants were on the line in the tenth round—and wanted to speak with Mike. So Mike was the 255th pick, following our defensive back, George Adzick, who had gone to Seattle in the ninth round. I hoped Coach Stoll hadn’t been right when he said only two guys would go to the NFL. We celebrated Mike’s selection for a while and then turned our attention back to the phone to wait for my call.
The phone didn’t ring again. And while I didn’t know it at the time, it wouldn’t be the last time I waited by the phone for a call that never came. That evening, around eight o’clock, we called a buddy who was with the Associated Press.
“Is the draft over?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s over,” he confirmed. We hung up.
“Hmmm. Nobody called me. That doesn’t seem like a good sign. . . .”
It wasn’t. The phone did ring a short while later, though, as NFL clubs tried to fill out their rosters, much as they do today. Starting toward the end of the draft, clubs begin to get an idea of the positions they still need to fill for training camp. If they’re not able to draft enough players at a position to fill out their roster, the scouts begin working the phones, trying to find the highest-rated nondrafted players who might agree to come to camp as free agents.
I had a number of opportunities during the course of those telephone calls to play defensive back or wide receiver, but I didn’t receive a single offer to play quarterback in the NFL.
I was crushed.
Chapter Four: Putting God First
Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
—Matthew 6:33 (KJV)
I WAS IN SHOCK after not being drafted into the NFL. Something about this didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem right. I was numb. Devastated. I prayed, God, I can’t believe it. Help me figure out what I’m supposed to do now.
I did have one opportunity to play quarterback, but it was in Canada. The Montreal Alouettes held my rights in the Canadian Football League, and their coach, Marv Levy, had spoken with me a number of times before the draft.
“See what happens in the draft, but keep your mind open to coming here,” he said. “You’d be perfect for this game with your style. You’ll be in this league for a long time.”
Looking back, I think the National Football League couldn’t figure out what to do with a black quarterback who wasn’t a prototypical drop-back, passing quarterback. The following year, 1978, Doug Williams came out of Grambling State and was drafted in the first round by the Buccaneers. Doug, however, had tools I didn’t have: he was about three inches taller than my six-foot-one frame, had about thirty pounds more than my 180, and was a pocket passer with a cannon for an arm. I was more like Warren Moon, who came out of the University of Washington the same year. Warren wasn’t drafted either, and he started his career in the Canadian Football League.
A number of the NFL free-agent calls were offering me between $1,000 and $1,500 as a signing bonus. By contrast, Montreal was offering me a bonus of $50,000. However, I had always had my sights set on the NFL; I wanted to compete against the players I felt were the very best. I was hoping for a divine signal that would make my decision clear, even if it meant signing to play a totally new position.
Lord, I’d really like to play in the NFL, but it doesn’t appear to make a whole lot of sense right now. I’ve pretty much got a guarantee to make the team as the quarterback in Montreal for more money, but I really want to try the NFL, even though it’ll be at a position I’ve never played. Please help me figure out what to do. I prayed that prayer—and others like it—repeatedly over the next few days.
It would have been helpful to have a clear sign as to the direction the Lord wanted me to go—maybe something plastered on a billboard on the side of the road or flashed on a scoreboard at a stadium or written clearly in the clouds with a divine finger. I have to admit that I looked in all those places, just in case.
At that moment, even a powerful wind, earthquake, or fire similar to what Elijah had experienced would have been helpful—although, as it turned out, the Lord didn’t appear to Elijah in any of those. Instead, it was a gentle whisper—a still, small voice—in which Elijah heard the Lord speaking. How did Elijah do that? I have always felt I needed a loud voice or a clear sign to help me make decisions in times like that.
I didn’t hear the audible voice, but in my heart I still felt led to the NFL. I talked with Tom Sherman of the Buffalo Bills, who wanted to play me at free safety. I was ready to head up there to play when Tom Moore, my college coach, entered the picture again.
Tom had left the University of Minnesota after my senior season and joined Woody Widenhofer as a wide receivers coach with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Tom and Woody had spoken with the Steelers head coach, Chuck Noll, and told him that I was a bright guy who could fit somewhere within their organization. They didn’t need another quarterback—they’d taken Cliff Stoudt in the fifth round—but Tom told me he was sure I could help the Steelers in some way. I updated him on the Bills situation, letting him know that Tom Sherman was mailing a contract to me the next morning. Tom Moore hopped on a flight and brought the Steelers contract with him, ensuring he arrived before the mail.
I called Tom Sherman and explained that I knew several coaches with the Steelers and felt that was the better opportunity. Then I signed with the Pittsburgh Steelers for a bonus of $2,200, plus another $20,000 in salary if I made the team. I was so excited and sure that was where God wanted me to go—until I started telling my friends.
“Are you nuts? What position do you think you’re going to play?” The Steelers had just missed going to their third straight Super Bowl in 1976. “You think you’re going to play receiver? Ever heard of John Stallworth? Well, even he doesn’t start at receiver for them. And eight of the defensive guys—eight of them—just went to the Pro Bowl, plus three guys from the offense. Eleven guys in the Pro Bowl! Donnie Shell and Jimmy Allen are the backup DBs. Where do you think you’re gonna play? How are you even gonna make the team?”
“Well, uh, I don’t know. I want to play with the best, and these guys are the best.” Signing with the Steelers had seemed like the right thing to do immediately after the draft, but I found myself second-guessing my decision for about a week afterward.
I was just walking in faith—faith in God and faith in what Tom had told me: “You’re a smart guy, so you’re going to have chances to make it with us in Pittsburgh somewhere. And since we’re already good, it’s not like we need to give the veterans much work in the preseason. We won’t need to worry about playing our first-string offense to see how they’re going to function as a unit. We know how they’re going to function. Coach Noll wants to give the young guys lots of chances to play in the preseason games, so you’ll get a chance to show what you can do on the field, to come in and make an impression—whenever we figure out where to put you.”
The more I thought about it, it didn’t really seem like a logical decision at all, but I had prayed about it, and joining the Steelers just seemed to be the right thing to do. Over and over in life, I’ve looked for that moment captured by Cecil B. DeMille in The Ten Commandments, when I could hear that same voice of God so clearly heard b
y Moses at the edge of the Red Sea: “Go this way, and I’ll part the waters for you.” But there has been no such moment. I have yet to hear God’s audible voice, although I have often felt led by God in more subtle ways. My dad always believed that God uses the logic and the passion He’s given us to help direct us, and I believe that too. This must be the “gentle whisper” thing. The “still, small voice.”
So I headed off to Pittsburgh with no idea what God had in store for me—either personally or professionally—in that city.
* * *
It turned out that I was a wide receiver in the NFL . . . for about two months. I went through the minicamps and about two weeks of training camp; then, because of some injuries to other players, the Steelers moved me across the line of scrimmage to the defense, at safety.
I loved the challenge of learning a new position, and it was great to be in with Mel Blount, Donnie Shell, Jimmy Allen, and the rest of those guys. Fortunately for me, they were all willing to help, and our defensive coordinator, Bud Carson, was a genius. I absorbed everything I could from him. In fact, I was so busy studying and watching game films that the coaches let me borrow a 16mm projector so I could watch them in my room. Unfortunately, the projector somehow interfered with the television reception—causing “snow” on the veteran players’ TV screen.
In addition to many great players, that team included some really solid Christians. Because of our physical and rough style of play, we weren’t necessarily seen as a group of believers. But even head coach Chuck Noll, who was a devout Catholic, often used Bible verses to inspire us. When Mark Brunell, Tony Boselli, Kyle Brady, and other Jacksonville Jaguars players were criticized in the late 1990s for not being tough enough on the football field because they were Christians, I could only think of our Steelers teams of the 1970s and smile.