EVEN HEISMAN WINNERS GET HUMBLED
A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Sunday, September 4, 1988. Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Nearly forty thousand screaming fans in the seats, hundreds of thousands more watching on television. Blue skies and eighty-two degrees. It was a perfect afternoon for watching the San Diego Chargers take on the host L.A. Raiders in the season opener for both teams.
Except that I was too nervous to enjoy it. It was my first game in the National Football League.
The Los Angeles Raiders had chosen me in April with the sixth pick of the NFL draft. I’d been told I’d be a top choice, maybe even number one. But then the Atlanta Falcons, who held that first pick, announced they’d be drafting linebacker Aundray Bruce. My agent, Marvin Demoff, and I checked the rosters of the next few teams at the top of the draft. Most of them needed big-time help. We figured they’d be looking for a “savior,” someone to step in and immediately lift the team to new heights. The exception to that scenario was the Raiders. That was where I wanted to go. To this day, I still don’t know what Marvin said to those other teams, but they all passed me by.
You see, I didn’t know for sure if I would make it as a wide receiver in the NFL. My last year at Notre Dame, running the wishbone offense, we’d emphasized the ground game more than passing. I did make thirty-nine catches for 846 yards, but I knew I still had work to do as a receiver. It was my punt and kickoff return ability that had made the difference in me becoming the first wide receiver to win the Heisman and in getting the attention of NFL teams. The Raiders, who already had a talented group of receivers, seemed like the right fit.
I did have confidence that I could succeed in the league as a returner. That assurance seemed to melt in the afternoon sunshine, however, when I stepped onto the Coliseum grass in the second quarter of that opening game. The Chargers had kicked a field goal to pull within 7–3. Now it looked like I was going to touch the ball for the first time as a pro.
Did I mention I was nervous? You could call that an understatement.
Before I knew it, the ball was high in that perfect sky. I gulped, remembered that we had a left-side return on, and moved to make the catch on the three yard line. I ran to the middle to try to draw everybody in. When I reached the twenty, I veered left, where my blockers were set up.
Later, when I saw the video, I realized just how nervous I must have been. While running to the left, I had the ball in the wrong hand, my right, instead of protecting it from would-be tacklers in my left. I never do that, but on this play, I did. Fortunately, it didn’t matter.
My blockers did their job beautifully. I saw an opening and turned on the jets. By the time I reached the thirty, I was running past everybody—it was over. At that point, I was so scared and running so fast, no one could catch me. At the Charger ten yard line, I almost stopped running so I could turn, look at everybody, and say, “Is this really happening?” It felt like a dream.
I thought, Hey, you can do this in the NFL. It’s just like what you’ve been doing in junior high, high school, and college.
That return definitely boosted my confidence, but playing in the pros was still in many ways a different world. The players were all bigger, faster, and stronger—not to mention meaner and uglier. Some were a lot older too. How was a guy who’d just turned twenty-two supposed to relate to teammates who were thirty-five?
Some of these guys were established stars and future Hall of Famers, including James Lofton, Howie Long, and Mike Haynes. None was a brighter star than Marcus Allen, the running back from USC who’d been named to five Pro Bowls and had won league and Super Bowl MVP awards. To a rookie, these players were pretty intimidating.
Fortunately for me, Marcus himself went out of his way to make me feel comfortable. He had a commanding presence—he’s a lanky guy with long arms, so he looked bigger than his six feet two inches. And his ability to lead a team was off the charts. Nobody worked harder or played smarter. Yet he was constantly in my ear, telling me, “This is what’s going to happen” or “This is how you’re going to feel.” It was amazing to be encouraged by a great player who wanted me to do well.
We had another personality on that team who was in a class by himself: Bo Jackson. Like Marcus and me, Bo was a Heisman winner from Auburn. Nike’s famous “Bo Knows” advertising campaign had yet to infiltrate popular culture, but Bo was already a star. His talents extended beyond football, as he also played major league baseball for the Kansas City Royals. Because of his commitment to the Royals, Bo didn’t join the Raiders until halfway through the season. He was so talented that it was worth it for the team to have him part-time.
You couldn’t help liking Bo. He was confident but humble, with a fragile psyche and a serious stuttering problem. His first game during my rookie year was against the New Orleans Saints. In the first thirty seconds, he broke out on two long runs totaling forty-five yards. I’ll never forget what happened next. Bo jogged off the field while unstrapping his helmet. A coach implored him to get back out there.
“No, Bo done for day,” he said.
Incredulous, the coach told him to get a quick drink of water and get back into the huddle.
“Bo’s hamstring tight. Bo done.”
One more attempt by the coaches to get Bo back in the game was met by, “No, Bo done for day.”
A few minutes later I looked over at Bo. He was sitting on his helmet eating a bag of peanuts. He knew he couldn’t continue and just stopped. Bo done for day.
Adjusting to my new teammates proved easier than adjusting to the NFL lifestyle, or at least the Raiders’ version of it. The plane rides to and from away games were always interesting. I preferred to sit up front, away from the card games and gambling going on in back. Some guys lost as much as fifteen or twenty thousand on the way to a game. I didn’t understand how a player could have a good mind-set for a game right after throwing away all that money.
Some of the guys also brought huge bottles and jugs of alcohol on board. Win or lose, they were ready to let loose after the game. Many had to be driven home after we landed back in L.A. The Raiders were known as a blue-collar franchise, a hardworking, hard-living, hard-partying team. I respected the blue-collar, hardworking part, but the partying wasn’t for me.
I also had to get used to all the free time and the length of the season. On Mondays, we were done with practice at noon. We had Tuesdays off. Saturday, we were done at ten-thirty in the morning. At first, it seemed weird not having to go to class and not having most of the day structured. Then it was great. But by November, I was dragging. I was used to an eleven-game season at Notre Dame, twelve if we made a bowl game. In the NFL, you had twenty games counting the preseason, then playoffs on top of that.
Near the end of the season, I felt so tired on some days that after practice, I went home to my townhouse in Manhattan Beach, ate dinner, and was in bed at six-thirty or seven. I was worn out.
Despite the adjustments, my first year in the NFL was incredible. The Raiders had outstanding receivers: James Lofton, the veteran; Willie Gault, the speed guy; Mervyn Fernandez, the dependable fifteen-to-twenty-yard receiver and my roommate; and Jessie Hester, the specialty route runner. These guys were established pros and I was a rookie, and they made sure I knew it. In training camp, I had to carry their helmets and shoulder pads, and pay for everybody’s dinner anytime we went out together.
Even so, it was a great group. Willie had been brought in to replace James, the aging star, which had to have been difficult for someone who’d been a premier receiver for so long. For the first time in years, he was competing for playing time. Yet James in particular took the time to work with me and show me how to improve my game. I’ve always appreciated that. Because of the quality and experience of those four, I didn’t expect to play much that first season. I was happy to contribute by returning kicks and working to improve as a receiver.
Midway through the season, I tore cartilage in my right knee. For a while it looked like we might opt for surgery and my year would be done. But after a couple of games with limited playing time, my knee felt pretty good, and I believed I could play regularly again. Then Mervyn got hurt. And then Willie. And then Jessie.
Suddenly James and I were the best options the Raiders had at receiver. I needed to step up.
A 17–10 victory over the Kansas City Chiefs was my first big game at receiver. I caught eight balls for ninety-five yards, including one for thirty-one yards. Later, in a 35–27 loss to the Seattle Seahawks, I made four catches for 114 yards and a touchdown, including a forty-nine yarder. I was just trying to make the most of my opportunity to play.
To my surprise, I finished the season as the team’s leading receiver. What didn’t surprise me was that my strength was still as a punt and kickoff returner. I led the league with 1,098 kickoff return yards and a 26.8-yard average. I also topped the league in all-purpose yards with 2,317, which broke Gale Sayers’s rookie record and still stands today. My strong NFL start didn’t go unnoticed either—despite my rookie status, I was named to the Pro Bowl as a kick returner.
As a team, our season was disappointing. The Raiders finished with a 7-9 record, leaving us in third place in the West Division of the American Football Conference. I was definitely excited about my individual performance, however, and I believed good things were ahead for the Raiders. Now, with only a few days remaining before Christmas, it was time to go home.
My return to my parents’ home in Dallas was an event. I hadn’t been there since early in the summer, before training camp. My younger sister, Kathy, was the only Brown child still living with Mama and Dad, yet all my sisters and my brother, along with nieces and other family, were gathering. That’s just how the Brown family does it. If a couple of us are getting together, everybody gets together.
I have to admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself right then. Winning a Heisman Trophy, getting drafted in the first round of the NFL draft, and being selected for the Pro Bowl will do that to you. On the football field, it had been a mighty good couple of years. I’d never been a big talker about my achievements or gotten too full of myself, but no doubt about it, I was puffing up a bit.
Wayne picked me up at the Dallas airport and drove me home. When we pulled up at my parents’ house, the first thing I saw was a paper banner strung across the porch, five feet long and three feet tall. It read: WELCOME HOME HEISMAN TROPHY WINNER/PRO BOWLER TIM BROWN! Anyone in the neighborhood would have noticed it.
As I walked up the sidewalk, my chest stuck out a little. Yeah, that’s me, I thought. I’m the man.
Mama was right there on the porch to greet me with a huge hug. “Timmy, I am so proud of you,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I appreciate it. Love you.”
After another hug, she glanced at the banner. “You see the sign we put up?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s nice.”
“Do you know why it’s out here?”
“No, I don’t, Mama,” I said. Little did I know that she was setting me up. “Why’s it out here?”
To emphasize her point, she pronounced each word a little slower and a little louder. “Because all this,” she said, waving her arm, “is going to stay outside. When you come inside, you’re not going to be that person. You’re going to be Timmy.”
I’d been reeled in, hook, line, and sinker. In an instant, I went from “the man” with a puffed-out chest to a guy with his head down, muttering, “Yes, ma’am.”
What I soon realized, however, was that my mom was doing me a huge favor. She stopped me from getting a big head before I could even get started. She hadn’t raised me to act like I was somebody special and she was letting me know that nothing was going to change now.
It was actually a relief to hear that Mama didn’t expect me to be somebody I wasn’t. I’d started feeling that I had to be “Tim Brown, the Heisman/Pro Bowler guy,” someone who had to impress and entertain everybody and do what celebrities were expected to do. But that wasn’t me. It was refreshing to think I didn’t have to turn into someone new.
My mom has never gotten caught up in my athletic accomplishments. She didn’t even want me to play football because she was afraid I’d get hurt. My freshman year of high school, the only reason I was at our football games on Friday nights was because I played bass drum in the marching band. My sophomore year, I got my dad to sign the paper giving me permission to play football. Mama thought I was going to the games to play in the band. She didn’t know I was on the team until she saw the “Sophomore Sensations” article in the paper. She wasn’t too happy to learn that I was playing and that I’d gone behind her back.
Even after I started getting college football scholarship offers, Mama wasn’t thrilled about my athletic efforts. I think she knew that sports sometimes has a way of warping a person’s perspective. Crazy as it sounds, she never did come to any of my high school or college games. She stayed home to pray for me instead.
All the attention and bright lights that come with being a star player, or being related to one, never interested my mom. She has always been a humble person. You knew it from the way she talked, the way she dressed, and the way she lived. My mother was all about being in church and serving and bringing glory to God. When that’s your top priority, you don’t have much need to heap glory on yourself.
I’ve been described as a gentleman for the way I carried myself as a player. I don’t know how accurate it is to call anyone a gentleman in a game as violent as pro football, but I’ve tried to be a humble person, on the field and off. It has never made sense to me to showboat or try to embarrass another player. That first season, James Lofton told me, “Why would you want to do something that’s going to upset somebody watching the film? Just hand the ball back to the official. You win the Super Bowl, you do whatever you want to do. But if you’re not doing that, why antagonize people?”
So many of today’s players, especially the younger ones, want to draw attention to themselves. They dance. They point. They scream in people’s faces. That doesn’t help them or their team. It just motivates the other side to work even harder to beat them.
The problem in many cases is the relationship these players have with their families. Most players’ biggest fans are their relatives—and I don’t mean that in a good way. The definition of a fan is someone who’s fanatical, bordering on delusional. That kind of person will never see wrong in anything the player/family member does. If someone is always shown special treatment while growing up because of his athletic ability and is never told that the way he’s behaving is low class and detrimental to the team, then by the time he gets to the NFL, he’s not going to listen to reason.
These talented guys are continually booted off of teams that tire of their act. The second and third chances disappear in a hurry when they get hurt or just a little older and lose a step. Nobody wants to deal with their baggage. It’s a rude awakening for them, and an all-too-common story.
A man needs a wife, a parent, a sibling, a friend, or a mentor who will tell him the truth about what they see. Someone who will gently but firmly point it out when he’s disrespectful or too full of himself. Someone who will let him know that what he thinks is cool looks more like fool.
Of course, the need for truth-tellers and a humble approach isn’t limited to football or even sports. People in all walks of life go about their day with a “Look at me, aren’t I great?” attitude. Humility is just as important at the office, in the classroom, and at home. When we start thinking we’re too valuable to do that menial project at work, we lose value in the eyes of the boss. When we begin believing we deserve that sports car, we blow our budget. When we feel we’re above taking out the trash, we damage our relationship with our spouse or kids.
Putting too much stock in our own accomplishments and abilities and status detracts from the power and influence of God in our lives. Jesus said, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted” (Matt. 23:12). I’ve seen it in the lives of others and in my own life, and I have no doubt it will be even more obvious on the day I end up in heaven.
When I look back on my life and all the opportunities I’ve been blessed with, I have no doubt that the lessons my mom taught me about humility are a huge part of that. It’s something I try to remember every day. I also know that if I forget, I can count on Mama to remind me.