Men, like nails, lose their usefulness when they lose direction and begin to bend.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
I received what I thought was an important football lesson during my first year at Notre Dame. We were hosting Miami and had a 13–7 lead in the third quarter. Then Bernie Kosar started completing bombs for the Hurricanes and we couldn’t stop them. Three touchdowns and a field goal later, they were up 31–13.
Near the end of the game, it was obvious we weren’t going to pull this one out. A coach yelled, “Okay freshmen, get out there!” The coaches didn’t want to risk an injury to our starters. It wasn’t long before a pass came my way over the middle. When I jumped, I got blasted in the air by two guys—it felt like they hit me about eight times as they knocked the football from my hands and sent me to the ground.
Those two weren’t satisfied with just making a big hit. They stood over me and started trash talking: “Eugene must be a real blankety-blank ’cause you’re a real blankety-blank.”
It freaked me out that they knew my dad’s name and were using it to curse me. When I got to the sideline, I went to Mike Stock, our receivers coach, and said, “Coach, they’re talking about my daddy out there.”
I’ll never forget what happened next. Coach Stock grabbed my jersey, got in my face, and said, “Son, this is big-time college football. If you don’t change the way you play this game, you will not be around here long.”
After the game, I went back to my dorm room and thought about what he said. “Okay,” I told myself. “I get it.” I figured my coach was letting me know I needed to be more like those Miami guys.
That was the beginning of my cursing on the football field. I used it to get myself pumped up, both at Notre Dame and even more so in the pros. I was pretty quiet my rookie year in the NFL and was out with my knee injury for my second year, but starting with my third season the nastiness flowed out of me like part of my breathing. I was already frustrated that season because of the coaches’ plans to only use me on third downs and punts. Sometimes I started a fight with somebody right after I got in the game. It was so bad that my dad told my mom, “He may act like you off the field, but he acts like me when he’s on it.”
Then I had my reckoning with God. After that June night in 1996, I stopped the verbal outbursts against opponents. I figured I had this cursing stuff under control.
Turned out I was wrong.
For the Raiders, the 1996 season was worse than the year before. We finished 7-9, tied for last in the AFC West Division and missing the playoffs for the third season in a row. Head coach Mike White was fired and replaced by Joe Bugel. We didn’t start 1997 any better, losing three of our first five games. Our defense and running game were both ineffective, forcing us to rely heavily on quarterback Jeff George’s passing.
I was playing well individually. In 1996, I recorded my fourth straight year with at least eighty catches and 1,100 receiving yards, and I started 1997 going at least 150 yards in three out of our first five games. But by the time we hosted San Diego on October 5, it looked like the Raiders were in for another long season. My frustration grew.
It didn’t help my mood when San Diego kicked field goal after field goal and started to pull away from us. When Greg Davis connected on his sixth kick from thirty-three yards in the fourth quarter, the Chargers led 25–10.
It also didn’t help that I couldn’t even catch a cold in that game. I’m not talking about balls slipping through my fingertips but passes that hit me in the gut. I’d made just three catches for eighteen yards and had as many drops as receptions. It looked like I hadn’t shown up to play that afternoon.
The game was nearly over when I lined up on the right side and ran a crossing route to the middle of the field. Once again, Jeff George’s pass was on target, and once again, I dropped it. I took a couple more steps before strong safety Rodney Harrison leveled me with a hit to the shoulder. While I was on the ground, Rodney stood over me, laughed, and added a few insults in case I missed his meaning.
Rodney was a future All-Pro and very aggressive. I’m not saying he played dirty, but it’s true that he didn’t worry much about whether his hits came before or after the whistle. We had plenty of tough battles over the years.
After that hit at the end of the San Diego game, though, I didn’t care if the opponent was Rodney Harrison or Daffy Duck. I’d had it with my lousy play, the losing, and the taunting. I stood, put my helmet next to Rodney’s, and unleashed a profanity-laced tirade like never before, one I didn’t even know was in me. I dropped so many forbidden words it would have made Chris Rock blush.
I finally realized how out of control I sounded, but by then the bell had been rung. I couldn’t take it back. After the game, I attempted to apologize to Rodney, but he brushed it off. “Look, dude,” he said, “what we do between the zeros is what we do.”
I felt terrible on the drive home from the game, and not just because of my bad game and our loss. I was disappointed that in that moment I’d been such a poor example of a God-honoring man and that I’d probably lost any chance of ever influencing the faith of Rodney Harrison. I realized that even though I’d given my life to God I wasn’t allowing His Spirit to help me day by day.
As usual, I had more than twenty family and friends coming over to my place after the game. But the first thing I did when I arrived at my condo was run upstairs to my bedroom, drop to my knees, and ask God to help me through every moment from that point forward.
I was excited about the idea of giving God control of my actions and my mouth on the football field, but it also scared me. How was I supposed to continue performing at a high level if I couldn’t taunt and swear to get fired up? “Lord, this is how I play the game,” I prayed. “This is who I am.”
The answer wasn’t audible, but it was a strong impression nevertheless. I sensed God clearly saying, You don’t have to play the game like that to be successful.
It turned out—surprise!—that God was right. I stopped cursing and played better than ever. Although 1997 was an awful year for the Raiders, as we finished 4-12, it was statistically the best season of my career as a receiver. I caught 104 passes for 1,408 yards and averaged 88 receiving yards per game. Maybe relying on a foul mouth wasn’t who I was after all.
That tirade against Rodney Harrison was the last time I cursed in my life.
Each of us is unique. God created us as individuals with a specific blend of gifts and characteristics that no one else can claim. We are, as the Bible says, “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Ps. 139:14).
With that in mind, it’s important for us to figure out who we are—to understand what makes us both the same and different from everyone around us. I know, for example, that I can be outspoken and strong-willed. I also show my emotions easily. I am a creature of routine and in the right crowd I can be outgoing and carry the conversation.
I’m not what you’d call flamboyant. I don’t have to be the guy everybody’s always watching and talking about. So many athletes today seem to need attention. The over-the-top dress, the tattoos, the antics on the field, the trouble off the field—they seem to be shouting to the world, “Look at me!” It’s as if they constantly need people to notice them and tell them how great they are because they don’t believe it themselves.
I’m not saying I’m better than those guys. It’s just that I’m comfortable with who I am. I don’t need to hear how wonderful I am every day. I don’t need to create an image or pretend to be something I’m not.
Image has a lot to do with the endorsement deals and other opportunities that often come an athlete’s way. I have nothing against those deals. But I’m not going to change or play a stereotype to get one.
That has cost me in the past. I’d hoped to sign a big contract with a major apparel company once I started my NFL career. One company told me they’d sign me if I landed in a major market. When the Los Angeles Raiders drafted me, I figured it was a done deal. Then I discovered the company had a problem with me—my image was too clean. I didn’t wear earrings or bling or have tattoos all over my body. They didn’t use these words, but apparently I didn’t fit their picture of what an African-American NFL player should look like. The contract didn’t happen.
After my knee injury in 1989, I decided I needed to find another career option in case my playing days were about to end. The next year I founded Pro Moves, becoming the first African-American owner of a full-line shoe company. We had strong design, marketing, and sales teams, and a good product. Pro Moves took off. We sold a few million dollars’ worth of shoes in stores such as Foot Locker, J. C. Penney, and Champs. We also had one of only three licenses granted by the NFL for players to wear our shoes.
In 1995, it appeared things had come full circle. The same company that rejected me at the beginning of my career called and asked for a meeting. They wanted to talk about the idea of transferring our NFL license over to them and have me represent them by wearing and endorsing their products.
As usual, I wore a suit to the meeting. It seemed to be going well. The company’s marketing and public relations reps loved everything I, my brother, and my agent were saying. Before the meeting, they spoke in glowing terms about my business and positive reputation. Now, however, I was meeting the company president for the first time. I found it strange that he was so quiet. Finally, the marketing official turned to the president and said, “What do you think? You haven’t said a word.”
The president looked at me. In a stern voice, he said, “I do have something to say. Who are you?”
What? I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. I tried to make a joke and stated the obvious: “I’m Tim Brown, Heisman Trophy winner and Pro Bowler.”
The president didn’t even smile. “I’m serious,” he said. “I want to know who you are. Because you can’t possibly be the successful person you’re portraying here today. If I’m to believe everything I’m seeing and hearing, you could run my company if I let you.”
Wow. It seemed this guy expected me to be the stereotype of an uneducated black athlete. Now I was steamed. I slammed the table with my hand and said, “What’s wrong with that? If you think I’m coming in here trying to perpetrate a fraud to make a deal with you, you’ve got another thing coming. If you want to have me followed because you don’t believe me, you’re just going to be wasting your company’s money.”
That deal didn’t happen either. Once again, my image didn’t fit what this company, or at least this company president, had in mind. The next year, the firm signed another NFL player to a multiyear contract to wear their gear. An African-American player wearing baggy clothes and a lot more bling.
Was I angry about what happened? Yes. But I don’t regret being true to myself. A man should be who he’s meant to be.
The world exerts all kinds of pressure on each of us to conform to what everyone else is saying and doing. Peer pressure starts when we’re young and never lets up. I certainly felt it with the Raiders. As I’ve said, I was able to resist the drinking and gambling and didn’t do as well with the women and cursing. But at some point, a man needs to decide who he is and what he stands for. If he isn’t sure, his environment will swallow him up.
Thanks to my upbringing, I knew that I shouldn’t be cursing. I understood that it was wrong to use God’s name in vain. I’d learned from the Bible about how I should speak: “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs” (Eph. 4:29). I’d never heard my mother swear, so I knew that abstaining from “unwholesome talk” was possible.
That doesn’t mean it was or is easy. I still have to remind myself to give control of my thoughts and words to God. But it comes more naturally to me now that I’m again going to church consistently and reading my Bible regularly.
There was a time after I stopped swearing when the Raiders had a big game ahead. One of the players told me just before the start of the game that the team needed me to light a fire under them, to stand up in the locker room and curse them out. And I understood his point. I was tempted to do it—but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “That’s not me. That’s not my role.” If there were players on the team who admired the way I tried to live, how would I have any credibility with them if I suddenly jumped up and started acting like everyone else?
Marcus Allen always invites me to his annual celebrity golf tournament, which raises funds for charities. On the day before the golf tournament, he hosts a poker tournament as well, which includes some drinking and attracts beautiful women. I don’t play poker, I don’t drink, and I don’t need to be around beautiful, available women. So the first time one of his representatives invited me, I said, “Hey, I’d love to play the golf, but I’m going to pass on the poker tournament. I’ll come in that night and see the guys in the morning.”
I have tremendous respect for Marcus. It’s definitely not easy saying no to him. But the poker tournament wasn’t and isn’t who I am.
For the golf tournament, Marcus always finds beautiful women to drive the carts for the players. Every cart has one—except mine. I’ve never asked Marcus to treat me differently than the other players. It’s something I believe he does out of respect for me and the way I try to live. My golf teammates aren’t always happy about it, but it’s something I appreciate.
When I was thirty-three or thirty-four, people started saying that if I kept on putting up numbers like I was currently doing, I’d be a lock to enter the NFL Hall of Fame. I remember thinking, Wow. The Hall of Fame. That would be incredible. I definitely started getting excited about the idea.
As I prayed that week, however, I sensed God telling me something: I didn’t put you in this position so you can be a Hall of Fame player. I put you in this position so you can reach other folks and build My kingdom. It was the same message I’d heard from Pastor Whitley all those years before. God was bringing me back to the truth. My life wasn’t about glory for me, but glory for Him.
That’s a challenge not only for celebrities but for anyone who inhales the sweet smell of success. Once we get a whiff of fame or wealth or power or adulation, we want more. We start to chase it. And if we’re not careful, our thinking gets so warped that we completely lose sight of what we were created to be.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how many football trophies, Oscars, or Grammys are on the shelf. The number of houses we own or stocks we’ve added to our portfolio isn’t important. All of that stuff is meaningless. It’s a foundation without substance, what the Bible calls “sinking sand.” Family, friendships, and what we do to influence others for the better are so much more significant. And from my point of view, what matters most of all, the only things that last, are what we do for Jesus Christ.
I’ve learned that my purpose is to serve Him. That’s who I am. That’s who I’m meant to be.