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Everything we need to know about growing up, rehabbing one's image and still getting paid, we can learn from Keyshawn Johnson.
We can only hope Terrell Owens gleans something from the legacy left in Dallas by the departed Johnson.
And it is indeed a legacy. After two years with the Cowboys, Johnson is going to Carolina a fully redeemed man. Primed to be the quintessential complementary receiver, Johnson's days as tempestuous disrupter of the machine may actually be a thing of the past.
The ironic thing is, as far as receivers fitting into a team concept is concerned, Johnson always has been as good as they get. He told me as much. I once wrote a story on the draft class of '96 -- a class that included such talented wideouts as Terry Glenn, Marvin Harrison, Eric Moulds and, of course, Johnson himself. He didn't hesitate to tell me he was the best in show. After a game at the Meadowlands in which he tried, unsuccessfully, to throw a pass to Jet teammate Wayne Chrebet, I asked him about his place in the class of '96. As I was walking away, he yelled after me, "They don't get no better than E-Moulds, but I do everything they ask me to."
He was right. For 10 years, Johnson has made his living in the swampy part of the field. He runs the curl, he runs the seam post route -- which takes him into the teeth of the defense -- and he blocks as if he likes to block. When the menu calls for no-frills ball-control action, he's the perfect wideout for the 4-minute offense -- football's version of the half-court game.
Stylistically, Johnson is pretty similar to Irving Fryar, the last wide receiver to be drafted No. 1 overall. Fryar had Johnson's physicality, though Fryar (at 6 feet even) was slightly smaller and more explosive off the ball. Like Johnson, Fryar was a long strider with great body control. And though his 12,000 receiving yards aren't the stuff of legend, for 17 solid seasons Fryar also did whatever was asked of him. I played against him a few times -- and as I recall, he was rather enthusiastic about blocking, just like Johnson.
And just like Owens. Funny, under that guise both Johnson and Owens sound like ideal team players.
And they are. But the modern team player has at his disposal a strangely unique dual persona. Johnson is a product of an era shaped by one Dennis Rodman. The Worm played the thankless role of screen-setter, rebounding fool and defensive dervish. And in exchange for toiling as a non-scoring non-All Star, Rodman asked for, and got, recognition for his part in a screwy cavalcade of non-basketball activities.
Johnson has had a similar existence. He never has fulfilled the expectations of a No. 1 pick. Who does? But rest assured, practically every Monday morning the film has shown No. 19 holding up his end of the bargain.
Yet his restlessness has eclipsed his production. He never donned a wedding dress or graced the field in a colorful, self-mutilated way like Rodman did. But he made noise whenever he knew we were watching. Remember that Monday night game against the Colts two years ago? Harrison, a '96 classmate and king of the annual 100-catch club, had center stage. After Harrison caught a hitch and slithered upfield for a few yards, the camera caught Johnson's sarcastic critique: "Oh, so that's how he gets his catches?" On another occasion, we saw Johnson raining curses onto the back of Jon Gruden's head for presumably not getting Johnson into the 100-catch club.
This was the inevitable Super Bowl postscript. The ring gave Johnson the juice he always thought he had. For him, that diamond-encrusted bauble gave him the means to pop off whenever, however, and upon whatever topic he felt like. Johnson grew larger in his self-indulgent stature. But Gruden, after becoming the youngest, blondest, most blue-eyed coach to win a Super Bowl, was feeling himself as well. Title in hand, he didn't have to take Johnson's crap. So Gruden ousted him from his fiefdom.
Johnson went away, humbled. And I use that term the way folks in this industry like to use it. I use it that way because, in this case, it might apply. Johnson was humbled in the sense he was leveled for his crass and reckless spirit. But after the Bucs suspended him for the final six weeks of that season, he still received his checks. Humility pays.
And the thing about paid exile is, it leads to idle time at best, and bad things at worst. The latter happened with Johnson. After threatening his estranged wife's suitor, Johnson was hit with a restraining order. Then, while getting his 'do tightened in South Berkeley, a couple guys jacked him for his jewelry.
But Johnson quietly weathered all of it. And when it was time to work again, sports' most unlikely prodigal son made himself at home with football's most respected coach. In Bill Parcells, Johnson had a guy with unquestioned credibility. That's all anyone wants in a coach.
We saw Keyshawn a lot in Dallas. We saw him make the big catch, like the game-winner against San Diego in Week 1 this past season. In a Thanksgiving Day loss to the Broncos, we saw him routinely give up his body on crossing routes and make two clutch grabs in that nail-biter of a fourth quarter. But we never heard Keyshawn. Not a peep.
Will it be the same with T.O.? For at least a year -- that's my guess. There's something about being needed that soothes any man's ego. The Cowboys need a No. 1 receiver, and the Carolina Panthers desperately need a No. 2 guy. And it will come as little surprise to me if Dallas and Carolina meet to determine who goes to Miami for the next Super Bowl.
Should that happen, I wonder whether Owens will acknowledge the man who will have played the most improbable role in his own redemption?
Alan Grant is a regular contributor to ESPN.com and ESPN The Magazine. He is a former NFL defensive back who played college football at Stanford.
