One day, perhaps in the not-all-too-distant future, I suspect Terrell Owens will understand.
He will look back upon Aug. 4, 2018, and think about what could have been. He will ponder glory and joy and bliss and redemption, and realize the mistake made. He will remember all the coaches he failed to thank, all the quarterbacks and offensive linemen he failed to acknowledge, all the people who helped a poor kid from Alexander City, Alabama emerge from nothingness to one of the transcendent careers in NFL history.
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He will consider his decision to skip the Pro Football Hall of Fame induction ceremony (because he was not selected in his first year of eligibility) and bemoan the greatest of lost opportunities.
And it will start when he stumbles upon this.
For those who have never seen the clip, it dates back 11 years to another Pro Football Hall of Fame induction ceremony and another arrogant, talkative, self-absorbed diva former wide receiver whose struggles were well documented. At the time, Michael Irvin’s reputation was far better than that of Owens. Yet, as he walked toward the podium and microphone, no one was quite sure what words would flow from his mouth. It would not have been overly shocking for Irvin to deliver yet another hackneyed I’m-the-man manifesto; to overstate his splendor while complaining—a la Michael Jordan—about those who held him back. He could have flashed his three Super Bowl rings and said, for the world to hear, “I’m Michael Irvin, and you’re not.”
Instead, he brought forth (gasp) humility.
Irvin’s 26-minute speech was long, winding and absolutely spellbinding. It remains the best Hall of Fame talk of my lifetime, and not because of delivery (which was akin to a T.D. Jakes sermon) or audience response (sobbing aplenty). No, what made Irvin’s words special was that they were humble and honest. He admitted no career comes without the help of others. He repeatedly praised those who made his life easier. After citing seemingly every human who impacted his journey, Irvin took his message to the next level.
First, a pause.
Then, tears streaming from both eyes.
Then this …
You know the Bible speaks of a healing place. It’s called a threshing floor. The threshing floor is where you take your greatest fear and you pray for help from your great God. I want to share something with you today. I have two sons. Michael, he’s 10, and Elijah, he’s 8. Michael and Elijah, could you guys stand up for me. That’s my heart right there. That’s my heart. When I am on that threshing floor, I pray. I say, God, I have my struggles and I made some bad decisions, but whatever you do, whatever you do, don’t let me mess this up.
I say, Please, help me raise them for some young lady so that they can be a better husband than I. Help me raise them for their kids so that they could be a better father than I. And I tell you guys to always do the right thing so you can be a better role model than dad. I sat right here where you are last year and I watched the Class of 2006: Troy Aikman, Warren Moon, Harry Carson, Rayfield Wright, John Madden, and the late great Reggie White represented by his wife Sara White. And I said, ‘Wow, that’s what a Hall of Famer is.’
Certainly, I am not that. I doubted I would ever have the chance to stand before you today. So when I returned home, I spoke with Michael and Elijah. I said, ‘That’s how you do it, son. You do it like they did it.’ Michael asked, he said, ‘Dad, do you ever think we will be there?’ And I didn’t know how to answer that. And it returned me to that threshing floor. This time I was voiceless, but my heart cried out. ‘God, why must I go through so many peaks and valleys?’
I wanted to stand in front of my boys and say, ‘Do it like your dad, like any proud dad would want to.’ Why must I go through so much?
At that moment a voice came over me and it said, ‘Look up, get up, and don’t ever give up.’ And you tell everyone or anyone that has ever doubted, thought they did not measure up or wanted to quit, you tell them to look up, get up and don’t ever give up.
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Throughout my career, Irvin has ripped me multiple times on his radio show. He thought my book on the 1990s Cowboys, “Boys Will Be Boys,” was gossipy nonsense. And yet, I don’t care. That YouTube clip has been watched dozens of times in my home; a blessed and important reminder that fame is fleeting but goodness eternal. Alongside Lou Gehrig’s 1939 “Luckiest Man” address at Yankee Stadium and Jim Valvano’s “Don’t ever give up” sermon at the 1993 ESPYs, I consider Irvin’s 2,567 words to rest neatly on the sports speech Mount Rushmore.
Might Terrell Owens have matched Irvin’s masterful performance? Certainly not. But instead of staying home and watching an endless stream of his highlight clips on ESPN Classic, a man who accumulated 15,934 receiving yards and 153 touchdowns could have told us the story of a generational career.
Instead, we’re left knowing that what Terrell Owens was is what he always will be.
A selfish chump.
(Top photo: Brian Bahr/Getty Images)