I feel very strongly that if you apply these principles consistently in your life, you will not only succeed in whatever dreams you may pursue but also share that strength and success with everyone else you come into contact with.
Each chapter will include information to help you “Pass It On,” with questions and suggestions that will guide you to develop or further refine those characteristics and attributes of servant leadership. Lastly, I’ll end with a specific challenge that will give you tools and encouragement to make a difference in someone else’s life.
At the end of the book I’ve included stories for the die-hard football fans—personal recaps of games that meant a great deal to me. Additionally, I’ve added an imaginary game of sorts: my perfect game, which to me embodies not only great competition but also valuable leadership lessons.
Dream big, achieve big—that’s one of the core messages I want you to take away from this book. As you’ll learn, I was able to graduate college in just three years (two and a half, as I like to say if I’m being really specific), and, as I write this, I am truly living the dream of being a starting NFL quarterback for the Houston Texans. If I can do those sorts of things, there’s no reason in the world you can’t also do whatever you truly desire to accomplish. Anything is possible.
That said, the journey won’t always be easy. Everyone experiences hurdles and setbacks. In my case, I’ve suffered significant injuries that came very close to completely derailing my football career. Some thought I was finished. But time, faith, and determination have seen me through, as I’m sure they will again with the next change or obstacle I face.
A servant leader anticipates that challenges and problems are going to occur. Those are a fact of life, no matter the circumstances. When you expect them, you can be that much better prepared to meet them and deal with them in a thoughtful, constructive manner. In fact, it’s valuable to look at failure as more than just disappointments or setbacks. That’s because failure is a far better teacher than success. You always learn more from losing. Through adversity, I have learned how to improve at my craft and be a better leader when confronted with challenges. I’ve also learned how not to be complacent (a topic I’ll get into more later).
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TIME, FAITH, AND DETERMINATION HAVE SEEN ME THROUGH, AS I’M SURE THEY WILL AGAIN WITH THE NEXT CHANGE OR OBSTACLE I FACE.
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I hope there’s something in this book that will inspire everyone. In particular, though, I hope young readers will benefit from my stories and observations. Although I firmly believe this book can benefit people from all walks of life, I feel strongly about setting an example for young people who are just beginning their own journeys. Opportunity is everywhere for them, and in sharing my story, I hope to illuminate that truth in a powerful way. With commitment, faith, and an open heart, most anything is possible. I’m living proof of that.
I know some people may wonder how someone in his mid-twenties has sufficient experience and insight to write a book about being a leader. Well, for one thing, I readily admit I don’t know everything. On the other hand, I have both the willingness and an eagerness to continue to learn. You’ll see as I share stories throughout, I have been fortunate to have learned from remarkable people and circumstances—on the football field, at home, in the classroom, in different countries, and most everywhere else. And I am determined to continue to learn in all areas of my life, personal and professional.
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WITH COMMITMENT, FAITH, AND AN OPEN HEART, MOST ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE. I’M LIVING PROOF OF THAT.
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We all lead in one way or another, and I want to help you make the most of your opportunities. Go out and be a leader—in your family, community, vocation, or wherever your life takes you.
CHAPTER 1
NEVER FORGET WHERE YOU CAME FROM
Football has always been a way for me to escape. No matter the level of play—from pickup games on cement to the bright lights of the NFL—I’ve found refuge in the game I love. And every time my team won a game, other realities dimmed, at least for a little while.
When I was a kid, I really needed that escape. I could lose myself in the plays and the strategy of the game, imagining I was throwing the winning pass in the last seconds of the Super Bowl. Fantasies like this helped me get through the stuff I had to deal with every day.
I grew up in Gainesville, Georgia, about seventy miles from Atlanta.
The city’s primary enterprise is the poultry business, so much so that Gainesville labels itself the Poultry Capital of the World. Unfortunately, the prominence of the poultry business did little to alleviate the widespread hardship throughout the city. Many of the families that lived there amassed household incomes that fell below the poverty line, and often well below it.
We were one of those families. For much of my childhood, we lived in a government housing complex called Harrison Square. It was dismal, made up of one- and two-story brick buildings. Many of them had been built in the 1970s and showed their age: railings were rotting, the brick was chipped. Residents strung up clotheslines everywhere. No one had a clothes dryer.
I was one of four kids, the second oldest. I have an older brother, Detrick, and a younger brother and sister who are twins, Tinisha and Tyreke.
I never knew my father. I’ve met him a few times—perhaps five at most. His name is Don Richardson. As long as I can remember, he seemed set on staying out of our lives.
My mother, Deann, juggled a number of jobs trying to keep us all clothed and fed. When she was pregnant with the twins, she enrolled at a technical college in hopes that education and training would make it possible for us to move out of Harrison Square. But with all of us to take care of, there just wasn’t time for school.
The reality of living in government housing always intruded—often, very cruelly. Gunfire was never much of a surprise. Street fights were common. We frequently heard our neighbors fighting, screaming, and crying. Domestic violence was pervasive. Gang violence was commonplace in our neighborhood, the natural outcome of precious little hope mixed with a hunger for fast fixes, with little regard for those who might get hurt along the way. Often there was too much danger outside for me to leave the house and play, particularly after the sun went down.
The effects on young people who lived in Harrison Square were the most noticeable. Many became mothers and fathers when they were barely teenagers. Young people were forced into roles and responsibilities well beyond their years. A common saying around the area was that the kids there grew up awfully fast. Since, in many cases, they were pretty much raising themselves, they had no other choice.
What I remember most about my childhood neighborhood was the pervading sense of helplessness. In our eyes, the neighborhood was just one big recycling bin, and no one ever really made it out. You’d be back sooner or later. It seemed to happen to everyone.
There was always something standing in the way for anyone who wanted to get out of the neighborhood. For my mom, the burden of trying to raise a family and keeping them safe and fed overruled continuing school at the technical college. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day. For other people, crime might have raised their standard of living a little bit, but it was far from a ticket out. If anything, it cemented their permanency in Harrison Square.
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WHAT I REMEMBER MOST ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD NEIGHBORHOOD WAS THE PERVADING SENSE OF HELPLESSNESS. IN OUR EYES, THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAS JUST ONE BIG RECYCLING BIN, AND NO ONE EVER REALLY MADE IT OUT.
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Then there were others who had simply given up. With far too many things stacked against them, they were resigned to staying in Harrison Square. If there was no way to escape, why bother even trying?
My family and friends did what they could to make life in that kind of setting as normal as possible. Like other little kids, I attended school: Centennial Arts Academy. I remember that my prekindergarten graduation included a class presentation of the story of �
��The Three Little Pigs.” I played the Big Bad Wolf. (My childhood friend Brenton Merritt later remarked that it was probably the only time in my life I was cast as the villain.)
I was always good at math but struggled a bit with reading. One thing I didn’t struggle with was keeping my desk clean and orderly. While other kids’ desks were usually a mess, mine was immaculate, with books, papers, and pencils always orderly. (To this day, I don’t like messiness, even when it comes to how my teammates huddle up!)
I was like that at home too. My mom remembers me as a little boy stretched out on our ragged carpet, playing with whatever I could find—plastic men, marbles, or other trinkets. No matter what I was playing with, I always arranged the toys in perfect rows. I moved them with precision. Every piece had to be in a certain spot. There were no exceptions to this sense of order. That may be why I love mapping out football plays to this day. I love the thought it takes, the specifics of the positions, and how one piece relates to the others.
I recall the very moment when I first recognized my love for football. I remember being eight years old and charging toward the convenience store across the street from our Harrison Square apartment. I had done a few chores and errands the prior week and had fifty cents rattling in my pocket. I knew just what I wanted to buy.
I plowed into the store to buy a copy of the local Gainesville Times newspaper. After carrying it back home, I promptly tossed away everything but the sports section. I wanted to read about what had happened in high school football across the state.
If I couldn’t attend a game in person, I made sure to read about it in detail in the newspaper afterward. In particular, I paid special attention to the offenses—what plays they had run, what players they had used, trying to get a sense of the overall game plan. I’d then try to replicate the games myself with marbles or some other objects carefully arrayed on the floor.
PlayStation was a real revelation for me. When we got the game NCAA Football, I made up my own league of more than two dozen imaginary high school teams. Then I took it one step further by creating players for each of those teams. I even went so far as to attach certain habits to particular players, such as the way one guy stretched his hamstrings or carried his helmet on the sidelines.
I sought to make each team as realistic as possible, with both strengths and weaknesses. Some might have had a great defense while struggling on offense. Some might have had a particularly strong passing game, while others relied more on the run. To me, that sense of order mirrored real life.
Unsurprisingly I was a rule follower. I was a little shy, but I always had plenty of friends around me. I would laugh when someone pulled a prank, but I rarely got into any mischief of my own doing. A photo of my fourth grade class captures my childhood pretty well. I’m standing in the back row, a skinny, somewhat tallish kid dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, the hint of a grin spreading across my face.
I spent much of my time playing pickup football and basketball games. There were plenty of basketball courts scattered throughout the neighborhood, and as for football, that could happen anywhere from an open field to the street. Many of the older kids I played with were the drug dealers and gang members who, off the field or court, made our neighborhood the violent, desperate place that it was. In a strange way, we all got along when we were playing sports. They all seemed more human and normal, not people for whom crime was as natural as breathing.
It was one of my first lessons in the importance of trying to see the whole person, not just one aspect of someone’s life. A guy whom I’d seen in a fistfight a few days before might be my teammate on the basketball court or football field—a good teammate, one seemingly separated from the violence that filled our neighborhood. Normally, I would have avoided contact with those guys—in the evenings, my mom would often ask who I’d hung out with that particular day—but in the context of sports and teamwork, things were completely different.
Looking back, these pickup games also provided some of my first experiences with servant leadership. Since I was a good player and tall for my age, I quietly assumed the role of leader on the basketball court—mapping out plays, distributing the ball. I embraced it, and I began to look at my leadership in terms of success and failure. If a particular play didn’t work, I realized that was due, at least somewhat, to a lack of leadership on my part. At some level, I was beginning to understand that I needed to study and grow in my leadership skills. I wanted to be good at leading.
Then leadership took on new meaning. As I improved in all sports, I started to realize that athletics might be my ticket out of the government housing project. I also thought I might be able to help others who had that same dream. (I’m sure there were very few who didn’t hope for just that.)
I was careful not to tell people what I was hoping the promise of sports might hold for me. Lots of other guys had bragged about getting a football or basketball scholarship and never looking back. It never panned out, and those who spoke of the hope of riding sports to a better life faced laughter and derision. Most people recognized just how hopeless those dreams would likely be. So I kept quiet.
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AS I IMPROVED IN ALL SPORTS, I STARTED TO REALIZE THAT ATHLETICS MIGHT BE MY TICKET OUT OF THE GOVERNMENT HOUSING PROJECT.
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But that was part of the environment that drove me. That’s why it’s so important to never forget where you came from. It helps you determine your goals and overcome some of the challenges you face, and it helps you identify what you need to do to succeed—and to help others succeed as well.
Although I was a talented basketball player, to up my game just a bit, I would pretend I was JJ Redick, a guard who played at Duke University when I was in elementary school. In my head, I was always in March Madness, launching shots at the final buzzer for Mike Krzyzewski—the legendary Coach K—at Duke to nail down a national championship. Since I was JJ Redick, I seldom missed any of those key shots. I knew they were good the minute they left my hand. Back then, JJ was the guy. He could shoot threes, which is what I liked to do. He was so cool, so focused. He also wore the number four, which, in no small coincidence, has been my number throughout school and the pros. It was my dream to play basketball at Duke for Coach K.
But my early basketball days were about much more than just draining imaginary championship shots. A grade school teacher of mine once told me that she had been watching me and other kids play on the school basketball court. What had struck her the most was my focus on distributing the ball—making passes to others who had a better scoring opportunity than I might have had. Unlike some of the other boys who were only interested in seeing how many points they could rack up, I wanted to involve others as much as possible.
That has stayed with me to this day. As a quarterback, I feel my job revolves around always finding the open man—not the one who can help me accumulate better statistics but the one who’s in the best position to help us as a team succeed. In my mind, the most important goal is success, and who is credited for that success is secondary to achieving it. Winning is the objective, not individual glory or praise.
In addition to basketball, I played baseball and attracted some interest from college and pro scouts. I also took part in track, competing in both the high jump and the two-hundred-meter races at the middle school state championships. But if I wasn’t playing basketball, I was usually focused on football.
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IN MY MIND, THE MOST IMPORTANT GOAL IS SUCCESS, AND WHO IS CREDITED FOR THAT SUCCESS IS SECONDARY TO ACHIEVING IT.
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I would pretend I was Warrick Dunn, the star running back renowned for his breakout ability and open-field running skills, who played for the Atlanta Falcons for much of my childhood. Maybe, I thought, I could end up playing pro football, just like my idol.
I had actual encounters with football players when I was young. When Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, Kendrick Lewis—who, as an adult, has since played with several NFL teams—tra
nsferred temporarily to a high school in Gainesville. He would volunteer at the elementary school, and I couldn’t stop staring at him in awe. He was everything I wanted to be.
My fourth grade teacher at the time, Leslie Frierson, noticed and took me aside to give me some advice that has stayed with me to this day.
“You could be bigger than him,” she told me. “If you get your schoolwork totally under control, you can go and do anything you want to do.”
I believed her, and I will always be grateful to her for her vote of confidence in me. I hope to pass that kind of encouragement along to the kids growing up in my old neighborhood today.
As I grew older, a number of people around me helped me realize that success in sports without success in the classroom is a dangerous situation. Sure, you could be the best player around and make all this money, but how would you know how to handle it responsibly without an education to guide you to think critically? How would you know how to use your resources to better the lives of those around you? How would you recognize the very special opportunity you had received?
An educated athlete is a far better athlete, person, and leader than someone who has relied only on physical skill.
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