Manhood: How to Be a Better Man-or Just Live with One

by Terry Crews

  This was before cell phones, so we hadn’t talked to my parents since they’d left. As soon as Rebecca got on the phone with Trish, she handed it to me.

  “Terry, I was praying for you to call,” Trish said. “The San Diego Chargers have been calling here. And the Green Bay Packers called. They’re trying to find out where you are, but they can’t get ahold of you.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Call your agent, now,” she said. “Everybody is trying to get ahold of you.”

  As I hung up and dialed my agent, all I could think was: Please, God, please.

  My agent had been trying to reach me all day, and I got him on the phone right away.

  “The San Diego Chargers want you on a plane right now,” he said. “They want you on the team this week, like as soon as you can get there. Go to the nearest airport, take everything you have, and put it on a ticket to go to San Diego.”

  Rebecca and I were jumping up and down on the bed.

  It’s not over, I thought. It’s not over.

  Just like with my college scholarship—and the NFL draft—just when it had seemed like everything had ended for me, my NFL dream was still alive.

  We made a plan. Rebecca would go back to Flint to get the kids and drive out to meet me in San Diego. On the way, she dropped me off at the airport. I got a ticket and flew from Flint to Chicago, where I had to change planes. I had just boarded my flight from Chicago to San Diego, when I heard a commotion in the front of the plane. I looked up and these two burly security guards were headed my way.

  “Is that him?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  This can’t be happening.

  “You, you,” the one guy said. “Come with us.”

  They pulled me off the plane in front of everybody.

  I was terrified because the only thing I could think was that Rebecca had gotten in a car accident, or something horrible had happened.

  No, God, please don’t. Not such great news followed by the worst.

  They had me standing on the Jetway.

  “What’s the nature of your business?” one guy said, his voice hostile.

  “I’m going to San Diego for business.”

  They wouldn’t tell me anything. Finally, I’d had enough.

  “Sir, I’m going there to sign a contract with the San Diego Chargers,” I said. “I just got cut from the Green Bay Packers. I’m a football player. That’s what I do.”

  They looked at each other, and then they apologized and explained. At that time, anybody who was black and bought a ticket at a small-town airport with cash was dealing crack. So they’d thought I was a drug dealer. They looked embarrassed.

  “Hey, can we get an autograph?” one guy asked.

  Really? After that kind of nasty racial profiling, you want an autograph? But this was no time to be Mr. Militant. I was just so glad that everyone in my family was safe. AND I was going to the Chargers. “Yeah, cool,” I said. “Just get me to San Diego.”

  My grandmother always said I missed my money on that one, but I was too happy to sue anyone just then.

  I arrived in San Diego. After Green Bay, where everything had been heavy—my mood, the weather, the food, the relationship issues, getting cut at the last minute—it was paradise. There was the sea and the sun, and it was incredible. They put me in a hotel where all of the players were staying. I WAS ON THE TEAM. My first day was team picture day, and I didn’t even know the other guys yet, but there I was, part of the team. I looked around and there was Junior Seau, and everyone else. They showed me to my locker, and at practice they threw me into play right away. I didn’t even know the system yet, but I didn’t care. I would learn it. After two seasons of being on the sidelines, I was more than ready to play and earn my way.

  Meanwhile, Rebecca drove cross-country, by herself, with our two kids. I told her to go slowly and stop whenever she got tired, but she was determined. She was ready to get out of my parents’ house and start a new life, and after everything that had happened, she really wanted all of us to be together again. I did, too. Four and a half days later, she arrived at the hotel and came into my room with the kids.

  “Hey, babe, what’s up?” I said. “How you doing?”

  “Hey, honey, how are you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, let’s get the bags,” I said. “Let’s go, I’ve got to get to practice.”

  She fell onto the ground in a ball of tears and wept and wept.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happening? This is a good time. We’re doing well.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know what to do. I’m tired.”

  I hadn’t realized the whirlwind of everything I’d put her through. All of the stress and the changes were just too much, and now that she’d made it to a safe place, she had to release everything she’d struggled so hard to keep inside.

  “Babe, this is our new life,” I said.

  We just looked at each other, and it was so good. I’d made so many empty promises to her out of my sense of entitlement. I’d gotten us into so many problems with money. I’d kept saying things were going to get better, but they’d only gotten worse. And now, finally, we were in San Diego. I was on the team. Sometimes the change of scenery allowed us to see each other in a new way, and that was one of those moments. We were both so relieved and happy to be there.

  We settled in and rented a little Ford Escort. We needed two cars, so I could go to practice and she could take the kids where they needed to go. I was at practice when I had a funny feeling I should take the Pathfinder home at lunch and drive the Escort back. When I pulled up at the stadium in the Escort, a man approached me.

  “Terry Crews?” he said. “You have a Nissan Pathfinder? We’re here to get it.”

  They’d finally caught up with me, but I’d managed to pull it out of the fire once again, and just in time. I was so relieved.

  “It’s not here,” I said. “As soon as I get paid, I’ll get you all of your money.”

  “Cool,” the guy said. “Can we get an autograph?”

  BY THIS POINT, I WAS SO GLAD TO STILL BE IN THE GAME, and I had no more bubbles left to burst. I was fortunate because football was never my be-all and end-all, but I saw so many guys who got worn down under the realities and the physical brutality of the NFL. Some of that was really dark to witness, but as long as I was there, I was going to play my hardest and enjoy how far my perseverance had taken me.

  In hindsight, I can see now how my double life created two distinct personalities in me: One was this big grandstanding, moralizing person who viewed life according to the Pollyanna principle. My optimism was eclipsed only by my drive to win at all costs, and I wasn’t going to let anybody get in my way, not even my wife or other family members. I saw every criticism as a takedown and an attempt to stifle my greatness, and I morally harangued anyone who disagreed. Playing football kept me in a world of slogans and mantras: “No pain, no gain.” “Those who stay will be champions.” “Winning is everything.” “Work hard, play harder.”

  But when I was alone, it was like all of that fake optimism caught up with me. My faults and failures were always right there to remind me that I wasn’t practicing what I preached. Acting out with pornography created a spiral of depression that sent me right back to more acting out. Which in turn created more shame. So I felt the need to do something great and praiseworthy in order to prove to myself I wasn’t as bad as I seemed. I’m sure I was hell to live with, and I am truly thankful to my wife and family for not giving up on me during this time in my life.

  I can never forget the people who’d helped me and believed in me along the way, and while I was on the Chargers, I finally had the chance to acknowledge one of them. We had a game in Kansas City, and I wanted to fly Coach Lee in to see me play. I couldn’t get him sideline passes, but I had tickets for him, and I figured what really mattered was for him to know how much I appreciated him. I called him up.

  “I want you to come out here,” I said. “And
I want you to see what one good word to a little boy can do.”

  I’d told my Chargers coaches how much Coach Lee meant to me, and one of these coaches ended up meeting Coach Lee at the hotel bar and giving him sideline passes and coach’s credentials. I can’t even tell you how special that was for me: Here was Coach Lee, the first person who’d ever really believed in me, sitting there as a coach, on the side of an NFL game, watching me play. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. Seeing him there, it was so clear to me: Dreams do come true. It takes a lot of work. But it can happen. I was very aware that I owed so much of what I’d accomplished to Coach Lee, and I let him know it, too.

  “Man, you have no idea,” I said. “If you had not told me I could do it, I wouldn’t be here.”

  This is one of the central facts of my life. There were just too many other negative words out there. But, thankfully, that one positive word from Coach Lee is the one I held on to, and I’m grateful to him to this day.

  My debut season with the Chargers was just the rejuvenation my football career and my marriage needed. I was living my NFL dream, but I’d never lost sight of the fact that entertainment was still my first love. Darwin came out to visit me, and we drove up to LA. I’d met a really cool guy, Devon Shepard, who was a young staff writer on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. We went to NBC studios and attended a taping, which was amazing. Afterward, we were in the parking lot, and I got to meet Will Smith. He had this white Bronco, which was the car back then—this was before it became the OJ Bronco. And he had this customized DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince carpet in the back, and these huge speakers. He turned them all the way up, and they set off all of the alarms in the parking lot. I loved The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. That was one of the best sitcoms ever, and I can still watch it to this day. Talking to Will, and having him be so cool to us, and make jokes, and just be so affable, was amazing. That’s how a star is supposed to be, I thought.

  Devon took us to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, and on the way, we passed by The Arsenio Hall Show, which was the hottest show just then. At the restaurant, people were coming out of the taping, and I could feel their excitement. We were right by Paramount Studios, and Devon was sharing with me all of these stories about what entertainment was like, and I was enthralled. I drove the whole two and a half hours back to San Diego with stars in my eyes. I still never saw myself as an actor, but I knew Hollywood was where I wanted to be eventually. First, though, I was all about making the most out of my time in the NFL.

  AND THEN … YOU GUESSED IT. AFTER ONE year on the team, I got cut the last weekend of camp the following year. Now, this was the third team that had let me go in as many years. It was a tremendous blow, and it would have been impossible not to reassess my situation. Even Rebecca, who hadn’t let me give up on so many occasions, was starting to have her doubts.

  “You know, honey, maybe you’re not that good,” Rebecca said.

  POW. I felt that. It hurt. Her criticism was honest, but to me, it was like she was personally trying to take me down. I had no strength left to fight. At the same time, that was one of those rock-bottom moments when I knew I had to acknowledge her good sense. Maybe I’m not that good, I thought. Now, that went right down to my core, the part of me that had done anything to keep the peace and make people like me. I’m not worthy of the NFL. I’m worthless. I’m unlovable. That was my darkest fear, which I had fought so hard against my entire life, since I was a little kid waking up in a wet bed after a night of my father’s drinking and my parents’ violent fights.

  But I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was a grown man. I’d accomplished something in my life, and not just anything, either, but the realization of my NFL dream. I reassessed. Wait a minute. My wife loves me. My kids love me. My parents love me. So that’s not the issue. I’m not unlovable. I just need to be a better football player. That was a discouraging thought, but it felt totally manageable. If I’d taken this latest rejection and decided it meant I was unlovable, that would have been a problem, because there was nothing I could do about that. But if I looked at it as a job that hadn’t worked out, that was okay, because I could do something about that. Once I removed my emotions from the situation, I felt so much less discouraged. I made a plan. I would work harder. I would study my plays. I would convince the Chargers to give me another chance, or I would find another team that would.

  Every week, the coaches called me.

  “Terry, we’re going to sign you next week. Just sit tight.”

  I viewed these phone calls as a sign that I was on the right track, so I stayed in San Diego, living on my own money. Someone else would have acknowledged that it wasn’t working out, stopped the game, and moved on. But the codependent pleaser in me wouldn’t let go.

  Once again, we had no money coming in, and I had to figure out a way to get by. And then it hit me: I would draw on my other talent. I spent about three weeks on a portrait of Chargers player Ronnie Harmon on the field with the city of San Diego behind him. And then I went into the locker room. I was really nervous. I was very aware that I’d recently been a peer, and everyone knew I’d been cut, and I didn’t want anyone’s pity. On the other hand, I knew I was a good painter.

  “Hey, guys, this is what I do,” I said, holding up the painting. “If anyone here would like to have a painting of you, your kids, or anything else, I can do it for you.”

  It was a very humbling experience. I could definitely feel that everyone in the room was uncomfortable. But then, Ronnie stepped up and bought the painting I’d done of him, and that made me feel better about the whole situation. He also had us over for Thanksgiving dinner that year, which meant so much to me, especially after I’d experienced the feeling of becoming invisible after I’d been cut in the past.

  I ended up doing paintings for four or five guys on the team. Each painting brought in about a month’s income, which meant Rebecca and the kids and I could eat and live for that long off every painting I sold. And that’s how we survived.

  I developed a new Sunday afternoon routine while I was waiting to return to the team. As my teammates were playing, I went into my garage, turned on my radio, and painted for hours and hours. There were definitely moments when it was hard to hear the game going on without me but, lost in a painting, I could forget my pain. Time stopped. I was in the zone, as I’d sometimes been in sports, with everything going so well, and my awareness so heightened, it was almost as if time had slowed down, allowing me to achieve this perfect union with what I was doing.

  It was difficult, though, because the Chargers went to the Super Bowl in Miami that year, and I knew I was supposed to be on that team. At the same time, I’d done a big painting of former Green Bay Packers player Bart Starr for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, with whom he was active, and they flew Rebecca and me to the Super Bowl to present it to him. I kept bumping into my former teammates. It was awkward because people kept telling me that I should have been playing with them, and I wanted to be, but I was there because of my art instead.

  I wasn’t on the sidelines for long. I did a stint with the World Football League in Germany. Rebecca and the girls came over with me for that, but it was dismal. I was so grateful to be one of only seven players out of 300 to make it back to the NFL that year. And then the Washington Redskins signed me, so we moved across the country so I could begin playing for them—if I could make the team.

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT REDSKINS CAMP, I MET THE TEAM’S linebacker Ken Harvey, who was not only one of the stars of the team, but also one of the first NFL linebackers to make big money. The coaches had us do a drill together. I hit him so hard that he started bleeding, and he still has a scar on his neck to this day.

  Everybody looked at me like they couldn’t figure out what I was doing, pummeling him like that. Well, as far as I was concerned, I had to make this team, and that was how I’d always done it: hit hard, make an impact, get noticed. My main ability in the NFL was to take tremendous amounts of pain. That was a valuable skill. When I
could hit somebody and get up, the coaches told me I was winning.

  Ken ended up taking a liking to me, this kid who’d been bounced around a lot and was desperate to make his team. Before camp was even over, he invited Rebecca and me over to his house for a barbecue. I assumed he was just being polite, and there’d be a huge crowd there. But when we arrived, it was just the four of us. He didn’t know whether I was going to make the team or not, but he didn’t care. He had a great heart. He’d scratched his way into football like me, as a walk-on to the team at a junior college, and he and his wife had been married about the same amount of time as Rebecca and me. So even though he lived in a huge mansion and had housekeepers, and Benzes, he was out there cooking for us on his grill, and telling really bad jokes, which was something else we had in common.

  I ended up making the team and it felt so good! I felt like I’d showed Rebecca that I was good enough to be in the NFL, and somehow or someway, all of these coaches had had it in for me over the years. I always had an excuse to prove her faith in me was justified: “I am that good, but they just have to keep their superstar on” or “The general manager doesn’t like me.” The truth was, I had no idea why I was getting cut sometimes, while making the team other times, but I did a good job of finding reasons for when I did, and excuses for when I didn’t.

  I spent the next year being Ken’s backup, and we became really good friends. On our nights off, he invited me to go shoot some pool, have some chicken wings, or just hang out and talk. He liked to write, and he admired my paintings, and so we bonded over art. These nights were such a relief after what I’d seen earlier in my NFL career, with the guns, and the drugs, and the strip clubs.

  Ken and his wife were always taking Rebecca and me out to these fancy functions we couldn’t otherwise afford. Because they never had to pay, they never let us pay, and they were just so nice about it. I still had my trusty old Pathfinder, and when it broke down, Ken let me borrow his Benz. Now, that’s a friend.