In the Name of the Grandmother

Through All His Success, Davis Remembers 'Ma'

The gift had to be right, something she would never forget. After all, Adaline Davis had reared her grandson like he was her own, making him everything that he had become. He even called her "Ma."

So on her birthday two years ago, Vernon Davis did what only a college freshman would do. He had her name tattooed to the inside of his left arm. Then he raced home with his surprise.

And Adaline Davis did what any grandmother would do upon learning her precious little boy had permanently affixed her name in inch-high letters across his arm. She recoiled in shock, sent him away and spent the night turning restlessly in her bed.

But they had been through too much together, grandmother and grandson. A little ink seared into his skin could not undo the years of life lessons she had passed on. And when he said, "Every day I will look at my arm and think of you," she melted.

"You know that really meant a lot to me that he wrote my name in his arm like that," Adaline said. "I don't like it a lot. But it still was nice."

Saturday, Vernon Davis's name will be called during the NFL draft. Some predict he'll be taken during the second hour, meaning the 6-foot-3, 256-pound tight end from Maryland is about to become a very rich and famous man. But his story begins in a brick rowhouse on Emerson Street in Northwest Washington, where Adaline took in her daughter's oldest son. This is where a 2-year-old Vernon howled when Adaline tried to take him back to his mother and where eventually he just stayed, leaving only when it was time to go to college.

"Without her staying on me, I just wouldn't be where I'm at now," Vernon said.

She gave him direction; everybody says that. From the beginning, Adaline was a fortress, insisting the child respect his elders, never talk back and always set goals. Maybe she had to be like this, for the house was full. Adaline was always taking in children. And not just her own, but eventually most of Vernon's brothers and sisters as well as some from the neighborhood and of course the ones that other parents dropped off for a week when work got too hard or they needed a vacation. Asked how many, she silently counts.

After 15 she loses track.

"She set the character," said Craig Jefferies, Davis's football coach at Dunbar High.

Jefferies was startled when Davis arrived at Dunbar, already a giant, unsure he really wanted to play football. The boy was so polite, so easygoing. Jefferies was used to players who snapped at their coaches and tried to glide through high school on pure athletic talent. Davis didn't have their talent. But he had a smile. He was humble and he could run. The rest was Adaline.

The only path to greatness was hard work, she taught him. And when he decided he wanted to play football, he plunged in headfirst. He didn't have the best hands to be a tight end, but he spent his free days catching passes thrown by his little brother. He was tall but he wasn't strong, so he came to the weight room every day, sculpting his body. On holidays, when the other players were spending their days sleeping, Vernon was at the football field behind Dunbar, running sprints, climbing up and down the rows of bleachers.