Little Fanfare For an Uncommon Man

He was born quiet, apparently. "I've always been this way," he says. But it's also possible his unassuming demeanor is partly the result of early responsibility. His father Marvin Sr. died of natural causes when Marvin was 2. His mother, Linda, raised him strictly while working two jobs. Homework was done the first thing after school, before anything else. Sunday was laundry and cleaning day.

"She only had to tell me something once, and I took care of whatever it was," Harrison says. "Same thing as coach. He only has to tell me once. If I screw it up the first time, we'll correct it and we won't have to do it again."

Linda Harrison moved her family around Philadelphia, in search of better schools and after-school clubs, until they came to rest in Roxborough, a gentrified neighborhood with a famed recreational football program where Marvin began making his name as a prospect. She enrolled him in Roman Catholic High School, a grand old institution with a strict dress code and a record of sending its athletes to college.

Harrison wore his necktie and sweater to school and acquired a reputation for conscientiousness. He was never late, and missed one day of school in four years. He took a job cutting the grass at the Roman Catholic athletic fields to make extra money. "I think his mother raised him to be a well-mannered person, a respectable individual, and he kind of prides himself on that," says Watson.

At Roman Catholic, Harrison came under the thumb of Fararow, the geometry teacher, and part-time director of a sports recreation center, who tutored promising athletes with collegiate potential. Harrison was being nationally recruited but Fararow made it clear to Harrison that it wasn't enough to be recruited; he needed grades, too. He moved Harrison to the front row in his class, to make sure he had his attention. "You're sitting on top of the world," he said. "Don't blow it."

Harrison made decent grades, but he struggled with the SATs. The first time he took the standardized test, he failed to meet the NCAA's requirements. If he couldn't make a qualifying score, he would be academically ineligible as a freshman at Syracuse. One summer morning before his senior year, he showed up at the rec center where Fararow volunteered. "Will you help me?" Harrison asked.

For the next few months, Harrison and his good friend Watson spent their lunch hours, four times a week, in private tutoring with Fararow. He would give Harrison articles from the local sports pages and make him read them. Harrison took the test a second time, and failed again. "We've got to be persistent," Fararow said. Harrison took the test a third time -- this time on the morning of a big state tournament basketball game -- and made his score. There is now a wall devoted to Harrison in Fararow's geometry classroom at Roman Catholic.

There is a story Fararow enjoys telling about Harrison more than any other. It concerns one of the more legendary athletic feats Harrison ever performed, but it also defines his modesty, too. Roman Catholic had a sprinter named Mark Cobbs, who was widely acknowledged to be the fastest kid in the city. But anyone who watched Harrison streak around a football field knew he had close to 4.3-speed in the 40, and suspected he might be faster than Cobb. A debate sprang up between the football players and the runners. Cobb issued a challenge. "At first Marvin just did what he does now, he didn't pay any attention to it," Fararow says.

The track guys kept after him. "They just kept challenging him and challenging him," Watson says. Pretty soon, all anyone could talk about was who the faster runner was. Finally, Harrison agreed to race, out of sheer weariness.

"All right, we can handle it," he said.

The entire student body, along with teachers, filed out on to the sidewalk in front of the school, throngs of them crowding the corner of Broad Street and Vine. They stopped traffic, and marked out a sprint distance, 40 yards down the middle of the street. Students were betting their allowances, and lunch chits.

Harrison and Cobb lined up. And then they took off.