It Took a Village to Propel Heyer

Yet Heyer never seemed discouraged. Whatever they said he needed to do, he did. Run. Lift. Jump. So it was easy for Jordan and Devers to offer their help. White dropped his rate for Heyer. Jordan made sure that the bills that otherwise would be charged to Heyer's mother would go to him instead.

When Heyer needed to join a gym to continue his workouts with White, the owner of the club had a proposal: Membership would be free, but only if he could take a picture of Devers's perfectly toned legs to make a poster for the gym's wall, Glenda Heyer said. Devers told the man to get his camera.

"We are just blessed to have these people come into our life," his mother said.

White worked Heyer hard. The first thing he attacked was the player's agility. With feet that now have grown to a size 22 in some shoes, moving was difficult for Heyer. He needed to get to a point where he wouldn't stumble and all his moves on the line would be smooth. And after months of pushing, when the recruiters from Georgia and Ohio State and Maryland came around, they actually were impressed with his footwork, White remembers.

Then came the weights and the endurance training -- lots of running. And when you are running all the time with a onetime NFL safety and an Olympic track star, you are bound to get better fast. By the time he was ready to leave for Maryland, he was a different man. "He had come full circle," White said.

From her home outside Atlanta, Glenda agreed.

"They turned him into an athlete," Glenda said. "He got to see what it takes to be an athlete."

When asked about this, about the time he donated and the money he spent on Heyer, Jordan talked around the question as if he didn't hear it. When pressed, he demurred for a moment then finally said, "For us as athletes, the most rewarding thing is to give back and see the success in young kids."

Last Sunday, everybody watched the Redskins. White and his wife turned on the television in the second quarter and immediately began scanning for No. 74. Glenda went to a local bar in Atlanta called the Bucket Shop Cafe, where Redskins fans in the area gather to watch the games. She couldn't help herself; she had to tell someone.

"I'm looking for number 74," she said to the woman next to her. "He's my son."

The woman screamed. "Hey, everyone we have a parent here!"

Then Jansen went down and the bar was silent as the little cart rolled out onto the field to take him off. But then No. 74 was pulling on his helmet, and the kid was doing all right. He didn't make many mistakes, and there was cheering at the Bucket Shop and smiles sent Glenda's way.

It took a small village of elite athletes to mold her boy.

And now look at what he had become.