Honestly, this feels like something a first-grader would write a report on. How is this even a thing that happens? Why is this a thing that happens? Let's just get Robinson a pair of cleats that fits and stays on when he cuts, and this'll no longer be a thing.
And if he wants extra-long shoelaces so they flop everywhere even when they're tied, that'll probably be fine. Enjoy our content? Join our newsletter to get the latest in sports news delivered straight to your inbox!
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More questions. He has seen too many athletes look silly trying to tackle his son, too many out of desperation try to yank off his shoes just to slow him down. A fire burns inside of him, as it does inside his son. On the second play of the drive, Denard takes his first carry of the game straight into the Hawkeye defense for four yards.
The tailgate erupts. But Thomas Sr. His body is in this chair, surrounded by his family, but his heart is a thousand miles away in Ann Arbor. He gets anxious in the chair as his son gets anxious at the Iowa yard line. He is forced to watch, helpless, hoping that he showed his son enough.
Denard Robinson stood at home plate, looking down at his red running spikes. They used to be red, at least. After years of racing, they were more a mix of brown and darker brown.
He was ready. So Brown smacked a pair of 2x4s together to simulate the sound of pistol fire, and Denard spun around on his heels. Denard remembered as he ran what coach Brown had told him: drive your elbows, keep control, stay focused. As he gained ground, he heard him again. Elbows, control, focus. He was gaining on Witty, and the record continued to spin in his head. At Deerfield High School, speed is power.
If you have it, kids respect you for it. Students would challenge other students to race between classes and after school. It was how a lot of people met around here.
Brown is all about pride, and most importantly pride in being a teammate. The book Teammates Matter sits in a drawer in his desk, and his teams have all seen it. Photos have accumulated around the message over the years.
Now, four newspaper clippings and two pictures fill up almost a quarter of the wall — Denard is in all of them. Denard may have left Deerfield Beach, but the coaching never stopped from Brown. Denard had demolished them for yards. Twenty yards or so away from the tent, Dorothea Robinson seems to be looking for something.
Still, she remains silent. If only she could calm her son down. Suddenly, she stops watching. But Dorothea just watches as the party eats, looks back toward the television and crosses her arms. She smiles slightly and starts to react with the rest of her family. They know her outbreak has been building, ready to bubble over.
She recoils to the back of the group and continues to watch. But as she looks on with the same frozen, solemn face, something changes. From behind the group, Dorothea speaks up.
Her voice is subdued, but with an edge. The group quiets down. Is it serious? Her son was never really injured in high school. It was just a bruise here, a sore muscle there. Can he keep getting back up? She can only stare at the screen while coaches and trainers surround her son. When he was growing up, she was always hovering. She barely let him ride with his peewee team miles up the road to Sarasota. Denard continued to grow, kept getting better, moving from dragging a tire on the pavement to the baseball diamond track practices to the Friday night lights of Broward County.
He called, they responded on command. It was something Taylor made Denard understand in his junior year of high school, as life was about to reinforce a familiar lesson. The night of the Florida state semifinals, Denard looked across the line of scrimmage at the titans of Broward County football — Miami Northwestern, the No.
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