9102080907 DETROIT FREE PRESS 911017 Thursday, October 17, 1991 METRO FINAL

SPT

1C Photo Color WILLIAM ARCHIE : Desmond Howard's knack for catching a football is only a small part of the Michigan receiver's package. MITCH ALBOM SEE ALSO METRO EDITION, Page 1C Copyright (c) 1991, Detroit Free Press THIS MAGIC MOMENT HOWARD A CUT ABOVE YOUR BASIC PLAYER First of all, about the haircut. Hair on top. None on the sides. Then sideburns. He cuts it himself. Before each game. Calls it the "high inside fade." When he explains this, he rubs the naked skin above his ear and smiles, a huge smile, a smile that will make him famous one day. "The sideburns," he proudly notes, "are my personal thing." Next, the earring. Little gold thing. Goes with the sideburns, I guess. He wears it only off the field, away from the football team. Coaches just don't understand. You know how it is. And then there are his quirky habits, such as meditating, or picking up the phone and saying, "Magic." "Oh, I've been doing that since the eighth grade!" he says, bursting into laughter. "Hey! You got to be a little different!" What are you saying, Desmond? Catching all those touchdowns isn't enough? Diving into the air and sucking that ball in with your fingertips, that's chopped liver? Anyone can do it? The miracle catch that beat Notre Dame? The four touchdowns against Boston College? The Heisman Trophy talk? Not enough? You have to answer the phone funny and hide the earring and leave those little sideburns stranded from the rest of your hair like a tree stuck on an island? Well. Why not? Dare to be different, they say. Besides, the way this kid is going, he could dye his hair orange and wear a petticoat to the huddle -- they would still throw him the ball. And he would still catch it. Kickoffs. Punts. Pass receptions. Iowa. Michigan State. Florida State. It hardly seems to matter who or what is between him and the end zone anymore. Desmond Howard, whose nickname is Magic, just seems to materialize there, the ball in his arms, the official throwing his hands in the air. "He's got such great quickness, that's the thing," coach Gary Moeller says of his most explosive threat. "And then of course, he can catch it. And then, on top of that, he can dodge people. And after he dodges them. . . ." Uh, back to you in a minute, Mo. Because there's the X's and 0's, and then there's the big picture. Desmond Howard isn't just the whirling dervish in the maize and blue uniform. He isn't just the scoring machine who averages a touchdown every third catch and who racked up four TDs in the season opener and two in every game since (around campus they joke about calling him Desmond Two-Two). At 5-feet-9, Howard isn't just the most exciting little package to hit Ann Arbor since a kid named Anthony Carter. There's something else. When this season is over, Howard might very well be selected "The Best College Football Player in the Nation." The Heisman Trophy winner. If so, he would be the second Wolverine in history to win that award; the last guy, Tom Harmon, did it 51 years ago. Michigan does not push its players for such honors. Push? Heck, they run from Heisman hype the way senators run from Ted Koppel. But here is the thing about Desmond Howard. He is such a talent, such a game-breaker, and such a nice kid, that -- hold your breath here -- you may actually find the Michigan commanders giving him a (gulp) plug. "If he continues like he's going, then yes, I would say he deserves the Heisman," says Moeller. Ohmigod. You heard it here first. "Coach Moeller said that?" Howard asks. He jerks his head in surprise and grins. "Oh, man." Howard will say things like this. Oh, man. Peace. He also wears beads around his neck, likes to meditate, and has posters on his walls of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, and a map of Africa. He signs autographs this way: "Peace my brother, Desmond Howard." In all my time covering today's college football superstars, he is the closest thing I have found to a child of the '60s. And he wasn't even born until 1970. "I think the '60s were a really interesting time, what people did and tried to do," Howard says, making all us oldsters feel a little bit better. "They were trying to learn. Here at Michigan, I try to study my heritage as much as I can because it was never really available to me growing up. So much of the problems we have in this country have to do with education. Kids just aren't being given a chance." He points to a small pile of posters against the wall. "A friend of mine gave me those. Each of them is about a different African king. I've been reading them. I think maybe some of that lineage is in me." "You think you were a king in another life?" I ask. He laughs. "I might have been one before," he says, "and who knows? I might be one again." Now. Before you get the idea that Desmond Howard is some sort of self-absorbed hippie, let me say this: Nothing could be further from the truth. He is delightful, funny, engaging, warm, and on top of that -- and I can't say this about every athlete I've met -- he thinks. He looks at a situation and measures the consequences. Take his living situation. He moved far off campus -- to Ypsilanti, actually -- into his own apartment, by himself, because, he says, "I have a lot of work to do. If I were living in the dorms, people would be knocking on my door all the time, wanting to talk football. I would never get anything done." He also realized that with the success he's having, there may be pressure to skip his final year of eligibility next season and go to the NFL. He has a rule about that: Desmond has to graduate. So he has taken courses over the summer and is on track to get his degree in May. This way, should the NFL make him an offer he couldn't refuse, he would still leave U-M with what he came for: an education. "He's such a self-motivated kid, both football-wise and academically," says Moeller. "I remember when he first came here. I was the guy who recruited him. He was a running back in high school, and I said to him, 'We have a lot of running backs right now. You sure you still want to be one?' He said, 'Yeah.' Then, on the first day of practice, I saw him out there with the defensive backs. I said, 'What are you doing?' He said, 'I just want to play as soon as I can, I don't care where.' " Fortunately, Moeller and Bo Schembechler switched him to receiver, watched him for one day, and figured that was where he belonged. Schembechler used to boast to reporters about "this crafty little devil from Cleveland, Ohio, who might just make you forget John Kolesar." It didn't take long. Although Howard started slowly, with nine catches his freshman year, two of those were touchdowns. ("My biggest regret of that season was when we went to the Rose Bowl. I had one pass thrown to me, late in the game, and I was wide open. I could have scored. But Michael Taylor overthrew me. We could have won that game.") He has since provided better memories. A pair of touchdowns in the Gator Bowl. The nine catches against Indiana last year (including an incredible over-the-shoulder, one- handed grab). The kickoff and punt returns that cause such excitement, Michigan Stadium seems to tremble. The 12 touchdowns this season (and we are only five games in). And of course, the now famous fourth-and-one diving catch that clinched revenge against dreaded Notre Dame. "Who really called that play?" I ask. Howard bursts into laughter. He does this, by the way, almost every time you ask a question. "Let's just say Coach Moeller called it, and Elvis (Grbac) confirmed it! Hahahaha!" "And you delivered it." "Yeah, basically." Basically, my foot. There is very little basic about what Howard does, unless you consider running past the defensive backs, past the special teams tacklers and past the big linemen a basic skill. "He's better than Rocket Ismail," says Michigan State cornerback Alan Haller. And that's a Spartan talking! Yet for all the hoopla, Howard refuses to play the part of Big Man on Campus. True, he shares a nickname with the most famous basketball player this state has ever produced. ("My junior high school basketball coach gave me the nickname Magic, after Magic Johnson. It just kind of stuck.") Yet he does not wear that name on his chest, he does not walk to class in his football sweats, as many players do, hoping the women will spot him and point. And he does not lose sleep over the Heisman Trophy. He might give himself a special haircut should he win it, but he doesn't lose sleep. "I didn't ask to be put in the Heisman race. For me, just to be mentioned in the same sentence means I'm on track for my goal." Which is? "To be the best football player I can be." And that leads to the final question -- although it won't be the last time it's asked: What if he were to be the best, if he were to win the Heisman, would he leave Michigan after this season? "Right now, I plan on coming back and going to graduate school. I realize the college years are the best time you can have, and I want to make them last." What if someone offered a Rocket Ismail-like contract? He laughs again. "Then," he says, "I might have to go." We'll see. It's not like the old days, when Harmon was playing. It's not the '60s, either. The great players may wear sideburns, but they rarely stick around college anymore. If you're lucky, you get a few fond seasons, and then they are on their way. Still, that doesn't mean they don't learn anything. There's a moment in the movie "The Natural," when Robert Redford admits he wants people to look at him one day and say, "There goes Roy Hobbs, the greatest hitter who ever lived." I asked Desmond Howard what he would want whispered. "Me? When I walk down campus, I want people to say, 'There goes Desmond Howard, he's a smart young man.' " Better get a new daydream, kid. They're saying that already. DESMOND HOWARD; COLLEGE; FOOTBALL; U-M