Thirty Years Ago, Desmond Howard Won the Heisman Trophy

Let's revisit the Dec. 14, 1991 announcement that the Wolverine game-breaker was college football's most outstanding player with two chapters from "Go Blue: Michigan's Greatest Football Stories"

The Detroit Free Press sports section front page advancing Desmond Howard’s winning of the Heisman Trophy. I happened upon this in the basement recently, and was so glad to rekindle memories with it.

Thirty years ago today, on Dec. 14, 1991, I covered Desmond Howard winning the Heisman Trophy at the old Downtown Athletic Club of New York. It was a weekend when we also visited “Late Night With David Letterman” together and soaked in all the tradition associated with the Heisman.

Here are two chapters from my book, “Go Blue: Michigan’s Greatest Football Stories,” Triumph Books, Chicago, 2013, detailing that experience, the magical year Desmond had for the Wolverines, and his path to glory:

By Steve Kornacki

DESMOND HOWARD: FROM STOCKBRIDGE AVENUE TO GREATNESS

The two-story, two-bedroom house on Stockbridge Avenue blended into the rest of a modest neighborhood. It was painted white and yellow with green trim, tucked away on the far east side of Cleveland.

Nothing seemed special about it. But looks can be deceiving. It was the home of a Heisman Trophy winner, a tight family with successful children, and once even doubled as a place of business.

Desmond Howard’s mother, Hattie Dawkins, and her husband, Floyd, still lived there with Desmond’s youngest brother, Jermaine.

His parents, Hattie and J.D. Howard, made the most of the limited space before they were divorced seven years prior to Desmond winning the Heisman Trophy. Hattie ran a day-care nursery out of the den, which became Desmond’s trophy room. The four boys were crammed into one bedroom.

Jonathan and Chad Jones, his mother’s sons from a previous marriage, shared one bunk, and Desmond and Jermaine shared another. They were as close as brothers could be – literally and figuratively.

Jonathan, then 25, was an Air Force sergeant who served as a flight mechanic in the Persian Gulf War.

Chad, then 24, was a plumber in Cleveland.

Jermaine, then 17, was an outstanding student and track-and-field runner at Villa Angela-St. Joseph High.

And then there was Desmond – the little brother’s hero and everybody’s joy, the most famous receiver Michigan has ever produced.

His mother had never seen a picture of the famous trophy her son won until that fall of 1991. When her son struck the Heisman pose after his 93-yard punt return for a touchdown against Ohio State, she didn’t realize he was imitating the straight-arming pose of the most famous trophy in sports.

“I just thought Desmond was clowning around,” Hattie said. “But I knew all about what the Heisman meant. Still, whenever I asked about it or getting a dress and tuxedos for the banquet, Desmond ignored me. He never ignores me.

“But the first thing he said after the Ohio State game was, ‘Now, what was that you were saying about a dress and tuxedo?’ And he was laughing. He had kept all the pressure inside himself, but then he was a volcano erupting. He had weathered the storm and the pressure.”

And so he struck the pose, grinning from ear to ear, in what has become the most replayed moment in Michigan football history.

“We didn’t like the individual part of him doing that,” Wolverines head coach Gary Moeller told me. “We want Michigan players to celebrate as a team – go congratulate the guys who did the blocking. I talked to Desmond about it and said, ‘But with how bad you wanted to beat them, we have to go along with it.’ Still, I’d rather have guys act like Barry Sanders and just flip the ball to the official. Act like you’ve been there 100 times.”

Desmond scored 37 touchdowns at Michigan, and just happened to put an exclamation point on that last one.

He was nicknamed “Magic” as a young basketball player, and never set out to win the award for the nation’s most outstanding college football player. All he ever wanted to do was to play the game he loved and win, and nothing could stop him from that.

“If Desmond had two broken legs,” his mother said, “he would find a way to climb to the mountaintop.”

The view from “Magic” Mountain was sweet, indeed, but the road there was steep.

His parents spent a Sunday afternoon driving around Cleveland with me, retracing Desmond’s athletic trail. J.D. recalled the laps run on the muddy St. Tim’s field. He remembered how practices ran long and into the dark at St. Joe’s, with cold winds whipping off Lake Erie.

Getting to practice was a chore in itself.

Desmond drove his bike with the banana seat two miles each way down some mean streets to practice each night with St. Tim’s, a CYO team for eighth- and ninth-graders.

“I could have just walked down the street and played with another team,” Desmond said. “But I wanted to play for the best, and St. Tim’s was the Michigan of the peewee leagues.”

Choosing a challenge over convenience continued in high school. John F. Kennedy High was a short walk from his home, but he rode two hours each morning on a series of buses to reach St. Joe, a Catholic prep school that merged with a Catholic girls school not long after he graduated in 1988.

Desmond always took the long road, the one less traveled. And as poet Robert Frost once wrote, that made all the difference.

“I learned the value of sacrifice,” Desmond said. “I had to cut loose friends to go to St. Joe’s and wake up at 5:30 a.m. You have to sacrifice to be the best and have a plan.”

His parents saw to that.

J.D. said, “When he was 3 months old, Hattie saw this show on ‘Donahue’ about babies swimming because it was so much like the womb. We took him to the YMCA, where I worked part-time, and he was swimming at 3 months. That built up his muscles and brought about his sense of acrobatics.

“We fed the boy goat’s milk and guinea meat – that’s meat from a young chicken – and eating the right things was important to his development.”

Hattie earned a college degree as a dietary technician and was a field representative for the Ohio Hunger Task Force. She evaluated day-care menus and staged nutritional workshops.

Her kids ate sound meals but eating wasn’t a rigid regimen. “I ate some Big Macs,” Desmond said.

J.D. was active in his son’s athletic development, but not overbearing.

“His dad was always at practices,” said Ron Bayduke, the offensive coordinator at St. Joseph. “We would work on our two-minute offense, and I would look up at Mr. Howard in the bleachers. He would be laughing and give a thumbs up or thumbs down.

“St. Joe was a unique family operation, and the Howards fit right in.”

Desmond was appreciative that his parents, though no longer married, came together so often for him because of football. They openly praised one another for the job each did with him.

“Coming from a family that breaks up does not dictate that you will become a juvenile delinquent,” Desmond said. “J.D. and my mother both stressed that you must take responsibility for yourself.”

And they took responsibility for motivating their children. Desmond was sent on class trips to France and Sweden, and if that meant driving a car with more than 100,000 miles on it, well, it was worth it. Sacrifice was a two-way street.

“I owe everything to both of them,” Desmond said. “I get my humanitarian qualities from my mom. My love of children came from working with her day-care kids. The competitiveness comes from my father. J.D. is an extremist – a competitor who believes you finish what you start.”

J.D. lights up a room when he enters; he makes others smile more quickly than even his son can. But he also has a fire inside.

“I always tell Desmond to get that education because I did not get much,” J.D. said. “I spent a four-year apprenticeship at the Max Hayes Trade School in Cleveland as a tool-and-die maker. I repair machines for Osborn Manufacturing in Cleveland and do OK.

“I always wished I had gone to college, though.”

Desmond got his degree from Michigan that coming May, graduating in less than four years. He left for the NFL with a year of eligibility remaining, having nothing left to prove as a college player with a degree in hand.

And while touring Cleveland with his parents just days before he would win the Heisman, his father made a surprising proposal. J.D. asked if I would consider being his son’s agent because they trusted me. I never spoke to Desmond about that, and declined pretty quickly while thanking J.D. for a very flattering thought. I would’ve needed to find a lawyer familiar with player contracts and walk away from journalism, and wanted to continue doing what I loved.

Desmond was the fourth overall pick in the first round by the Washington Redskins that April, and was a great kick returner but a nondescript receiver during 11 pro seasons. However, he was named MVP of Super Bowl XXXI for sparking the Green Bay Packers’ victory over the New England Patriots by returning a kickoff 99 yards for a touchdown and tying a Super Bowl record with 244 return yards.

He became a popular announcer on ESPN’s College GameDay after retiring as a player. 

Desmond’s parents kept him motivated academically as surely as athletically, and his well-roundedness allowed him to succeed as a broadcaster because he related so well to a wide-range of personalities. J.D. and Hattie made sure to provide stiff challenges that channeled their son’s energy and kept him off the streets.

“The child almost never slept,” Hattie said. “He would take a nap for 15 minutes and be refreshed! You’ve heard of the terrible twos? Well, he was the terrible ones right on up.

“He used to pull everything off the shelves out of boredom. So, we got him this pinball game in the basement and it was jumping all day.”

Howard always got his work done first at Gracemount Elementary and became a fidgety disturbance waiting for the rest to catch up. That was remedied by putting him in enrichment courses and placing him in an honors program.

They learned not to question his ambition, but his size always caused doubts.

Desmond Kevin Howard was a big baby – 9 pounds, 14 ounces at birth – but he wasn’t large for long. At 5-foot-9, 176 pounds, he was the smallest player on the Michigan roster in 1991. But he became the biggest player on campus since 1940 Heisman Trophy winner Tom Harmon.

Looks can be deceiving.

Howard’s size was first tested at Gracemount. He played there with his older brothers and their friends on a 30-yard-long patch of grass. The out-of-bounds markers were the school wall and a sidewalk, and iron bars two feet off the ground surrounded the field.

It was part obstacle course, part football field.

“Desmond scored more touchdowns than all the big guys,” said Jermaine, “and they would say, ‘We’re gonna get you, Dez!’ ”

One day they tried to take a touchdown away from Desmond, and he punched Chad in the mouth before running. He streaked down 161st Street for three blocks to Stockbridge and made a quick right to his front steps before racing through the door.

“We all chased him, but nobody could catch him,” Jonathan said. “And that’s why that boy got so fast; he had to run away from us and the concrete sidelines.”

Desmond laughed and said, “Hey, give me a head start and it’s over.”

Having speed is one thing.

Having direction is an entirely different thing, and J.D. made sure his sons had that, too. J.D. used to point to the thugs on street corners and tell his sons, “That’s their education right there, learning to sell drugs. And all they will ever get for it is a fancy car. You will never be there, and years from now they will still be right there.”

When Desmond picked up on that wisdom or any other valuable point, J.D. would smile and say, “You’re right! You’re exactly right!”

Positive reinforcement went a long way.

And when Desmond returned home from college, everyone pointed at him. The neighbors would tell their children, “Look at Desmond Howard. Look at what you could become.’ ”

Young fans and old friends rang the doorbell to pose with Desmond and ask for autographs when word spread or neighbors noticed he was home. He smiled and made a fuss over each one.

“We went to the car wash,” Hattie said, “and I looked at him and said, ‘Desmond, aren’t you tired of this?’ And he said, ‘No, Mom. I’m having the time of my life.’ ”

Information was used from my by-lined story in the Dec. 13, 1991 Detroit Free Press.

DESMOND HOWARD, DAVID LETTERMAN AND THE HEISMAN TROPHY WEEKEND

When Desmond Howard received the formal invitation from the Downtown Athletic Club of New York as a finalist for the 1991 Heisman Trophy, I had one simple question for him: “Who do you like better, Leno or Letterman?”

Desmond immediately answered, “Letterman, for sure. I watch the guy almost every night – cracks me up.”

I then asked Desmond if he wanted to see “Late Night With David Letterman” the night before the Dec. 14 Heisman presentation.

“Absolutely, man,” he said. “Can you get tickets?”

I told Desmond that I could, and he was excited about it.

The year before, while covering the NCAA Basketball Tournament, I wanted to write about Letterman’s infatuation with his alma mater, Ball State, which had advanced to the Sweet 16. The unheralded Cardinals had beaten Oregon State and Louisville to become Cinderellas, and Letterman took joy in celebrating them in his nightly monologues.

So, I got in touch with his office at NBC-TV and asked for an interview. One of Letterman’s assistants told me: “Dave doesn’t want to do a phone interview, but likes your story idea. He asked that you fax me three questions, and I’ll fax back his answers to you.”

That worked for me.

Letterman replied with some funny lines (no surprise there) for a piece before Ball State played UNLV and lost by just two points. One of his assistant’s called after I faxed the article to Letterman, and said he liked the story. “Call me anytime you are in town and we’ll get you some tickets,” she added.

So I got tickets for the two of us and Wolverines sports information director Bruce Madej for the Dec. 13 show. And after all the Friday interviews and obligations, we put on our coats and walked outside to hail a cab. One of the Heisman reps spotted Desmond and asked if we needed a limousine ride anywhere. This is how you get treated when you are with the Heisman Trophy favorite.

We headed toward mid-town in luxury and arrived outside NBC Studios early for the show. So, we wandered around and took in the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, a towering Norway pine more than 70 feet tall and decorated with an elaborate chain of lights. There were even sidewalk vendors roasting chestnuts on an open fire. Manhattan at Christmas is something to behold and cherish.

Once inside the studio at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, we went to the reception desk and waited. Free Press photographer Julian Gonzalez, who was chronicling Desmond’s coronation weekend with me, met us there. We were soon escorted to Studio 6B, the same studio where “Late Night With Jimmy Fallon” is now taped and where the “Tonight Show” with both Johnny Carson and Jack Paar was taped.

Letterman’s producer, Robert Morton, told us that he wanted us to sit front row and center for the show, and be introduced after his monologue. Actually, he was only concerned about Desmond being there, but was going to give us the royal treatment, too. This was great. I was a huge fan of the show and Letterman, and would fantasize about writing a best-seller and getting invited as a guest to discuss my prose with the current king of late night.

“Well,” Desmond said, “I am flattered by this. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would rather just sit in the green room and watch the show from there with the guests.”

WHAT?

I asked Desmond if he had, well, lost his mind.

“I just don’t want to jinx winning the award by doing this,” he told me in all sincerity.

I explained to him that he gets plenty of shots at network television, but this brief “brush with greatness” was my only shot. And, besides, it was widely agreed that Desmond was going to be a landslide winner. It also is impossible to jinx winning an award that has already had the vote completed and tallied.

“C’mon, Dez, have a heart,” I said.

“Nope,” he answered, “just can’t jinx it.”

And then Desmond dropped his head back and laughed that infectious, high-pitched laugh of his. And I knew there was no talking him out of this.

The green room it was.

Virtually every entertainment star of the last 60 years had sat in there, waiting for Jack, Johnny, Dave or Jimmy to call them into the chair next to their desk. OK, so we got Jack Hanna and his zoo animals and Los Lobos, which had performed on the “La Bamba” soundtrack the year before. But they were pretty cool guys, and we got to pet an aardvark or some such exotic animal.

We had hoped to spend a few minutes with Letterman after the show, but he had something going on. Still, Morton said he was sorry about that, and was glad to have us at the show.

Desmond and I watched the whole show on a big monitor screen, and Letterman was on his game. I can’t recall a single joke from the monologue or a barb he hurled at Hanna, who was wearing that crazy safari hat. But I can remember how loudly we laughed. Oh, we just howled.

The show is taped just before the dinner hour in order to have the proper amount of time to set it up on satellite for the time slot at 12:35 a.m. So, that night I curled up in my bed at the Downtown Athletic Club and watched the show again. And, since there is no ceiling to the green room, which is adjacent to the stage and set, I could hear Desmond cackling and me laughing way too loud.

And I laughed some more.

Meeting Tom Brokaw after the show was anything but a rush.

Word had spread that Desmond was in Rockefeller Center, and the NBC Nightly News anchor requested his presence in his office. We were on the elevator and down the hall to Brokaw’s sprawling office.

Desmond told Brokaw, “You’re smooth, like Brent Musburger.” They laughed and Brokaw complimented him for his abilities and desires to help various charities once he turned pro – an announcement that would come after the Rose Bowl.

 Brokaw absolutely gushed over Desmond, but acted as if the rest of us shouldn’t have been allowed in. He gave us dead fish handshakes and quickly looked away to ask questions of Desmond. I wanted to say, “A frown and a smile take the same amount of time.” But I resisted and we all left after a short time.

However, the night was young, and there was more fun in store.

Madej invited me to join him at a special dinner for sports information directors, the Heisman finalists and their immediate families. So, I got to meet and eat with the Howards; BYU quarterback Ty Detmer, who had won the 1990 Heisman; and University of Washington defensive tackle Steve Emtman, who would be chasing Desmond around the Rose Bowl in less than three weeks. Florida State quarterback Casey Weldon, the other finalist, didn’t arrive until Saturday because he was receiving the Johnny Unitas Golden Arm Trophy that night in Louisville, Ky.

The finalists present were handed white footballs bearing the Heisman stamp and were encouraged to get autographs from past Heisman winners in the dining room at the Jack Mowbray Grill.

“You might as well autograph mine right now,” Emtman told Desmond, reaching across the appetizers to hand over the football.

Everyone laughed and the obvious had been foreshadowed.

Desmond moved to the corner table with Detmer to get the autograph of the first of 56 previous winners, the University of Chicago’s Jay Berwanger, who had a truly unique game confrontation with another outstanding Michigan gridder.

Berwanger, according to the University of Chicago Chronicle, was the only Heisman recipient who was ever tackled by a future President – Gerald Ford, during a 1934 game between Chicago and Michigan. “When I tackled Jay in the second quarter, I ended up with a bloody cut (beneath the left eye) and I still have the scar to prove it,” Ford recalled in the publication.

However, Berwanger, who died in 2002 at the age of 88, took it easy on Desmond and just signed the ball.

You could feel the history of Heismans past at the Downtown Athletic Club, housed in a 35-story art deco-style building that was completed in 1930.  From 1935 through 2000, from initial recipient Berwanger through Florida State quarterback Chris Weinke, the Heisman was presented there. It was built just off the Hudson River and less than a half mile south of the World Trade Center.

When the terrorists over-took the planes that downed the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, 2001, the DAC was fortunate to avoid destruction. But it was in a “frozen zone” and closed, never to reopen as the DAC, which filed for bankruptcy one year later. It opened in 2005 as the Downtown Club Condominium, and continues as a residence near the Wall Street district.

The Heisman would move around town and be presented at other locations in the years after that, and that quaint feeling of the award was never quite the same. But I can still recall catching a limo for the Letterman show outside the lobby at 20 West St., and the excitement of that chilly night in Manhattan.

Hanging with the toast of the town definitely has its advantages.

Information was used from my by-lined story in the Detroit Free Press on Dec. 13, 1991