Scary good

Sporting News, The, Dec 13, 1999 by Paul Attner

Fueled by a steady diet of Tastykakes, the Colts' Marvin has become one of the league's most frightening receivers

I am searching for reasons. Why has this been a year of emergence for Marvin Harrison, who, in his fourth season, has grown from being a good receiver to one of the league's elite? I am told about his special relationship with quarterback Peyton Manning, which was forged during months of offseason, on-their-own practices. I am told about his work ethic, which can be traced as far back as his early school days, when he had perfect attendance amid a peer group full of dropouts. I am told about his exquisite speed and how he can race past cornerbacks and about his catch-everything hands and his fearless route running.

But I sense there is more. I probe and ponder. I refuse to accept general answers. And then finally I see something curious. There, in Harrison's locker at file Colts' practice complex. It is food, but not just any food. It is a package of Tastykakes.

Harrison smiles sheepishly. "Can't live without them," he confesses. "Got to have my Tastykakes."

This opens the floodgates. The truth pours out. All you receivers out there, put away your protein shakes mid those nutritional supplements and everything you have been taught about the food pyramid and eating five daily portions of fruits and vegetables. Instead, try the Marvin Harrison Miracle Receiver Diet. Then, you too may do what Harrison is doing, which simply is producing all All-Pro year and providing the final element of balance required for a Colts offense already profiting from the presence of Manning and rookie running back Edgerrin James.

All you need to understand about Harrison's worth is to study his contribution to the Colts' 37 triumph Sunday over the Dolphins. James dominated the first half by rushing for 104 of his 130 yards. When Miami took him away in the second, Manning began throwing, and Harrison--who had but one catch for 2 yards in the first half--responded with seven catches for 123 yards, including back-to-back, short-throw-and-quick-run receptions of 18 and 16 yards in the final 30 seconds that set up Mike Vanderjagt's dramatic final-play, 53-yard field goal. Upstart Indianapolis has won eight straight and has a surprising and commanding two-game lead in the AFC East. And Harrison showed once again that, with Jerry Rice fading, fading and almost gone, why shouldn't he be the next receiver to step up and capture the imagination of fans?

He has trails that Rice would admire. A honed, 6-foot, 181-pound body kept in shape through diligent workouts, a curious mind that wants to know how he can get better, a conscientiousness that tied him to Indianapolis last spring--and away lot weeks from Ms beloved hometown of Philadelphia--so he could master Ms on-field relationship with the prodigious Manning. And he's his own man, too--no jewelry, no tattoos, no trash-talking, no dancing, no hard partying--just a quiet guy with a generous smile and a love for mellow music doing his job in a highly professional manner.

But it is those Tastykakes that put him over the top.

"He is a freak of nature," says Colts defensive tackle Tony McCoy. "I have never seen anyone eat what he eats and keep a chiseled body. His metabolism must be going 100 miles per hour. I gain five pounds just looking at one of those Tastykakes."

The Tastykakes, which are manufactured in Philly--you can't find them anywhere in Indianapolis--and come in an assortment of flavors, form the foundation of his diet, which best can be described as calorie overload. Harrison, who is single and never cooks, eats junk food all day supplemented by sugar-coated cereal for both breakfast and a late-night snack. It's a must for the Colts' food inventory; they have to stock Lucky Charms, Fruit Loops and Cap'n Crunch at their complex for Marvin.

Every week, without fail, a boxfull of 30 Tastykake packages arrives at Harrison's three-bedroom Indianapolis condo, where he also gets three-day-late editions of the Philadelphia Daily News. He tries to keep the bulk of the Tastykakes for himself, but too many of his teammates have become hooked on the Hostess Twinkie-like snack. They raid his locker, so now he must hide some so they can last the week. But no one has had to endure the agony of McCoy.

Harrison and McCoy used to room together before games. After the last team meeting of the night, Harrison would get hungry, so he would order, oh, sausages and hot fries, chased by a Sprite. Then he would order a hot fudge brownie sundae, heavy on the hot fudge. Then, just before curfew, he would order more fries, an extra large portion. One night, the 290-pound McCoy, who straggles to make his prescribed weight, weakened. Drooling, shaking at the knees, he too got the fries. Ate a couple, then realized he couldn't afford the calories. So, he put the fries outside the door. But the smell was too tempting; he got up, grabbed them and started flushing them down the toilet. All the while, Harrison was pleading for a chance to finish what McCoy couldn't.