The ultimate reception

Sporting News, The, Dec 18, 1995 by Steve Harrison

Funny thing, fame. One day you're just another flanker at Ohio State, when, suddenly, like a leg cramp in the middle of the night you find yourself as hounded as a cover boy. Terry Glenn, college football's most graceful athlete, plays through success, purposefully watching the past. "I can't take it on, y'all," he says, "but nobody wanted to interview me last year. Now everybody wants to talk. Yeah, it's frustrating."

Funny thing, fame. Fame means middle-aged superfans loitering in the Woody Hayes Center, waiting two hours for your autograph, waiting and hiding even after a gruff assistant coach has shooed them away like the homeless. (Heaven forbid a Buckeye spend four seconds on a signature. This is college football in Columbus.) It means reporters gleaning "anecdotes" and good quotes" from your soul, it means getting letters from children touched by the story of your life, it means sweet money is only a post pattern away. Just catch the pass, baby, and keep running past your senior year to San Diego or Miami. (Glenn hates the cold.)

Take a return to Brookhaven High School Thanksgiving week, for instance. Glenn and his best friend, Charles (June) Henley, once the student body president here, now a junior running back at Kansas, are sitting in school desks, looking quite humble, despite Glenn's red OSU jacket and Henley's KU cap and coat.

Two teachers drop by to say hello. They are much older men, each carrying attache cases, looking like Mr. Peepers. Math teachers, of course. At first glance, it looks like a textbook generation gap: Are they envious of these two young studs who, through football, have more wealth within their grasp than a pair of teachers will make in a decade? Absolutely not. How could anyone feel resentment toward two of the nicest young men whose deeds are seen regularly on national television?

The men assure Brookhaven's famous sons that they do not want their autographs. After all, they say, their names were written on tests and papers they handed in. Or didn't band in. (Rimshot, please.)

Henley, whose very nickname, June - shortened from Junior - radiates warmth, proudly displays his wounds: swollen hands, a sore shoulder, a skinned knee. Everyone is impressed. Who will his 9-2 Jayhawks play in a bowl game? Henley says Michigan or Penn State would be nice. (Kansas will play UCLA in the Aloha Bowl on Christmas Day, and Ohio State, after its crushing loss to Michigan, will play Tennessee in the Citrus Bowl on January 1.)

Terry, or as friends say, "T", is asked about being named a first-team All-American the day before. He says it feels good. And what about the Heisman Trophy? Of course, it will go to Eddie George or Tommie Frazier, they agree, but Glenn's name has been mentioned. Heisman Trophy. He says that feels good, too.

And so Glenn and Henley sit and smile, basking in this attention like two lizards soaking sun on a desert highway.

Terry and June became friends almost eight years ago, introduced through Glenn's older cousin, Torrey Blunt When the older kids went off to do what older kids do, Terry and June did what younger kids do: play Nintendo. June had an early-morning newspaper route then, and soon Terry, who was one year older, was coming by the Henleys' house on Renwood Place for some Super Mario Brothers before catching the bus.

One school night in October 1987, Terry's mother, Donetta, didn't come home. Terry waited and waited, before he and his little sister, Dorothy, then 7, walked across the street to spend the night with the neighbors. Donetta, who was last seen in a lounge, had left her purse and drink on the bar before stepping outside with two men. Three days later, she was found in a vacant building, beaten to death. Kenneth Adams of Columbus is serving a 10- to 25-year sentence for involuntary manslaughter.

For nearly two years, Terry and Dorothy lived with their aunts. Terry was desperate. His mother was everything; his grandmother had died earlier. "I basically quit," Terry says. "I kind of lost interest in about everything. I used to be a good student. I used to thrive on that. After what happened, I just lost interest."

Terry wanted to go out at night, escape. He and his aunts fought. One Friday, June asked his mother, Mary, if Terry could spend the night. Of course, Mary Henley said.

"It went from overnight to eight years," Mary says. "It just happened. For him it was a blessing. And for us, it's a blessing to see him excel."

When the weekend ended, Terry stuck around. At the time, Mary Henley worked for an insurance agency, but June's father, Charles Henley, now a circulation manager at the Columbus Dispatch, was working only part-time. They didn't really know Terry. He was just a pal who dropped by for basketball or video games. But they couldn't say no.

"We talked to (our kids) how we didn't have enough finances to go around," Mary says. "The whole family weighed this decision, and was it worth it. We had to fix up the house, and attend classes for foster parents. Who knew what would happen if we didn't take him in."