Heads. Tails. Tails. Tails. Heads. And with each flip of the coin, we crossed out another team. Heads. A dark line right through the Broncos. Tails. Peyton Manning and his Colts would have to keep winning without me. Heads. Thank God I don’t have to join Raider Nation. A highly anticipated flip and its corresponding line until only one team remained. It was the most arbitrary way we could imagine to finally give me some organization to root for other than the Cowboy’s weekly opposition. And, honestly, it seemed like a good idea right up until that final line. That was when I became the most reluctant fan of the Cleveland Browns. The only team in the NFL to have neither hosted or participated in a single Super Bowl. The easiest team in the league to overlook.

Billy Jones was equally easy to pass over. Standing on his tiptoes, he still couldn’t reach the six foot mark. His weight more closely resembled a basketball score than a batting average. And he was from what seemed to be the only town in Texas with a population of less than one hundred, a little place named Leona lost somewhere in the vast and arid expanse between Dallas and Houston. He was in every way the exception to the fabled adage. Billy might have been from Texas, but neither he nor his hometown could ever be mistaken for big. His family, however, fit right in with the expectation of typical Texas size. It was a large, Lone Star state-sized family that literally comprised a tenth of the town’s population. Four tall, athletic boys; four dark, beautiful girls; one mother strong enough to raise them all… and Billy, the only of the boys to not tower above his mother, the only of the boys that preferred a pigskin to a basketball.

Leona was a picturesque birthplace for an energetic child, full of wonderful places to explore and plenty of caring adults who warned against it. It was one of those golden era towns where the neighbors are family, one of those rare places from which a boy could not leave except as a man. Leona itself seemed to stick those who lived there with an impeccable work ethic, a galvanized determination, a family-inclined heart, and even the legendary Southern propensity for story-telling. Though it was small, it radiated a sense of do-ability. Nothing was believed to be impossible, even for a boy so unassuming as Billy. He recalls with a cracked, oft-used smile and moist brown eyes the time that his mother reprimanded him for once saying that he physically could not complete the chore she had assigned. “I just can’t,” he complained. Her voice was firm and her glare piercing. “That word is never to be in your vocabulary again. You can. And you will. Everything is do-able.” It was at that moment when Billy ceased telling himself that he can’t and starting showing others that he indeed could.

Though Leona’s small town values made it a wonderful place to raise men, the fact that it lacked any formal education beyond grade school made it a difficult place to raise the scholars Mrs. Jones pictured for her children or even the athletes that the boys themselves envisioned. And so when the oldest reached his freshman year, Mrs. Jones moved her large family twenty miles to the west, to the closest town big enough to have a high school. That town was Normangee, with a population bordering a thousand. Named after the local judge and formed at the intersection of two trans-Texas railroads, this town served as the perfect stepping stone from the small town of Leona to the big cities of the Lone Start State. And, for little Billy Jones, it was the town where he would learn to play football.

For the first time in his life, Billy did not have the support of his mother. Convinced her son’s small size was precursor to a long term injury, Mrs. Jones refused to attend any of his games that first season. She wouldn’t even read the paper, which seemed to feature lengthy praises of the school’s newest and fastest kick returner each Saturday morning. She refused to even hear her son describe each week’s competition. It was all she could do to sign his report card, knowing with a mother’s wisdom that her signature was required for her son to play and fearing with a women’s premonition that he would end up in a wheelchair because of it. But she could not tell her son that he could not play, for it was she who first gave him the do-ability speech. She was the one who had told him not to doubt his ability. And he had taken that lesson to heart. He was determined to overcome the deficits of his stature and succeed in a sport that undoubtedly favors size and weight. And, against all odds, he did. He became the greatest football player that the school or the town had ever seen, eventually receiving a scholarship to play at Texas A&M. The littlest Jones from the tiny town of the Leona was playing with the big boys now at one of the most prestigious colleges in the Lone Star State. Billy had truly become a scholar and an athlete. He had fulfilled his mother’s dream and was well on his way to accomplishing his own.

It was as an Aggie that Billy Jones walked onto the Browns. Passed up in the draft largely because of his size, he still longed for the opportunity to prove that he belonged in the NFL. He showed up at Cleveland’s preseason practices and insisted on another chance. He left with a professional contract. Billy Jones from Leona, Texas, would be returning kicks for the Cleveland Browns for the final years of the seventies. The news reverberated through the living rooms back home. Everyone was elated, except for Mrs. Jones. She still could not shake the feeling that her son was going to suffer a serious injury.

His time as a professional was brief and not particularly noteworthy, even by Cleveland’s lowly standards. The highlight of his career was a thirty yard kick return in a victory against the Bengals. In another game, a teammate pitched Billy a recovered fumble which he ran in for his lone touchdown. But though he wouldn’t be going to a Super Bowl or even a Pro Bowl anytime soon, life was good. He had proved everyone wrong, even his own mother. He had a jersey on his back and he would soon have a wedding ring on his finger. His contract, though not extravagant, provided Billy and his girlfriend with their own house and some elegant transportation. The American dream had become a reality.

In Hollywood, the credits would roll here.

Billy Jones didn’t wear a chest pad, fearing the extra weight and its bulky feel would slow him down and remove his one advantage in a league of bigger, stronger athletes. After every game, he would walk into the locker room bruised but proud. It almost seemed as if the pint-sized kick returner was immune to injury. But it was an illusion, an illusion that was mercilessly shattered during his second year as a professional when a defender’s helmet buried itself deeper into his chest than anyone imagined possible. Mrs. Jones’ premonition had finally been realized. Her son was hurt.

The doctor said what Billy already knew, that several of his ribs had been cracked. But he sighed with resignation as the doctor continued, begging him to give up the sport he loved. You are lucky to not have punctured your lungs. Your back is a literal wreck. You are too small to play professional football without risking paralysis. And as he listened, Billy Jones realized what his mother had been telling him for years. He could not play football anymore. It was not worth risking a life in a wheelchair.

When I first met Billy Jones, he was sitting in his wheelchair. And he was no longer in Cleveland. He was here in Los Angeles, living in a shelter on skid row. I shuffled a plate of food to my left hand and introduced myself with a firm shake and a level gaze. Though his hair is thin and his body frail, he equaled my grip and matched the intensity in my eyes. I did not ask his story. He did not share. I simply gave him a meal and he moved on. I did not know that this frail man had been a professional football player. And, to be quite honest, I doubt I would have believed him then. Skid row is full of stories, most of which are nothing more than psychological issues or drug trips.

It only took me a few weeks to notice something unique about Billy. I don’t know if it was the radiant smile which seemed the only light on the dark streets of the inner city. Perhaps it was the dozen rings on his hands which he wore as proudly as any championship band. Perhaps it was the way that the pink paper rose decorating his chair complimented the faded red of his Ohio State jersey. Perhaps it was the large chain and cross dangling from his neck, so grand that it would look equally appropriate on a football player or a priest. Perhaps it was the showy hat he wore, something so extravagant it could only have been donated by an old lady who had grown sick of red hat clubs. Whatever it was, I felt drawn to hear his story. And, as he told, I felt compelled to believe.

After his two year stint in the NFL, Billy and his girlfriend moved to Los Angeles where he took up work as a stagehand at local studios. They never ended up getting married but they did have a beautiful daughter whom they named Shaylee. The apartment was smaller than their house in Cleveland. The showy cars were exchanged for something a little more modest or public transportation. And, when the destination was close, they would walk. For though Billy’s body still hurt from the poundings he received in the NFL, he had stopped playing the game after that doctor’s visit. And it was on one such walk that his greatest fears were realized.

While crossing the street late one night in 2005, Billy Jones was hit by a drunk driver. The collision rendered the formerly untouchable athlete paralyzed in the lower half of his body. He left that curb walking with numbered steps. He would never reach the other side of that two-lane street. Instead, he spent the next four months in the hospital, in and out of consciousness There was not much of a celebration for his 50th birthday. He spent it with the nurses, mourning the girlfriend who had left him at the time he needed her the most. It was not long before he lost his job as well.

Three years later, Billy spent his first night on the street. He found shelter under a gas station in the south side, with just a coat to keep him warm. He fell asleep sitting in his wheelchair, wondering how man once cheered by thousands could now be ignored by millions. It felt like the end of the world, as if he went from rags to riches and back again. His present and his past seemed as different as daylight and darkness. He did not know about shelters or soup kitchens. He did not know how to be homeless. He knew how to play football. But he couldn’t. Mrs. Jones had been right.

Now, two years later, Billy is living in a halfway house on the corner of Western and Vernon. He starts a new job in the next few weeks and is a completely different man than he had been just a few years ago. He lost his car, house, health, and girlfriend. In their place, he has self-proclaimed patience, expanded forgiveness, undeniable joy, and vibrant faith. When I asked him about his situation, his response in the midst of incredible suffering was borderline incomprehensible.

“God killed me to save my life. He made me a better person through that. That can’t be wrong. He really did good. My life just got started and it’s getting better. If I could change it, I wouldn’t… When I was younger, I asked God for one blessing. He gave me two, the daughter I always wanted and a life that is lasting long enough to see her grow up.”

Billy Jones has lived more in his fifty-five years than anyone else I have ever met. He has seen the small town comfort of Leona, experienced the rush of thousands of cheering fans in Cleveland, and now felt the heartbreaks of Los Angeles. And in each place he goes, I know that Billy’s stubborn perseverance and courageous hope have touched those fortunate enough to know him. I can see it in the eyes of the addicts and prostitutes who smile just to call him their friend. I wonder if he knows how great his legacy will be, how many lives his humble existence has touched. He can’t. There is just no way.