The Illinois Storytellers series brings you first-person pieces from distinctive Illinois voices. We’re proud to share this installment written by Rashard Mendenhall.
My love affair with Illinois started the moment I saw the field. Green grass and stark white lines are the norm, but the distinction of a brightly colored orange end zone which spelled out the name “Illinois,” as a kid born in the state, that word just read home. When I saw the team wearing orange and blue playing my favorite sport, I wasn’t too young to realize this was the home team. This was “my” team.
My devotion intensified when I witnessed a man defying the laws of gravity, soaring through the air, football in both hands held high to the sky. As if a prayer to the football gods were being asked and answered, he landed in the end zone, striking victory for Illinois.
When I was in high school, I remember a small but mighty man wearing No. 23, Rocky Harvey, who, by my recollection, led the Illinois upset over a tough Michigan team featuring a much lesser-known Tom Brady. This was one of many moments that led the Illini to a Big Ten championship and Sugar Bowl berth. They were one of the greatest teams in the modern era, led by Coach Ron Turner and a host of dawgs along the orange-and-blue sidelines.
I’m not ashamed to admit most of my knowledge of sports at the time came from PlayStation ratings and stats on the back of twenty-five-cent football cards. My passion for video games and real-life football finally crossed paths one night at The Ribeye restaurant in Champaign. I was the plus-one on my older brother’s recruiting trip, and this was the first dinner my brother Walter and I attended with the Illini. Sitting across from fifteen-year-old me was none other than free safety extraordinaire, No. 28 Travis Williams.
I think he humored me when I admitted I loved playing as him in the NCAA Football PlayStation Game. As Williams, I used to intercept the ball against frustrated competitors or the game itself. It meant the world to me that I was having my first steak with one of my heroes.
When we first arrived in Champaign, my family and I were greeted by a huge billboard of No. 30 Pierre Thomas. Seeing the excitement the town held for its football team was awesome. Not only that, but seeing Pierre toting the rock on that billboard was a reminder of how much the running back position meant to the University of Illinois. The sign from above was not lost on me. I knew I’d become a part of the traditions of the orange and blue.
While this was my brother’s recruiting trip, I had this growing feeling of wanting to be a part of it.
When I finally stepped on campus in 2005, I was ready to help change our program. We worked hard. Beyond hard. From the moment Ron Zook took over as head coach, we knew we wouldn’t be the same Illinois football program. Coach Zook, Conditioning Coach Lou Hernandez, and company did all they could to make sure of it. Every day we worked our asses off, and every night, each of us wondered . . . would it pay off?
Our 2005 season was marked by tough losses. We went into that postseason summer a lot hungrier and a lot tougher, daring Coach Lou to throw whatever he had at us. We already felt like we’d been through worse and knew we could handle it. We had a much better team, though our record still did not reflect it. But we were out to show the Big Ten who we were.
The 2006 game against Michigan State was our first Big Ten win in the Ron Zook era and our first taste of revenge, having dropped a game to the Spartans the year before. That win was the energy we needed to establish ourselves as an eventual Big Ten power.
Though our team was starting to gain traction, I was not sure I could continue with the politics of college football. Shortly before my junior year, I was ready to walk away from the sport, finish school, get my degree, find a job, and start a regular life away from the fame and stardom that I knew awaited me. In college football, like any highly driven, highly competitive environment, sometimes tensions arise—not only between opposing teams but sometimes within a team or between players and coaches.
In complete honesty, there was a time when I believed I was being treated unfairly. I knew I had a chance to be something special in the game, but I reached a point when I realized that if this is what college football is, then I don’t want any part of it. I momentarily thought that the potential to make it to the NFL wasn’t worth the sacrifice of my humanity.
In God’s timing, the day I decided this might be the end, there was a person, a force, that wouldn’t let me go. It was none other than my roommate and best friend, my brother, No. 34 Walter Mendenhall. After a game, as I grabbed my bag and walked out of the building, Walter grabbed me by my shirt and said, “This thing is much bigger than you. What you do affects all of us. So many people are waiting on you to step into your calling, and if you don’t do it, you let all of us down.”
Damn.
He reminded me that my journey wasn’t a singular one but one that would affect many more lives than my own. His message stuck. I couldn’t veer from the course God had set for me. This was the summer right before the historic 2007 football season. Walter reignited our team with one of the biggest saves in Illinois history.
That 2007 season was a blur. We were in the zone the entire year. After a tough loss to Missouri, we had reason to be encouraged. It was clear we were more than capable as a team. Our presumption was correct, and we wouldn’t taste defeat for another six weeks until we fell short to Iowa, the week after that to Michigan.
We were able to get back on the winning course against Ball State. There was an unforgettable moment that season during the Minnesota game when I came out of the game and let my brother play. After all he’d sacrificed and done for me, not just this year but throughout my life, of course, I’d have his back.
To finish senior day with a win against Northwestern was a major milestone for our guys. It was the first time we’d beaten them in our college careers. We finished the season 9-3. After all the work we’d put in over the summers, spring ball, and winter workouts, we’d finally arrived, finishing in the top three in the Big Ten.
Our grace was solidified when The Ohio State University went to the National Championship, and we got the bid to play University of Southern California in the Rose Bowl. After years of toil and faith, it felt like the football gods held us in their favor to go to southern California to play the game of our lives.
We had a time in Pasadena. From the comedy show to the Rose Parade, ESPN Zone to the famous Beef Bowl, our guys homed in on the experience of a lifetime that was a result of our hard work and foreshadowed the tough contest that awaited us at the end of the trip. It was this week and the Rose Bowl game that summed up our seniors’ careers and mine as well.
That evening, as I showered and dressed, I knew my college career was over. If there was any desire for me to stay, that was certainly demolished after wise words from an admired coach. In a meeting after the game, the coach told me to look at what I had done to defenses all year. They said there was no reason for me to be in school anymore; not only was I ready for the league, but if I stayed in school, they’d personally be upset. Forty-five minutes of praise later, I had no choice but to declare for the draft.
It wasn’t long before the Pittsburgh Steelers drafted me. It was the first time in my life I would live outside the state of Illinois.
I often draw on my experiences from Illinois, as this was the place where I spent the pivotal years of development in my life.
If you’re smart in life, you can learn to draw lessons from anything. For example, we had some tough losses in 2005, getting blown out by Penn State and Michigan State by ungodly margins. Both were on television, the Penn State game even being prime time, which was really embarrassing.
Many years later, on a fully decked set in Miami for Ballers, the writers and I missed a major dialogue continuity. When the director, Seith Mann, asked which of the writers or producers would assist him in telling the actors they had been saying the wrong line for the last two and a half hours, making the scene useless, there were crickets.
Since no one hopped up, I figured I’d been through more embarrassing things than this. So, I broke the news to actors Omar Benson Miller and John David Washington, to which they rightfully scathed us, “All of y’all back there, and nobody caught that?”
“Yes,” I replied, “we fouled up.”
I took a deep breath and realized it wasn’t the end of the world. In fact, I believe that the director and I became a little closer. He knew I’d be willing to push our car out of the mud if need be.
I’ve had a lot of success, from being named Chicago’s fastest teen to Illinois’ top recruit to the Chicago Tribune’s Silver Football award winner to Super Bowl champion to writer and producer for Ballers, a husband and a father to four lovely children, and a business- and homeowner with a living will and estate to manage. My highest honor, however, remains being a member of Illinois’ Hall of Fame Class of 2023. From a hundred years of Memorial Stadium to a thousand more, I hope my legacy and our stories will remain integral parts of Illinois history for many years.
I-L-L !
