Dez Bryant: The Survivor
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here Dez Bryant was raised, they call it the come-up — that Tupac-twisty climb from starveling to stardom, from rags-to-Rolls-Royce royalty. Bryant, whose first five years in the game stack up against any receivers in the Hall of Fame, is a one-of-a-kind wideout with length, strength and speed, a beauty-and-beast-mode cocktail of Randy Moss and Marshawn Lynch. A former first-team All-American whose draft stock cratered when he was suspended from playing in his junior year of college, Bryant has been a bargain for the Dallas Cowboys since they traded up to pick him late in the first round in the spring of 2010: two consecutive Pro Bowls, one All-Pro selection and a season for the ages last year.
This summer, he’s pressing to finally get paid in a manner befitting his stats and rock-star station. He’s retained Tom Condon, the premier agent in football, and signed with Jay Z’s Roc Nation Sports to handle his contract talks with the Cowboys and broker his marketing deals; and he can’t leave his house in suburban Dallas without being swarmed by selfie-seeking fans imploring him to please remain a Cowboy. Anywhere Bryant goes, they come from all directions, many or most of them female. Whatever they’re drawn by, it’s deeper than sex, though he’s drop-dead-Denzel and he knows it. What they want, besides his baby, is to mother him, to make sure no one inflicts further harm on a man raised hip-deep in heartbreak. How do they know he’s suffered? The way women have always known, whether it was Sam Cooke or Richard Pryor or Marvin Gaye who stood before them: They know a battered star-child when they see one.
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