That was a great time for me, uh having the opportunity to to be the second person picked in the draft. Um man, uh uh it was like God’s gift to me uh as a professional football player to end up here in Dallas with uh quote unquote we be what we became America’s team. I’ve spent most of my life around football.
First as a kid dreaming about the game, then as a player fortunate enough to live that dream. Over the years, I’ve been asked countless questions about records, championships, and memorable plays. But one question always seems to come back. Who were the players you admired the most? That’s not an easy question to answer. Football’s given us so many great players.
Some were faster than everyone else. Some were stronger. Some seemed to see the game differently than the rest of us. And every generation produces a few men who leave a mark so deep that people are still talking about them decades later. I was lucky enough to share the field with many of those men. Some were teammates. Some were opponents.
A few were heroes long before I ever reached the NFL. Watching them taught me lessons that no coach ever could. They showed me what leadership looked like. They showed me how champions handled pressure. And they showed me what it meant to earn the respect of an entire locker room. What makes this list difficult is that I’m not choosing these players based on statistics alone.
Football is more than numbers. It’s about moments. It’s about the feeling you get when you watch someone do something that seems impossible. It’s about the people who make you stop and say I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. When I look back on my career now, there are five players who stand out above the rest. Not because they were perfect, not because they won every game, but because each of them changed the way I thought about football.
These are the five players I admired the most. The first time I met Roger Staubach, I was walking into a locker room that already belonged to him. When I arrived in Dallas in 1977, I was a young guy everyone was talking about. I’d won the Heisman Trophy. I’d had success at Pittsburgh. People expected me to make an immediate impact.
But the truth is, when you’re a rookie stepping into a Cowboys locker room filled with veterans, you learn very quickly that college doesn’t matter anymore. Roger was one of the first people who made me feel welcome. What surprised me was how normal he was. Here was a man who had already become one of the most recognizable players in America. Fans treated him like a hero.
Reporters followed him everywhere. Yet, when you sat down and talked to him, there was no ego. No need to remind anyone of what he’d accomplished. I remember watching him during practice more than I listened to him talk. Roger wasn’t the loudest player on the field. He didn’t need to be. The respect came naturally.
When he spoke, people listened. When he walked into the huddle, everybody paid attention. For a young running back trying to earn his place, that was something worth studying. One thing that always impressed me was the way Roger handled pressure. Some players change when the game gets tight. Their body language changes. Their confidence disappears.
Roger seemed to become even calmer. The bigger the moment, the more comfortable he looked. There were times during games when things weren’t going our way. Maybe we were behind. Maybe the offense was struggling. But you could look at Roger and see that he never doubted himself. That confidence spread through the entire team.
I learned a lot from that. Years later, people still talk about his comebacks and his championships, and they should. Those achievements deserve every bit of recognition they received. But when I think about Roger, that’s not the first thing that comes to mind. What I remember most is the example he set every single day.
He showed younger players how to how to carry themselves. He He showed us that leadership wasn’t about giving speeches. It was about consistency. It was about showing up prepared, treating people with respect, and earning trust over time. The funny thing is that Roger probably never realized how many players were watching him. I know I was.
When I think back to those early years in Dallas, I don’t just remember a Hall of Fame quarterback. I remember a teammate who helped a young rookie feel like he belonged. And that’s something I’ve never forgotten. The first time I really paid attention to Walter Payton, I wasn’t watching him as another NFL player.
I was watching him as a fan of the position. Running backs notice things that other people don’t. Fans see the long touchdown run. Coaches see the play design. But another running back sees the smaller details. The balance, the footwork, the way a player finishes a run when he could easily step out of bounds. Walter had all of that.
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By the time I entered the league, everybody already knew he was special. What impressed me wasn’t that he could make defenders miss. A lot of great backs could do that. It was the way he seemed to welcome contact. Sometimes it looked like he enjoyed the toughest part of the job more than the easy part. I remember seeing highlights of him early in his career and thinking that he ran differently than anyone else.
Most running backs were trying to avoid punishment. Walter was trying to win every collision. He played the game with an edge that was impossible to ignore. Over the years, I passed crossed at Pro Bowls, league events, and various NFL gatherings. Whenever I had the chance to spend time around him, I came away with even more respect than I had before.
Walter was competitive, but it wasn’t the kind of competitiveness that made people uncomfortable. He simply expected a lot from himself. You could feel it in the way he talked about football. He wasn’t satisfied with being good. He wanted to be great every single season. One conversation I remember involved the physical toll playing running back in the NFL.
People often forget how much punishment players at our position absorb. Every carry comes with a price. Every season leaves a few more scars behind. Walter understood that better than anyone. Yeah, he never seemed interested in complaining about it. He accepted the challenge because it was part of the game he loved. That attitude earned respect throughout the league.
What I admired most wasn’t his rushing yards or his records. Records eventually get broken. What stays with people is how you approach the game. Walter approached football with a level of determination that very few players ever reach. Even now when when younger fans ask me about the greatest running backs I’ve ever seen, Walter’s name always comes up quickly.
Not just because he was productive. Not just because he was durable. But because every time he stepped onto the field, you knew exactly what kind of effort you were going to get. 100% every play every game every season. When I think of Walter Payton today, I don’t think about statistics first. I think about toughness.
I think about pride. I think about a player who never asked the game to be easier. And that’s why he’ll always have my admiration. The first thing I learned about Randy White was that there was no switch to turn him off. Some players have one personality during games and another personality during practice. Randy wasn’t one of them.
Whether it was a Sunday afternoon in front of 80,000 fans or training camp drill in the Texas heat, he approached everything with the same intensity. When I arrived in Dallas, I quickly realized why people called him one of the toughest men in football. What most fans saw was the player game day.
They saw the sacks, the tackles, and the collisions. What they didn’t see were the practices. They didn’t see the work that happened long before kickoff. I did. There were days when training camp felt endless. The heat was brutal. Everybody was tired. Everybody was looking for a reason to take it easy. Then you look over and see Randy White going as hard as ever.
That had an effect on people. When one of the best players on the team refuses to coast, nobody else has much of an excuse. I remember watching younger players arrive in Dallas and react the same way I had. They see Randy’s reputation and expect a superstar. What they found instead was a worker.
A man who believed that whatever success he’d earned yesterday had nothing to do with what he needed to do today. That mindset was contagious. One thing I always admired about Randy was his willingness to do the difficult jobs that rarely earned headlines. Football teams aren’t built only on stars making spectacular plays.
They’re built on on players who do their jobs over and over again without needing recognition. Randy understood that. He never seemed interested in attention. What mattered to him was winning. If that meant sacrificing his body, he did it. If it meant taking on double teams so someone else could make the tackle, he did that, too.
As teammates, we didn’t need speeches from him. His actions said enough. There were games when I’d come back to the sideline after a long drive and see Randy breathing hard, covered in dirt, looking like he just been through a fight. Then Then a few minutes later, he’d be right back out there doing it all over again.
That’s the kind of thing players remember. Years after retirement, people still ask me about the great Cowboys teams of that era. Names like Roger Staubach, Drew Pearson, and Tony Hill naturally come up. But whenever the conversation turns to toughness, Randy White is usually one of the first names that enters my mind.
Not because he talked about being tough, cuz he lived it every day. The longer I played, the more I appreciated what Randy brought to our team. Great talent is rare. Great consistency is even rarer. Randy White had both. And knowing him taught me that sometimes the most respected player in the locker room isn’t necessarily the loudest one.
It’s the man who shows up every day and does the hard work without asking for credit. The first time I realized just how special Joe Montana was, he wasn’t even on my team. In fact, that’s probably what made the impression stronger. When you’re watching one of your own teammates every day, you slowly get used to what they can do.
But, when a player on the other sideline keeps breaking your heart year after year, you pay attention in a different way. That’s what Joe Montana did. During the 1980s, the rivalry between Dallas and San Francisco became one of the biggest stories in football. Those games felt different. The atmosphere was different. The pressure was different.
Everybody knew what was at stake whenever the Cowboys and 49ers met. And standing at the center of it all was Joe Montana. What amazed me about Joe wasn’t his arm strength. There were quarterbacks who could throw the ball farther. It wasn’t his size, either. He wasn’t the biggest quarterback in the league. It was his composure.
No matter what was happening around him, Joe looked like the calmest person in the stadium. I’ve seen quarterbacks get rattled by a loud crowd. I’ve seen quarterbacks lose confidence after an interception. I’ve seen quarterbacks panic when a defense starts getting pressure. I never saw much of that from Joe Montana.
The game could be hanging in the balance. The crowd could be going crazy. Defenders could be closing in from every direction, yet somehow he always seemed completely under control. As players, we noticed that there were moments when you thought San Francisco was finished, then Joe would lead another drive, complete another third-down pass, find another way to keep the chains moving.
Nothing about it looked rushed. Nothing looked forced. It was almost like he saw the game a few seconds before everyone else. I remember watching him operate and thinking how difficult it must have been for defenses. You could play great football for three quarters, maybe even for 55 minutes, then Joe would get the ball late in the game, and suddenly all that work felt like it might disappear.
That’s a rare quality. Over the years, I played against a lot of talented quarterbacks. Some had stronger arms, some were better athletes, some put up incredible statistics, but very few controlled the emotional temperature of a football game the way Joe Montana did. His teammates believed in him completely, his coaches trusted him, and maybe most importantly, his opponents respected him.
We certainly did. Looking back now, I think that’s one of the highest compliments you can give any player. Respect from your own team is expected. Respect from your rivals has to be earned. Joe earned plenty of it. When people ask me what I remember most about him, I don’t talk about a specific throw or a specific game.
I remember the feeling, the feeling that no lead was ever truly safe when Joe Montana was standing on the other sideline. And for a competitor, there may be no greater sign of greatness than that. The first football hero I ever had was Jim Brown. Long before I wore a Dallas Cowboys uniform, long before I won the Heisman Trophy, long before anyone outside of Western Pennsylvania knew my name, I was just a young kid watching Jim Brown and wondering how one man could seem so much bigger than the game itself.
For players of my generation, Jim wasn’t simply another great running back. He was the standard. Every young runner who carried a football dreamed of being compared to Jim Brown someday. Whether you played in high school, college, or the NFL, his name was always part of the conversation.
If someone called you the next Jim Brown, it was the highest compliment imaginable. I remember watching old footage of him and being amazed by how complete he was. Most running backs have one defining trait. Some are fast, some are powerful, some are elusive. Jim seemed to have everything. He could run through defenders. He could run around defenders.
And if a defense somehow managed to stop him for a play, he came right back on the next one. There was a confidence about him that jumped off the screen. Even years after he retired, players still talked about him with a level of respect that was different from anyone else. When former opponents described Jim Brown, they didn’t sound like men discussing a football player.
They sounded like men describing a force of nature. As my own career developed, I eventually had opportunities to meet him at league events and NFL functions. I’ll admit something, even after becoming a professional player myself, there was still a part of me that felt like the young kid who had grown up admiring him.
Some legends disappoint you when you finally meet them. Jim never did. He carried himself with the same confidence I had always imagined, but he also understood what football meant to younger generations of players. He knew how much influence he’d had on the people who came after him. And the truth is, none of us would have played the position exactly the way we did without his example.
Jim changed expectations. Before him, running backs were judged one way. After him, they were judged another. That’s the impact of a truly great player. When people debate the greatest running backs in NFL history, different names always come up. Walter Payton, Barry Sanders, Emmitt Smith, Eric Dickerson. There are strong arguments for all of them.
But, when I think about influence, when I think about the player who shaped how generations viewed the position, I always come back to Jim Brown. Not because someone told me he was great, because I saw the the effect he had on everyone around him. Even decades after retirement, his shadow still stretched across the game.
That’s incredibly rare. I’ve been fortunate enough to witness some remarkable players during my lifetime, men who changed games, men who won championships, men who earned their place in Canton. But, if you ask me which player I admired most, the answer’s never really changed. From the time I was a boy carrying a football in Pennsylvania to the day I retired from the NFL, Jim Brown remained the player I measured greatness against.
And in many ways, I still do. As I look back on the game that gave me so much, I realized that the players I admired most weren’t necessarily the ones with the biggest headlines. They were the men who left a lasting impression on everyone who watched them. Roger Staubach showed me what leadership looked like.
Walter Payton showed me what relentless effort looked like. Randy White showed me what commitment looked like. Joe Montana showed me what composure looked like. And Jim Brown showed me what true greatness looked like. Football has changed a lot since my playing days. The rules are different, the athletes are different, uh the game moves faster than ever, but some things never change.
Great players still inspire the next generation. I know those five inspired me. And that’s why I’ll never forget them.
