“Every gambler tells himself his object is to win, but his true object may be the avoidance of pain. Playing and losing is better than not playing. Winning is better than losing, sure, but only because it allows the gambler to keep playing.”

Stung-The Incredible Obsession of Brian Molony
Gary Stephen Ross

Back in junior high, there was this guy named Johnny Johnson. He wasn’t just any kid—Johnny was the kid. He was the guy every boy wanted to be, and every girl dreamed of marrying.

At just 14, Johnny was clocked running the 100-yard dash in 10.3 seconds. Sure, that might not sound like world-class speed today, but we were 14 years old. That was blazing. I remember hearing that the fastest female sprinter in the world at the time posted a 10 flat—only three-tenths of a second faster—and Johnny wasn’t even done growing yet. It was clear to everyone that high school, college, and probably Olympic fame were all in his future.

In ninth grade, Johnny was elected student body president. Honestly, he probably could’ve had the auditorium named after him if he’d asked, or had every school in the state fighting over who got to have him on their roster.

On the football field, Johnny was magic as the kick returner. I remember the coach gazing down the field at him one day. He wasn’t even talking to me, but his words stuck: “He’s one of the most gifted athletes in the city.” You could hear the awe in his voice, and I felt it too. Johnny was just that guy.

Even in art class, you couldn’t escape the Johnny Johnson fan club. It was like the girls had formed a committee to discuss him every day, sharing updates and whispering words like “cute” and “dreamy.” He was their obsession, and honestly, I didn’t blame them. He was dreamy.

I idolized Johnny. He’d walk down the hall in his letterman jacket, his chiseled jawline catching the light, two girls trailing behind him carrying his books. Teachers sang his praises like he was a gift to humanity, and I’m pretty sure his report card backed that up.

One memory, though, stands out above all the others. It was during off-season training when all the boys from every sport were crammed into the gym with one mission: sell candy to raise money. The coaches divided us into a dozen smaller teams, each with its own leader, and we’d be competing for a grand prize—a steak dinner. By sheer luck (or maybe misfortune), I ended up in Johnny Johnson’s group. Johnny, of course, was our team leader, and just the thought of sitting across the table from him over a $5 chopped steak was enough to make any kid hustle. It would be like having dinner with the President.

When it came time to report my sales, I handed Johnny my grand total—six dollars and fifty cents. I mumbled something about most of the people I had solicited not having any cash on hand. Johnny looked at me, his face full of irritation, and barked at me that payment wasn’t due until delivery. Then, without missing a beat, he called me a stupid ass and walked away.

I just stood there open-mouthed, fighting back the tears. That’s what I remember most about Johnny Johnson.