If that isn't Dunn, it must be his clone

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© St. Petersburg Times
published April 27, 2002

TAMPA -- Warrick Dunn takes the handoff and cuts to his right, stutter-steps and then squirts through the hole, turning a busted play into a nice gain.

Only it isn't Warrick Dunn.

Now Dunn is out in the community, helping those who are less fortunate, inspiring those who know all about him losing a parent and the battles he fought with naysayers who said he'd never make it this far because of his lack of size.

Only it still isn't Dunn.

Try as they might, the Bucs are probably never going to be able to fully replace Warrick Dunn. He was special. And I'm talking about when he wasn't on the field.

But if you had to try, Travis Stephens is a pretty darn good place to start.

The similarities are striking. Almost eerily so.

Both are running backs. Both are comparatively small: Stephens is 5 feet 8, 191 pounds; Dunn is 5-9, 180. Dunn lost his mother, a police officer, in the line of duty; Stephens, his father, to colon cancer his freshman year at Tennessee. Both have a tenderness toward helping others -- Dunn with his ingenious Homes for the Holidays; Stephens with his enduring dedication to community service.

Geez, talk about being separated at birth.

"I knew it was going to be like that when I got here just because of the size issue," Stephens said. "That's going to happen. If I'm successful with this team, then the next person that comes in that's about my size it'll probably be the same thing."

Friday was Stephens' first day in a Bucs uniform since being drafted by Tampa Bay in the fourth round last weekend, so it is ridiculous to begin to speculate on whether he'll ever become half the player Dunn was.

But if you talked to the folks in Tennessee, they would tell you not to bet against it. In fact, if Bucs coach Jon Gruden is smart, he'll do just that. He'll pull Stephens aside after this minicamp, look him squarely in the eye and tell him he seriously doubts Stephens can play at this level.

He'll paint a bleak picture about how Stephens is the low man on a totem pole that's stacked with veterans and that he'd be lucky to see any playing time. That is, if he makes the team.

Yep, Gruden would tell him all about how he loves Michael Pittman, about how he fought like the dickens to keep Mike Alstott, and about how much potential he sees in Byron Hanspard and Aaron Stecker.

And then he should try to hide the pessimism in his voice and tell Stephens he has until the preseason to prove him wrong.

Because if you want Stephens to do something, just tell him he can't. Invariably, he'll take your words and eventually shove them right back at you.

"That's something I promised myself," Stephens said. "Even though I had everybody doubting me, saying I wasn't going to do this or that, one day I just woke up and said, 'Forget them, I'm going to make it no matter what they say.' I've been doing this ever since I was 5 and won the Little League championship, so why stop now?"

That's why he kept all those newspaper articles in his locker at Tennessee, the nasty ones that questioned whether he would ever amount to more than a stand-in, first for Jamal Lewis, then for Travis Henry. Even this past season, when Stephens figured to finally become the featured back, the Vols brought in four freshmen running backs who just about everyone assumed would beat out the diminutive Stephens.

Not.

Stephens magnetized everyone, rushing for a school-record 1,464 yards and thumbing his nose at those who doubted his durability by carrying the ball a school-record 291 times.

"I remember he'd always come to me and say, 'What are they saying about me now?' " Gerald Harrison, Stephens' former roommate and the university's community relations director, said, recalling all the doubts about Stephens. "He fed off of that."

Of course, they love him now in Tennessee. He left Knoxville two days ago and the folks there miss him already.

They miss him because they never had to coax him to visit all of those sick patients at the hospital, or spend an hour mentoring some underprivileged kids at the local Boys & Girls Club. He always volunteered.

They miss him because they remember how he faced his father's death with grace and strength instead of bitterness and apathy.

They miss him because he reminded them that the measure of a person can't always be calibrated in feet and inches.

You know, we had a guy like that here once. But he got away.

Now he is back.

Only it's not Warrick Dunn.

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