W

ith that, Bo Jackson was—for the time being—off the baseball scout grid. He relocated 120 miles southeast to Auburn and, over the next three seasons, emerged as not merely the best amateur athlete in America but one of the all-time sports specimens. His accomplishments were the stuff of legend.

In track, Jackson qualified for the NCAA nationals in the 100-meter dash in his freshman and sophomore years. In football, he rushed for 829 yards as a freshman and 1,213 as a sophomore. And in baseball, well, in baseball, he was merely very good. He hit .279 with four home runs and 13 RBI as a freshman. He then skipped his sophomore season to focus on qualifying for the United States Olympic team as a 100-meter sprinter. He fell short and, as a junior, returned to the diamond, batting .401 with 17 home runs, 43 RBI and nine steals. His throws from the outfield were awe-inspiring.

Not merely the best amateur athlete in America but one of the all-time sports specimens. His accomplishments were the stuff of legend.

“I took over Bo’s sophomore year,” says Hal Baird, the Auburn baseball coach. “When I got there, [football coach] Pat Dye told me, ‘Hal, you have the chance to coach the greatest athlete ever.’ I thought he was exaggerating. He wasn’t. Bo was the only person I ever saw who could alter the geometry of a baseball field. The 90 feet, the 60 feet, six inches—those are all baseball measurements wonderfully implemented to test a human’s abilities. But Bo upset those balances. Ninety feet wasn’t far enough for him. Expected home run distances weren’t long enough for him. He would beat out two-hoppers to short; he would make 300-foot throws. There was something to marvel at every single day.”

In other words, mere statistics did not do Jackson justice. Neither did the relative muted hype that accompanied his collegiate baseball games. To the nation, Bo Jackson was a football player—the latest in the Tony Dorsett-Marcus Allen-Herschel Walker line of unstoppable running backs. The majority of his followers knew, with complete certainty, that his future belonged to the NFL, what with its lucrative contracts and unrivaled glory.

Kenny Gonzales, however, refused to fully concede. If he was taking a trip to Alabama, he was almost certainly staying at the Ramada, chatting up Florence, sharing a meal and a cup of coffee. There was nothing fake or untoward about the relationship. Bond knew Gonzales wanted her son to be a Royal. Gonzales knew Bond wanted her son to have a diploma.

On April 18, 1985, late in Jackson’s junior season, Gonzales filed yet another report for the major league club. He (quizzically) compared Auburn’s fleet outfielder to Don Baylor, the Yankees’ lumbering veteran designated hitter. Under "Abilities" Gonzales wrote:

A complete type player with outstanding tools; can simply do it all and didn’t even play baseball last year. A gifted athlete; the best pure athlete in America today.

Then, under "Makeup Evaluation and Player Summation":

Good kid; quiet and not an outgoing type. A pleasure to watch this kid play this game with not much playing time. I have gotten to know his mother very well and these are good people; they are a very close family and will remain so. Forget about him in 1985 but there is hope for 1986. Can win the Heisman Trophy next year and Auburn has changed their offense to the I formation so he can run the ball 40 times a game next fall.

Image Credit: Reddit.

With Gonzales’ guidance, the Royals used none of their 21 selections in the 1985 draft on Jackson. The Angels, however, took a different approach. Like Kansas City, California fell in love with his raw talent, and while Mike Port, the team’s general manager, knew Bo to the Angels was a long shot, the franchise faced a similar situation three years earlier, when it used a fourth-round pick in the 1982 draft to grab a college hockey/baseball player from the University of Vermont named Kirk McCaskill.

Many thought the organization unwise to waste a high selection on a Canadian kid with an NHL future—until McCaskill not only signed with the Angels but went on to win 106 career games as a right-handed starting pitcher.

“We got the idea that Bo might consider baseball under the right circumstance,” says Port. “We were under the impression he was undecided.” Hence, with the 511th pick in the 20th round, the Angels gave it a go. “You can’t use a first-round selection and do that,” says Larry Himes, the Angels scouting director at the time. “But 20th? Why not?”

Much like New York three years earlier, the Angels didn’t understand Bo Jackson. They floated a $300,000 offer that he considered for approximately one-hundredth of a second. “I’d completed three years of college, and I wanted one more with my football teammates,” he says. “Plus, there was a 45-50-pound piece of bronze I had my eye on.”

1984 Sugar Bowl (Photo by B Bennett/Getty Images)

I

ndeed, by the summer of 1985, Jackson was determined to win the Heisman Trophy as a college senior. His junior football year had been a colossal disappointment, as a shoulder injury limited him to 475 yards on a mere 87 attempts, and he hated the unfamiliar taste of unfulfilled expectations. That’s why, in the fall of 1985, Jackson ran with an unbridled anger, stomping over opponents to the tune of 1,786 yards and 17 touchdowns. He was gifted the Heisman in the closest vote in award history, beating Iowa quarterback Chuck Long by 45 points.

Even with a baseball season looming, it was, as had long been the case, widely presumed that Jackson was destined for the NFL. Sure, he would spend the spring on the diamond, because that’s what Bo Jackson did. But it was a mere formality. Let the kid take his last at-bats and then get ready for a decade of gridiron dominance. “Even I probably figured he was going to play football,” says Baird. “It was all sort of neatly laid out for him.”

The baseball season did not begin well. Through 21 games, Jackson hit .261 with seven home runs and 14 RBI. If he was distracted, it was more than understandable. Having finished 2-14 in 1985, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers held the first pick in the upcoming NFL draft, and it was no secret whom they planned on selecting. Jackson, however, had his doubts about the Bucs.

First, the franchise had an awful reputation. Second, the offensive line was abysmal. Third, the team already boasted a marquee running back named James Wilder. Fourth, within the football world, Hugh Culverhouse, the franchise’s owner, was viewed as cheap and inept. “We were a mess,” says Jimmy Raye, the Tampa offensive coordinator. “A complete mess.”

In the fall of 1985, Jackson ran with an unbridled anger, stomping over opponents to the tune of 1,786 yards and 17 touchdowns. He was gifted the Heisman in the closest vote in award history.

That being said, Jackson tried to remain open-minded. On March 21, the Buccaneers sent Culverhouse’s private jet to Alabama to pick up Jackson and bring him to Florida for a physical examination. The trip, Tampa officials promised, had been cleared by the NCAA. “I spent one-and-a-half days there, and it was fine,” Jackson says. “I didn’t feel bad about the Buccaneers during that time. They treated me well.”

On the day of Jackson’s return to campus, Auburn’s baseball team was hosting the University of Alabama-Birmingham at Samford Stadium. “Bo was never late, but he wasn’t there for our early work,” says Baird. “I asked a player where he was, and he said, ‘Down in Tampa taking a physical for the Buccaneers.’” Uh-oh.

When Jackson finally arrived, Baird asked him for the specifics and cringed as his outfielder provided details of his journey—flying on a private jet, staying in a hotel, eating on the Buccaneers’ dime. This was not good.

Baird held Jackson out of the evening’s contest and called Dye, also Auburn’s athletic director, the following morning. The SEC was America’s only Division I conference in which an athlete couldn’t professionalize in one sport while remaining amateur in another. Tampa Bay, according to Buccaneer employees at the time, had in fact spoken with someone inside the SEC offices—but not a decision-maker. In other words, Jackson’s trip had been cleared by a person unauthorized to clear his trip.

Dye called the conference to protest, but Harvey Schiller, the new SEC commissioner, was unmoved. “I was standing next to him, and Coach Dye addressed the commissioner in a way I only heard in the Army,” says Baird. “But it was too late. The decision had been made.”