Clowney will accept his award as cameras flash and celebrities offer congratulations. Across the country, his mother will go to work. She started at the Frito-Lay plant outside Charlotte, N.C., in 1994, and she runs the machines that make Doritos, among other chips. Her shift starts at 3 p.m. and ends eight hours later, and she pushes buttons to turn the heat up, or add water, or check the weight.

She often settles in front of the television in her bedroom and dials up last season’s Outback Bowl, between the Gamecocks and the Michigan Wolverines. She always watches the fourth quarter, the first down gifted to Michigan from the referees, the huddle before the next play, the handoff, The Hit. She guesses she has watched it more than 1,000 times, and yet, she never tires of the replay. Not even on this July morning, when she views it once more and says, “Oh, Lordy, look at that. The way he be hitting people, I’m scared he going to hurt himself. I’m like, ‘Do you have to hit that boy like that?’ ”

His response: “That’s how we do, Ma. That’s football.”

Outsize Descriptions

The legend of Jadeveon Clowney personifies the modern college football landscape. It speaks to critics of N.C.A.A. amateurism and N.F.L. draft restrictions. It also speaks to football’s inherent violence, the line straddled between the excitement generated by collisions and the future health of those who collide.

More than anything, Clowney’s story speaks to the sport’s booming popularity and the hype that accompanies such interest. In this climate, Clowney cannot simply be an elite football player set to embark on his junior season. In this climate, Clowney is He Who Cannot Be Blocked.

Ask around. Clowney does not have big hands. He has hands the size of No. 1 foam fingers. He is not fast. He is a taller, thicker, stronger Usain Bolt. “He bench-presses 345 pounds like picking up a stack of books,” one teammate said. “He had seven sacks in one half of a scrimmage,” another said. “Offensive linemen would rip out his dreadlocks,” a third said.

“I’ve seen him jump over an entire offensive line to block a field goal,” said Zach Snyder, his defensive line coach at South Pointe High School. “I’ve seen him chase down a receiver from 72 yards away. Picked off a tunnel screen. Numerous big hits, sacks, blocked passes.”

Clowney is at once the reason we watch football and the reason we worry about football players. In mid-July, the latest can-you-believe-he-did-that story centered on his 40-yard-dash time: 4.46 seconds. For comparison, quarterback Robert Griffin III registered a 4.41 at the N.F.L. combine a few years ago. He ran track at Baylor. He does not weigh 274 pounds.