Every year when the call didn’t come, the tears would follow. So would the disbelief, the anger, and the nights of lost sleep. For Andre Rison, it felt like a knife in the side every time he was rejected from the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Hadn’t he proven himself enough? Wasn’t he one of the best of his time? He dwelled on the disrespect, convinced he belonged and that there must be some reason why he wasn’t getting in.
“There’s nothing Jerry Rice could do that I couldn’t,” Rison has reiterated over the years.
Deep down, he truly believed that. But then there were the records, the gold jacket on Rice’s shoulders, and the GOAT chain hanging around his neck. Rison had notoriety that faded after a tumultuous career. Maybe this was payback, he thought. Maybe it was punishment for playing and living so boldly. Andre “Bad Moon” Rison was the NFL’s most outspoken receiver before the league saw an influx of outspoken players.
“That’s gotta be it,” he repeated to himself as the years went by without a call from Canton. It couldn’t just be about football. It had to be something more.
Still, he wasn’t going to apologize. Not for the climb, not for the fall, not for the controversy, the brawls, or the chaos that marked his seven-city, 11-year NFL journey. This man was never going to conform to expectations.
“When I played,” Rison reflects, “the prevailing notion was that as an African-American, you could only be great at one thing: football. That was it.
“I said, leave that lane for somebody else.”
His aspirations ran deeper. He pioneered the fusion of sports and hip-hop, altering the culture. He ventured into music, business, and community support.
The journey was turbulent, marred by errors, arrests, and financial missteps. Rison bore the weight of his decisions and his public image. He challenged conventions before it became commonplace.
Thirty years later, he disregards the notion that off-field distractions hindered his football career. He maintains that greatness transcends external noise.
“You remember when Michael Jordan went gambling the night before a playoff game and shut down his critics the next night?” Rison recalls. “Ain’t no distractions when you’re different. Mike’s different. I’m different. I’ve always been different.
“This is Bad Moon we’re talking about.”
Andre Rison finished second in Rookie of the Year voting with the Colts. Soon, he was gone. (Getty, Allsport)
It was ESPN’s Chris Berman who bestowed upon him the moniker, inspired by the Creedence Clearwater Revival hit. In 1989, towards the end of Rison’s rookie year with the Colts, he was pulled over for driving 128 miles per hour in a 55-mph zone. He claimed to the police that he was only going 95.
I see the bad moon a-rising
I see trouble on the way
“The nickname altered the course of my life forever,” Rison penned in his book, “Wide Open.” For better or worse, he embraced it, having “Bad Moon Rison” inked on his bicep.
As the song foretold, trouble ensued. But so did a stellar career.
Rison played with a passion ignited on the tough Flint streets of Michigan, where, as a high school standout, a local mobster referred to as Mafia Sal would discreetly hand him money and suggest colleges and agents. Rison turned down the offers, determined to make it on his own terms.
He excelled at Michigan State, with accolades in basketball, track and field, and football. Selected in the first round by the Colts in 1989, he finished second in Offensive Rookie of the Year voting to Barry Sanders. The Colts narrowly missed the playoffs, but Rison’s future shone bright.
He was traded to Atlanta after just a few months, devastating him and his teammates.
In Atlanta, Rison blossomed into one of the league’s premier receivers, earning four consecutive Pro Bowl appearances. Despite being on the smaller side at 6 feet, 188 pounds, Rison’s fearlessness and agility made him a force on the field.
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93, Rison amassed more receptions in his first five seasons than any receiver in history. His coach’s directive was clear: Target No. 80 whenever the team entered the red zone. “I don’t care if he messed up his route or you can’t find him, just get it to Rison,” the coach would instruct his quarterbacks. And Rison would plow through the defense to reach the end zone.
The stats mounted, but not the victories. Sanders left for San Francisco in 1994, returning to the Georgia Dome to put on a spectacle, exchanging blows with Rison before returning an interception 93 yards for a score.
A year later, Rison joined the Browns in a record-setting deal, only to falter due to fitness concerns, scheme disagreements, and clashes with coach Bill Belichick.
After a tumultuous stint in Cleveland, Rison’s journey unfolded through Jacksonville and Green Bay, where he helped the Packers win Super Bowl XXXI with a 54-yard touchdown reception from Brett Favre.
Following spells in Kansas City, Oakland, and a victorious run with the Toronto Argonauts in the CFL, Rison’s football career concluded. Yet, life off the field posed new challenges.
After his house was set ablaze by his girlfriend, Rison contemplated ending it all as he rode his motorcycle under the pouring rain.
“I can’t take it anymore!” he cried out.
Their volatile relationship had reached a breaking point. Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, a member of TLC, burned down Rison’s mansion after discovering him with another woman.
His home was engulfed in flames, a national headline. Lopes faced arson charges.
Witnessing Lopes drive off with Tupac Shakur, a dear friend at the time, haunted Rison. A week later, he held Lopes’ hand at her court hearing, ending their romance. Tragedy struck when Lopes perished in a car accident in 2002.
As Rison navigated post-NFL life, financial mismanagement, health ailments, legal troubles, and personal losses weighed heavily on him. But amidst the chaos, he found solace in coaching, family, and a newfound purpose.
Rison confronts the physical toll of his gridiron days each morning, grappling with arthritis, bone spurs, and a litany of injuries that serve as constant reminders of his playing years.
“You have to grapple with depression,” Rison acknowledges, “and fight against it.”
He has come to terms with the Hall of Fame snub, realizing bitterness only detracts from his on-field achievements.
“And if my unique style and off-field endeavors deterred voters,” Rison asserts, “so be it. I carved a path that resonates with athletes to this day. That’s a legacy in itself.”
Today, Rison immerses himself in his passions—writing, coaching, family, and advocacy. He relishes the life post-football, cherishing the present.
“I’ve embraced a better existence off the field than during my playing days,” Rison reflects. “I prefer it this way, without regrets.”
Rison and Sanders maintain their relevance in the sports landscape, embodying a legacy that transcends their playing careers.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic. Photos: Al Bello / Allsport, Otto Greule / Allsport, Robert Seale / Sporting News/Icon SMI)