There are possibly three groups of people who will have some kind of reaction to the debut of the new Netflix documentary on Johnny Manziel, Texas A&M’s most famous, or infamous, football player in the past 20 years. Group 1 is a group of Aggie fans who are devoted to championing Johnny Manziel as “Johnny Football,” and they are likely to own at least one piece of memorabilia bearing the number ‘2’. No matter what, Johnny is “their guy” forever, unquestionably.
Group 2 are those college football fans who watched as a pre-adult from a tiny Texas town took the world by storm by playing his heart out on Saturday afternoons around Texas and the eastern United States, set records, won the hearts of Aggies, and then disappointed himself and many who adored him, and washed their hands of him, disgusted that he’d won the nation’s highest honor, the Heisman Trophy, and then trashed his career, almost purposefully.
Group 3 include college football fans in general who were mesmerized by the antics on and off the football field of a young renegade with an impish grin and devil-may-care attitude towards rules and regulations, and who are hoping to see that Johnny turned his life around and will tune in, possibly to see a portrait of a life redirected and focused on a happy adult existence.
On August 7, Johnny Manziel used his favorite social medium of choice, X, formerly known as Twitter, to share: “Can’t wait for you guys to see this. Appreciate all the support!” The “this” is the Netflix documentary, UNTOLD: Johnny Football, which premiered on August 8.
Assuming he had seen it in advance, you have to wonder why he’d want any of his friends or fans to see it. The timing, of course, is just a few weeks before his eponymous new business venture, Johnny Manziel’s Money Bar opens on College Main in Aggieland’s famous Northgate district.
Why I expected to see a documentary that might show the trajectory of a young man who had turned his life around and perhaps having found peace with hard work as he rebuilt his life, I don’t know. I naively like happy endings, and all Aggies who screamed and yelled for his success on game days, on award days, and on NFL opening day really want him to succeed. Who wouldn’t want the best for him? Listen to the words of those featured in the documentary.
Somehow between the beginning of a prospective insider’s look into the heart of Johnny Manziel, potentially to somewhat recapture the magic of a young man who zoomed through a myriad of opportunities for a secure future to the big reveals of things most of us suspected but were not sure, it was one sad story told for all the world to see, again.
If I were going to watch for a second time, which I won’t, I would take a pencil and make tik marks every clip that showed Johnny’s father scowling, his former lifetime childhood friend “Uncle Nate,” with so much camera time that you had a very good idea of the potential delinquents in training the duo were, they somehow never saw a reason to stop doing what they were doing, whether or not laws or professional student-athlete ethics were violated.
Then you have Uncle Nate describing how he was “the guy” or “the go-to” if you wanted to contact Johnny gave you cause to pause as you listened to Johnny’s former sports agent, Erik Burkhardt. Funny, I didn’t care for either person as they joyfully described the extremes to which they went for “their guy.” Yet, today, neither of them is Johnny’s guy anymore. No one interviewed any of Johnny’s teammates, the guys who Johnny would regularly treat to multicourse meals at Veritas, or anywhere else they wanted, because he knew to treat his O-line well.
You heard and saw the footage of one of the traffic stops of Johnny and former girlfriend, but you didn’t see two or three years of her riding along all the way to every destination party and event she was only too pleased to be there for. Not saying any woman should ever stand for being hit or abused, not at all. She loved living that life, until she didn't any more. It’s just that there was no in-depth search into Johnny’s psyche, just on the highlights of the disasters and very superficial coverage.
You didn’t see the girl he was engaged to and, for a time, married to, who focused Johnny on getting back in the gym daily and who may well be responsible for why he is still here. Nor, did you get treated to any real portrait other than two soundbytes from his sister, his lifeline and anchor throughout most of the past years.
If you want any real insight into Johnny and the family dynamics, read Josh Katzowitz’s 2012 book “Johnny Football,” as the author spent substantive time in Tyler, met the entire family at the Tyler Country Club and things become infinitely clearer, no thanks to this documentary. The Heisman trophy logged quite some time in the showrooms of the car dealerships in whatever city Dad was selling cars.
For all of Johnny’s freshman football year, when former head coach Kevin Sumlin’s imposed rule of forced silence for all freshman players was in place (arguably likely the only rule Johnny followed during his career here), all quotes, legend, lore, and facts were according to the words of “Uncle Nate,” the moniker being gifted no doubt to craft an image of a wise guy with an inside track and an outside character, or caricature, of “the guy” you need to know if you’re going to reach Johnny…or “get to him” more appropriately.
Plenty of people got to Johnny and he reciprocated in finding access to people he had only once dreamed of reaching. Imagine the heady feeling of sitting next to Maverick Carter, business partner for LeBron James, and then ultimately signing with their firm for investment opportunities as well as other groups, tweeting to his hero "Happy Birthday King James" and having LeBron welcome him on Twitter(X) when he signed with their agency. He sold a vitamin bodybuilder powder with Patrick Schwarzenegger for a time, and he sold some Snickers bars even when he didn’t make a Cheerios box.
And then there was the professional football meltdown. It was a movie in the making, literally. Another unpleasant character in Johnny’s life is smarmy Erik Burkhardt, who delighted in regaling all the steps he took in being the reason Johnny got drafted at all by the Cleveland Browns.
It’s ironic, the film “Draft Day” with Kevin Costner debuted in Johnny’s draft year, and as the team in the movie was the Cleveland Browns, the plot was almost prophetic. The big buzz around the draft was a hot shot quarterback who seemed too good to be true. The better player was Vontae Mack (Cuba Gooding Jr.), but all the hype was around the quarterback Bo Callahan (Josh Pence).
At the time, collective wisdom identified Michigan State’s Connor Cook at the quarterback with baggage but some pundits admitted it could just as easily be Johnny Manziel. The entire plot revolved around player character. And just like Bo sat at that table undrafted while everyone around him was getting the nod, Johnny sat there and ran through four bottles of water before he heard his name. Seriously, "Draft Day"is a better show to rewatch than “Untold,” by a long shot.
Whether or not he was an entitled athlete, as though Texas is not filled with them in every town from the Cut and Shoot Bulldogs to the Normangee Panthers, Johnny’s story is not unique as depicted in "Untold." Football and Friday nights reign every fall in Texas. You know going in that if you succeed, the sky’s the limit for you to receive local, state, regional and national prominence, even if you’re from tiny Tivy High School in Kerrville, Texas.
There are young men who come from the least affluent circumstances with only raw talent and a dream, and they don’t waste the opportunities and chances they have. They work relentlessly, they sacrifice pleasures of the moment, and they follow team rules, listen to their coaches, and they mature and grow to be career NFL employees and professional athletes who take their substantive fortunes they amass and invest them in the communities where they grew up. LeBron James and Steph Curry are two basketball standouts who prioritize education, who fund a myriad of opportunities for children to learn and grow.
Then, there’s local football star Gerald Carter who played for Bryan High, spent eight years with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, and then came home and spent 31 years with the Boys and Girls Club, which he attended as a grade school student, mentoring students. You don’t see a documentary on Gerald, but he and other local successes are surely worthy of them. No, it’s all about the bad boy, the headline-making, loud-living, rule-flaunting, yet lovable Johnny Football.
Yes, TAMU made millions off the publicity that he brought the school. No, it’s not fair that he didn’t see a dime of it but that was the way it was then. He didn’t really need the money, though, did he? He was proud of what he and Uncle Nate crafted as the myth behind the “family fortune” to explain away all the unexplained affluence he was enjoying.
People were not as stupid as to believe it. They did what they always do—overlook the obvious as long as the football team is winning—that’s the way of football, and of the Heisman. How do you expect anyone to apply a rule to Manziel when you’ve awarded the Heisman to Jameis Winston, whom Coach Jimbo Fisher couldn’t control any more than Coach Kevin Sumlin could control Johnny.
Spoiler alert: The bon mot dropped in the midst of the film is Johnny felt empty when he was at the top of his game, financially, positionally, and in big-city bright lights. He bought a gun, tried to use it, and it failed. And then the documentary continues on. Didn’t show how certain people in his life (not mom or dad, who he wouldn’t listen to) tried over and over to reach him, ground him, show him a different path…but the train had left the station long before.
Here he is today. A man alone on a bar stool chair in an empty set in a documentary. You don’t see if he lives in a home, condo, apartment, or where he is, whether he has people permanently in his life who are happy to be there with him, and you don’t see what his typical day is like these days. It’s like he’s there, and then he’s gone. It’s a damn shame.
Had he stayed just slightly in the slow lane, he could have been joining a lifetime job for Texas A&M, welcoming and greeting Aggies on campus for the rest of his life, raising money for athletics, enjoying all things Aggie, surrounded by people who were always truly happy to have him here in town.
Image is not always as it seems. While Johnny was a student, even in the midst of some of his high jinks, for every rumor of wild behavior, you would hear how he had been at a party of some “regular people” in town and been the nicest, best behaved guy there, not acting entitled at all, just one of the guys. You’d hear how he would pull into McAlister’s Deli and pick up a to go order for “Johnny” and be the sweetest customer, said thank you with a big smile and left a nice tip. He was the same kid who doted on his little sister and cousin and was as happy as he could be to play a round of golf with a few close friends who weren’t on the A&M football team. When he was surrounded by normalcy, he fit right in.
It’s just that fame came calling, and notoriety put her arms around him and swept him up….now a bar in Northgate is not the path to normalcy for a quiet life but one would hope it brings him peace and contentment, and a group of clients who can appreciate that he wanted to create a place where everyone knows your name, relax, watch a game or two on TV, and hang out.
If he never achieves another iota of success in business in his lifetime doesn’t matter. With good investments, the money he made will hold out. One wishes him the best though, for a happy and successful life, and a new, better documentary to come down the road, one worth watching. Everyone still believes in a happy ending. Make it so, Johnny, make it so.
