De’Jon Wilson walked into the H.D. Woodson (Washington D.C.) High School weight room, surprising his former assistant coach Wayne Johnson. Just two days earlier, Johnson had seen the Syracuse defensive end on television in a 28-20 win over Boston College. Now, during his bye week, Wilson was back home.

In that moment, Wilson held the same status he once did as a high schooler. The current players bought into his captivating personality and story of success just as much as his teammates once did. That charisma and skill earned him the nickname “swag” from Johnson and his teammates when he still attended Woodson.

“He had other guys … that wanted to be just like him,” Johnson added.

The current Woodson players were excited to see him, each one rushing over to give him a high five and ask him questions ranging from how he goes about doing a specific workout to how it feels to be a Division-I athlete.

“He normally calls me and says if he’s coming down,” Johnson said. “To see him, come in to the weight room, to come out and work out with them, it was amazing.”

Wilson still carries the charisma from when he grew up in southeast D.C. And he carries the pride of being the first in his immediate family to attend a four-year college and graduate with a degree.

But he also bears the tribulations of his childhood: growing up in a single-parent home, run-ins with the law and the killing of a close friend.

Wilson admits to making mistakes growing up and he openly talks about some of the struggles he faced. His goal now is to ensure that the next generation doesn’t go through the same things.

Overcoming those mistakes is his message. His status as a Division-I football player and college graduate is his platform. And his magnetic personality endears him to the people he wants listening. That even now, people will still want to be just like him.

“I can’t pick one situation that really crushed me, cause there have been a lot of things,” Wilson said. “But that’s just life. You learn to take it on the chin and keep rolling.”

Jessica Sheldon | Photo Editor

•••

Off to the side, De’Jon Wilson saw his mother, LaShawn Wilson, crying by herself. The only person in front of him was the judge. In 2009, for the second time, a judge sent Wilson to a juvenile detention center. As he saw his mom bawling, tears started streaming down his face too.

“I felt like a loser, I felt like I let my family down,” Wilson said. “I became a statistic.”

At home, his mother and older sister called him “daddy.” Even after LaShawn remarried in 2006, Wilson felt the need to act as some sort of fatherly male figure.

Wilson’s first experience playing football was out on the streets of the neighborhood when he was six, even before he played Pop Warner. As he got older, the same neighborhood became harder for Wilson to navigate. A combination of peer pressure, independence and youth led to frequent bad decisions.

“It was so easy to do wrong and so hard to do right,” Wilson said. “It was a social norm to do the wrong thing.”

Both Wilson and his mother declined to say what he went to the juvenile detention center for, other than LaShawn saying that it had nothing to do with drug or gun-related incidents.

For LaShawn, the second time a judge sent her son to the detention center broke her heart, but it was also her breaking point. She didn’t want to see either of her children caught up in the court system once, let alone twice.

“I told him, the first one that’s on me, I’ll take that one,” LaShawn said. “Second one, that’s on you.”

Johnson said that he’s seen that culture of wrongdoing at times throughout his 27 years of coaching at Woodson, especially those without father figures in their lives. He challenged the direction Wilson was headed. Wilson could continue running into trouble with the law, or he could dedicate his time and effort into school and football.

Looking back, Wilson says the whole experience and the talk with both his mom and with Johnson, was the proof he needed. He began understanding he needed to make changes if he wanted to improve and get out of trouble.

Jessica Sheldon | Photo Editor

•••

Toward the end of Wilson’s junior year of high school, in May 2010, one of his best friends, Alonte Sutton, was murdered. Sutton’s body was found on Mother’s Day.

Sutton — “gadget,” as Wilson and friends called him — didn’t play football but was still close with kids in the neighborhood. He was an intern for the D.C. Council and was considered a strong student with a promising future.

Problems between the 18-year-old Sutton and Omare Cotton, 28, started when Sutton declined to give Cotton’s girlfriend a ride, according to the Washington Post.

Cotton slashed the tires on Sutton’s car. After Sutton left the scene, Cotton came back later in the day and did the same thing, then chased Sutton around with a knife. Sutton tried to get a police officer’s attention and Cotton, who was on probation in Maryland, fled the scene.

The next day, as Sutton was changing the tires on his car, Cotton came back with a gun and shot Sutton while chasing him into the woods.

“He emotionally shut down and he was kind of distant,” LaShawn said of her son’s reaction. “Sometimes you hear about the death of other people, but it doesn’t really hit home until it’s at your doorstep … I think that was the case for him.”

Wilson and some of his close friends, like Ken Crawley, who played with Wilson at Woodson and at Colorado and is now a starting cornerback for the New Orleans Saints, still keep Sutton in their memory. Crawley’s Twitter handle is @RIPGADGETT.

“Me and him (Crawley), we carried that,” Wilson said. “Everywhere we went, he was with us. I feel as though he was living through us.”

“Alonte Sutton … that’s my man. That’s my motivation.”

Jessica Sheldon | Photo Editor

•••

Johnson and Wilson were driving back from FedEx Field, where the Washington Redskins play. Wilson had just been named All-Met, meaning he was one of the best high school players in D.C. The honor allowed him to meet and take pictures with two of Washington’s best players, Brian Orakpo and Chris Cooley.

About 10 miles out, Wilson realized that he had Cooley’s phone. Cooley called his phone and to arrange for it to be returned. Wilson made Johnson turn around.

When Wilson got there, Cooley was beginning to write out a check for getting his phone back. Wilson refused to take it.

“If that was a regular inner-city kid, who doesn’t have anything or no mentor in their life, they would have kept the phone,” Johnson said. “Or they would have tried to sell the man his phone back.”

Wilson said it was just doing what he felt was right. And anyway, at that point Wilson had other ways of making money.

He started by working two jobs, including one at a local grocery store and the other as a construction worker for a moving company. Then, he started working for himself. He started planning parties, throwing events when he needed to, and he’d also promote local talent to try and get them better gigs.

Wilson and his friend started their own clothing line called LookinSweet. Wilson, a self-proclaimed sneakerhead, couldn’t find the right shirts to match his favorite shoes. So he bought a large amount of plain t-shirts, gave a designer his sketches and watched the designs come to fruition.

“I was just so proud that they were doing something positive,” LaShawn said. “I encouraged him along the way of all his endeavors.”

He started the business because he didn’t want to ask his mother to buy him things he wanted but didn’t really need, like sneakers. He felt that she had already done enough for him. When he’d get a new pair of shoes, he’d buy them himself.

“I just like to go with my first instinct. If I feel something is right, I go with it,” Wilson said.

“I’m investing in myself.”

Jessica Sheldon | Photo Editor

•••

Wilson surprised Johnson when he stopped in several weeks ago, but it didn’t shock anybody that he came back to his alma mater. It’s a part of Wilson’s story that he emphasizes. His doesn’t end after he “made it out” of his low poverty area, because his hometown, and his youth, isn’t something he’s left behind. And he has no intention of ever doing so.

“Where I’m from, I don’t want you getting it mistaken, it’s bad, but at the same time it’s good,” Wilson said. “But that’s who I am. I am southeast D.C.”

After his mistakes early in his high school years, Wilson did his best to be an example, a guide for other kids struggling in the area. When he left for Colorado, he wanted to make sure he’d still have that impact.

He comes back home knowing what it took him to get to this position. He tells kids how to apply themselves both academically and athletically to get to where he is today, where they all want to be.

Sometimes, he comes home with gifts. On different occasions, he’s come back and given players gloves, shorts, T-shirts. Sometimes he’d even bring back some pairs of cleats.

Wilson, Crawley and John Walker all attended H.D. Woodson and went on to play at Colorado together. Jon Embree, now a tight ends coach with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, was then the head coach.

Despite the pressure to do wrong, as Wilson described it, Embree had no qualms in taking on all three of them. And he’s hoping that more players go on to do what Wilson has.

“There are too many kids being left behind in those environments, with no one to turn to for help,” Embree said. “Somebody made a sacrifice that allowed him the chance to get that opportunity. So he’s trying to do the same for someone else.”

There are only two, maybe three, games left in Wilson’s collegiate career. He has NFL aspirations, and Johnson thinks he’s good enough to at least get a tryout with a team.

But even if that’s not in his future, Wilson knows that southeast D.C. is. He won’t allow his journey to end after a mistake or after a triumph. And as he tries to continue bettering himself, he won’t stop doing the same for the place that molded him.

“I know that’s exactly what he’ll do,” LaShawn said, “until he can’t do it anymore.”

“That’s just who he is. That’s a part of him.”

Published on November 17, 2016 at 11:15 pm

Contact Tomer: tdlanger@syr.edu | @tomer_langer