later, at the Cotton Bowl Classic, he engineered the wholesale destruction of a very good, eleventh-ranked Oklahoma football team. His team, which many had predicted would struggle that year, finished 11-2, ranked fifth. 

But Manziel did more than just send 350,000 living Aggies into paroxysms of joy with his victories on the field. His Heisman season unfolded at a time when deep currents of change were running through Aggieland itself. A number of years before his arrival at Texas A&M, the university had launched a major campaign to finally make the public understand that it was no longer the same old narrowly regional school that labored in the eternal shadow of the University of Texas but the diverse, highly ranked global research university it had quietly become. In fact, its 2011 decision to join the SEC was in large part an attempt to refashion its image as a national university. The pitch had been working: applications since 2003 had nearly doubled. Still, old feelings and stereotypes lingered.

Then along came the kid. Perhaps the most amazing thing he did last fall—and what may turn out to be his most lasting contribution to the Aggies—was to allow Texas A&M to finally emerge, as if from a chrysalis, with a fully formed new identity. It is hard to pinpoint exactly when it happened. For some it was the Alabama game. For others it was the nationally televised stomping of its former Big 12 rival and tormentor Oklahoma. But it happened. Ask any Aggie. With an enormous whoosh that you could feel in the farthest reaches of Aggieland, those old burdens were suddenly cut loose: the chip on the shoulder about UT; the Big 12 and all its baggage; the old idea that A&M would never be anything more than a dull regional school. The signs at Kyle Field saying “This is SEC Country” suddenly seemed less like parting shots at UT than beacons of a new age. 

“It was amazing to experience it,” says vice chancellor of marketing and communications Steve Moore. “Everything was bigger, the ocean was wider, the sky was higher.” 

But not necessarily for Johnny Manziel. For the kid, who had become instantly famous and who was not shy about enjoying the fruits of his gigantic, Bieber-like celebrity, the sky began closing in on him as soon as he won the Heisman. In the months since then, he has lived in a world of constant controversy, much of it of his own making. No college athlete has ever achieved quite the level of fame that Manziel has, and no Heisman winner has ever lived in as relentless a media environment. Everything he does is examined and found wanting. It has appeared, at times, as if Manziel, like an immature superhero, possesses a special power he does not yet know how to use. He sends a careless Tweet and blows up his entire month. On online message boards and comment threads, vast numbers of critics—many of them fans of rival schools, it should be noted—wait eagerly for the great football star to fall dramatically to earth. And on August 4, they seemed to get what they were waiting for.

It will likely take months, if not years, to sort out the impact—to say nothing of the facts—of Manziel’s alleged actions. But this much is clear: his greatest strength is perfectly intertwined with his greatest weakness. Everything he touches, bad or good, goes uncontrollably viral. On the football field, he cannot be stopped, and off the field, the stories and pictures and rumors about him that spread throughout our hyped-up, 24/7, crazy-making news cycle cannot be stopped either. One year ago, he was unknown; today he is a kind of mythical creature. It makes you wonder, What planet did this kid come from?

Johnny’s grandfather Paul Manziel is telling me one of his favorite stories. I’m at a Manziel family dinner at the splendid lake house of Johnny’s uncle and aunt Harley and Bridgette Hooper, who own the nicest clothing store in Tyler. It’s one of five vacation homes belonging to Johnny’s relatives, all in close proximity on Lake Tyler—a sort of Manziel compound, complete with decks and docks and boats and fancy boathouses. As Paul tells it, sometime in the forties, his father, Bobby Manziel, the family patriarch, was locked in a business negotiation over oil leases with none other than Harry F. Sinclair, the founder of Sinclair Oil and one of the richest oilmen in America. Both men were tough negotiators, and neither would give in. Finally, Bobby said that he would agree to the deal only if Sinclair threw in the ring on his finger, an enormous chunk of gold inset with a gigantic diamond. Sinclair thought for a moment, then took the ring off his finger and rolled it across the table to Bobby. The deal was done. With a flourish, Big Paul—as he is called to differentiate him from Johnny’s father, Paul—takes that same ring off his finger and hands it to me. It is staggeringly large and beautiful.

It is also a perfect introduction to the extended, close-knit, Lebanese American family that constitutes the genetic and cultural origins of Johnny Football. Though Johnny gained his first fame playing football for Kerrville’s Tivy High, his roots are really in Tyler, where being a Manziel means something very special indeed. Bobby, whom he resembles, came to America from Lebanon at the age of five and rose to become one of the most successful and wealthy oilmen in East Texas. He owned banks, hotels, newspapers, and other real estate; was an accomplished pilot and skywriter; lived in a mansion with servants; and had a farm with its own runway. Known for his signature trench coat, fedora, and ever-present cigar, he was a major force in the oil business. His discoveries include the Hawkins Field, at one time the second-largest producer in the United States. His wells eventually produced more than a billion barrels of oil. His children, including