Johnson Merely Takes Detour From Dead End

So Bret Johnson is changing schools, changing colors, changing coaches, changing his mind.

Apparently, too, he changed his name. For the past two days, it’s all you’ve heard.

That Brat Johnson.

What did Johnson do wrong? Lose a Rose Bowl? Burn a flag? Get an ear pierced? Admit he listened to Milli Vanilli?

As far as I can tell, Johnson committed the worst crime imaginable at UCLA.

He quit UCLA.

Quit after quarterbacking the Bruins to their worst finish since the 1960s. Quit after Terry Donahue brought in his third offensive coordinator in three years, Homer Smith. Quit after Smith named Jim Bonds, and not Johnson, as his starting quarterback for UCLA’s 1990 opener.

In other words, he quit when the going got rough. An unsavory act, perhaps, but hardly unprecedented. The Angels do it every year. So do hundreds of other college athletes who are permitted to transfer from one school to another. In this country, it’s permitted.

But Johnson is singled out and castigated because he carries the triple burden of:

a) Being a Bruin.

b) Being from Orange County.

c) Not being Todd Marinovich.

Funny how these things work out. All through their over-hyped high school rivalry--these weren’t just two outstanding prep quarterbacks but THE TWO GREATEST IN ORANGE COUNTY HISTORY--it was always El Toro’s Johnson over Capistrano Valley’s Marinovich. Johnson was the winner. Johnson was the purer passer. And when they signed their respective letters of intent, it was more of the same.

Johnson was walking into a wide-open situation at UCLA; he was going to be a four-year starter. Marinovich? A lot of knowledgeable people doubted if Marinovich would ever see the light of a center snap at USC. He wasn’t going to beat out Tim O’Hara--and Curtis Conway was going to be the next Rodney Peete.

Now, after an injury to O’Hara and a Prop. 48 detour by Conway, Marinovich is coming off a record-breaking freshman season, his name mentioned in the same breath with John Heisman’s. He is entrenched.

Johnson, meanwhile, finds himself where Marinovich was two years ago: Being told he wasn’t going to play. Marinovich’s response was to wait and see. Johnson, as always, had to do it differently.

Johnson’s response: See you later.

How unBruin of him. How unOrange County of him. Johnson hits the first hurdle in an otherwise charmed path and bails at the first exit. Or so goes the assailment.

Of course, there’s more to it than that. There always is. Sure, there is honor in hanging in and digging in and fighting for what you believe is yours. There is also a certain intelligence in detecting a dead end when you see one.

Consider some of the sights within Johnson’s field of vision.

He was the quarterback for a 3-7-1 UCLA season--in other words, the man responsible.

He was one of the two things a school usually changes when it’s accustomed to winning and suddenly stops--and he noticed that Donahue hadn’t gone anywhere.

He was a 5-10, sprint-out quarterback in the Homer Smith offensive scheme, which is prejudiced toward the 6-3, drop-back, pump-it-up prototype.

He was not only battling one challenger but two. Bonds may be Smith’s short-term answer, but redshirt freshman Tommy Maddox already looms as the long-term heir. Both tend to stick in the pocket and stand over pass-blocking offensive linemen.

So, in a practical sense, Johnson’s decision to leave makes some sense. Since he wasn’t going to grow half a foot overnight, he made a decision based at least as much on economics as emotions: Better to waste one season than three.

Because Johnson redshirted the 1988 season, he will lose a year’s eligibility by transferring. His sophomore season is down the tubes, unless he goes the community college route. Johnson says he won’t; he says he wants to get acclimated with a new four-year program as quickly as possible. And, if he chooses a program friendly to little rollout passers, he figures to have two more starting seasons left--or two more than he felt UCLA offered.

When Johnson finally lands at Penn State or Florida State or Texas A & M or wherever, footballs will still be inflated and kicked off. The game will persevere. The republic will survive.

Disgruntled players have switched schools before. They will do so again. These things happen.

Sometimes, they even happen to one of the two greatest prep quarterbacks in Orange County history.