Hot and Cold Watters : 49er Running Back Mellows Some During Another Solid Season, but Can Still Crank Up the Volume on His Hyper, Trash-Talking Act

Nobody ever accused Ricky Watters of lacking confidence.

Not his mother, Marie, who saw 7-year-old Ricky jump in her lap, look around at their modest surroundings in Harrisburg, Pa., and declare, “One day, I’m going to be great, and I’m going to take you away from all this.”

Not his boyhood friends at the old playground on Emerald Street. They would gather daily for fierce neighborhood basketball games, each strutting his stuff, making his moves and bragging about his skills. But only Watters would show up in flashy white shoes--a stark contrast to the black shoes his friends wore--to grab the spotlight.

Not his teammates at Bishop McDevitt High School, where he was a two-time, all-state running back; or at Notre Dame, where he rushed for 174 yards against Tennessee and tied a school record by returning three punts for touchdowns.

But his confidence also has an ugly, dark side, one that can turn into arrogance. For every moment of ecstasy Watters has enjoyed after a big run, there seems to be a moment of agony or anger after an ineffective run, or a fumble, or a teammate’s mistake or a crucial play when he doesn’t get the ball.

He is explosive in skill and temperament. He can inspire a ballclub, or distract it.

When he was 5, his mother took him to a doctor because she feared he might be hyperactive. The doctor couldn’t find proof of that, but others had suspicions.

In high school, some called him a “hothead.”

At Notre Dame, he clashed with Coach Lou Holtz. Watters figured that if he could get his hands on the ball, surely he would get his hands on the Heisman Trophy. The problem was that there were other people who wanted the ball, such as Tim Brown, Rocket Ismail and Tony Rice.

“On the college level,” Holtz said, “you have to learn how to play without the football.”

It was a hard lesson for Watters, who admitted, grudgingly, that at Notre Dame “you had to be in the system.”

In 1991, he went to the NFL, becoming a San Francisco 49er in the draft’s second round.

He wanted the ball there just as he had everywhere else, but, again, he learned that there were a few other players to consider, led by Steve Young and Jerry Rice.

Watters’ act quickly soured. When he came back to the huddle, he would tell teammates, “They can’t stop me.”

Continuing a constant stream of trash talk, he would yell at a player across the line, “You might be All-Pro, but you can’t handle me.”

And if, occasionally, he did prove unstoppable, Watters would yell on his return to the huddle, “Look at what you let the young guy do to you.”

Sometimes, it seemed only Watters could stop Watters. He would pout when he didn’t get the ball. He would sulk or throw tantrums when he fumbled. And he would yell and berate teammates who made mistakes.

Watters the 49er became known as Watters the whiner.

But nobody was about to tell him to take his act elsewhere because of the potential just beneath his troubled surface.

After spending his first season on injured reserve, Watters ran for 1,013 yards in his second season and scored nine touchdowns on the ground and added 405 yards and two touchdowns through the air. The following year, he fell short of 1,000 yards rushing, gaining 950 and adding 10 touchdowns. But there were extenuating circumstances. He missed three games because of strained knee ligaments.

The number most people remember in connection with Watters and 1993 is five. That’s how many touchdowns he scored in an NFC divisional playoff game against the New York Giants, an NFL postseason game record.

Having proven his point on the field, he decided to prove he could do the job off the field as well. He mellowed a bit.

He came to training camp for the 1994 season as the new, mature Ricky Watters, a leader, a steadying force, a team guy.

Headlines in the Bay area papers over a period of months reveal the change. From “Watters Grumbles For Added Emphasis” and “Watters Pleads: Call My Number,” the story line switched to “Watters Closes Mouth, Opens Up Running Game” and “New Maturity for 49ers’ Watters.”

The biggest difference this year for Watters can be summed up in a single word: Deion. When defensive back Deion Sanders joined the team, he made Watters look almost introverted by comparison. Of course, Sanders could make Madonna look shy.

Asked now about his self-centered days, Watters says, “You’re talking about an earlier version of me.”

He insists that, at 25, he has found maturity.

“I need to be a leader,” he says. “If I’m sitting there getting into a personal confrontation with somebody, it takes away from what we’re trying to do as a team.”

Watters worked hard this season, finishing with 877 yards and six touchdowns rushing and 719 yards and five touchdowns receiving.

Now he’s in the Super Bowl, a stage for the natural performer.

But he is sticking to his new role: glad to be here, not worried about the off-season when San Francisco must decide whether to re-sign him, happy to praise his fellow 49ers and thrilled to be part of a winning team.

“I’m a guy who always liked to look at stats,” he says. “You know you had a great game, and all your teammates said you had a great game. But then, you look at the stats and say, ‘Well, I had 89 yards on 12 carries.’ But then, you look over and see Barry Sanders had 30 carries and 180 yards. It’s hard because you say, ‘What if I had 30 carries?’ You know your average is the same as theirs. So, you begin to wonder. This year, I haven’t been looking at stats.”

Maybe not, but if San Francisco beats the San Diego Chargers on Sunday, and if Watters has a day like the one he enjoyed against the Giants, the old Ricky Watters might resurface on the sidelines, hip-hopping and high-stepping his way to the Super Bowl trophy.