For the past 45 minutes, inside their expansive locker room at Paul Brown Stadium, the Bengals have been enjoying a typically tranquil lunch hour. Carson Palmer, sporting a wicked case of bedhead and a slight limp, quietly shuffles by on his way to the weight room. Some players and coaches mingle before a yoga session. The only time someone raises his voice is in mock indignation that the cafeteria is out of Lucky Charms.
The mood on this Wednesday in early May is pure NFL off-season: loose and laid-back. Then T.J. Houshmandzadeh and Chad Johnson saunter in. And in the time it takes the two record-setting wideouts to crash down into their adjoining lockers, the entire hustle and flow of the room has flipped.
Since the Bengals drafted the pair out of Oregon State in 2001-Johnson in the second round, Houshmandzadeh in the seventh-they have become one of the NFL's best pass-catching duos. Their combined 2005 numbers-175 catches, 2,388 yards and 16 TDs-led the AFC. And with Palmer rehabbing his shredded knee, second-year wideout Chris Henry having been arrested three times since December and Marvin Lewis' young defense still developing, the wideouts have also emerged as the emotional fathers of the reborn Bengals. The gifted and flamboyant Johnson plays Andre 3000 to Houshmandzadeh's dark and driven Big Boi.
Holding court this spring day in front of their lockers, Johnson and Houshmandzadeh begin with an unprovoked slam on Falcons cornerback DeAngelo Hall ("Speed doesn't mean a thing if you don't know what to do with it"). Then they bash the new NFL rules curbing end zone celebrations, a Johnson specialty. There is a reference or 20 to the Super Bowl champion Steelers (they were lucky), followed by a riff on the previously bald Johnson's just-sprouting new 'do, which teammates call the worst haircut in sports. Finally, they debate whether Halle Berry's marital woes make her unfit as a potential mate for Johnson (apparently so).
The message is clear: If you were expecting Cincy to fold because of one embarrassing playoff collapse, you'd better check your head. "It's impossible for one loss to send us back to the same old anything," says Johnson. "We used to be a laughingstock, but now we're a contender. We're gonna pick up right where we left off."
Which, coincidentally, is right here on the orangeish carpet in front of Johnson's locker. That's where the Bengals officially imploded during their first playoff visit in 15 years. On Palmer's first postseason pass attempt last January, his left knee was deconstructed by Steelers defensive end Kimo von Oelhoffen. The Bengals held their emotions in check at first and even had a 17-14 lead at halftime. But then, upset about Palmer and unhinged by having just two catches, Johnson nearly got into a fistfight with receivers coach Hue Jackson in the locker room. Houshmandzadeh stepped in and scolded them, saying, "We're winning the game! Do you guys realize we're winning the game?"
Not for long. With the Bengals emotionally spent after halftime, the Steelers pounded out 17 straight points to win 31-17. "Chad and I normally balance each other out and bring each other back from the edge when stuff like that happens," Houshmandzadeh says. "But we lost our composure. When you've never been there, you don't know what to expect. We're a young team. It was a learning experience."
It was also an indication of just how far the Bengals had come that they seriously expected to win that game no matter who was taking snaps. As Palmer rehabs-by May, he was already participating in passing drills, using bungee cords for resistance while dropping back-Johnson and Houshmandzadeh prepare as if Doug Johnson, Anthony Wright and Dave Ragone are just as capable of leading Cincy's offense. Their attitude matters. Says Palmer: "Guys on this team have begun to look up to Chad and T.J. and follow them."
Management knows it. In April, the Bengals tore up the final four years of Johnson's contract to give him a six-year deal, with $16 million guaranteed over the next two seasons. But if Johnson has TiVoed himself into our brains with his TD celebrations-putting with end zone pylons, proposing to cheerleaders, doing the (Ohio) Riverdance-Houshmandzadeh has quietly turned himself into the prototypical No. 2 receiver. His 78 catches last year made him only the third Bengal to post consecutive seasons with 70-plus. He's the silent, cerebral one; the underneath and over-the-middle option; the guy who can freeze you with a crackback or burn you with his deceptive speed; the threat who can keep teams from constantly double-teaming the diva next door.
Baltimore tried that last season, and Houshmandzadeh single-handedly sent his childhood hero, Deion Sanders, back into retirement with nine catches for 147 yards and a score. Johnson added five for 88 and a TD, and bulldozer back Rudi Johnson rang up 114 yards and 2 TDs. To NFL purists, the Bengals' balance in that 42-29 win was a thing of rare beauty. "They doubled Chad, and I killed 'em," Houshmandzadeh says. "So they doubled me, and Chad killed 'em. Then they played us both straight up, and we all killed 'em."
It's been that way since Johnson and Houshmandzadeh were teammates at Oregon State, both arriving via unconventional paths. Johnson was raised in Miami by his grandmother, a middle school counselor. He was a good kid who stayed out of serious trouble, but he hated school. "By now, everybody knows my story, right?" Johnson asks. "Six schools, graduated late from high school, thrown out of one college, ineligible at another, bad grades, the whole thing."
Houshmandzadeh's ascent to the NFL was just as unlikely. His mother, Deborah Johnson, met an Iranian student named Touraj Houshmandzadeh while the two were students at San Diego State. The couple split when T.J. was 2 years old, and Touraj has not been heard from since. A standout running back at Barstow (Calif.) High, Houshmandzadeh cut school so often that he was kicked out. He says he came as close to becoming a gangbanger as possible without committing his life to the streets. He never did graduate from high school; instead, he picked up his GED and followed a friend who was going to play juco football at Cerritos (Calif.) College, near Long Beach.
Coaches there gave Houshmandzadeh a shot, and he blossomed, becoming a juco All-America and catching the eye of Oregon State's Dennis Erickson. But no matter how much his game had grown, Houshmandzadeh still acted like a kid looking for trouble. The night before he was set to leave for Corvallis, Houshmandzadeh got into a fight in Long Beach. When police tried to break it up, Houshmandzadeh started swinging at them. He was pepper-sprayed for his efforts and thrown in jail, where he begged the cops to reconsider. "You don't understand," he pleaded through the bars. "I've got a scholarship to go to school." Nobody cared.
Sitting in jail that night, he vowed to himself that if he got out-and hadn't lost his scholarship-he would leave his old ways in the cell. "I was sitting there thinking I was so close," Houshmandzadeh says, "and I had blown it." Released the next morning (the charges were later dropped), Houshmandzadeh made it to campus on time. And he kept that promise to himself: He started taking school and football seriously for the first time. He studied (books and game film). He worked on technique. He learned the playbook. After his first season, Houshmandzadeh was poised to become the Beavers' top receiver. Then the school-hopping Johnson showed up.
Loquacious, personable and bullheaded, Johnson had been kicked out of D2 Langston University in Oklahoma for fighting and skipping classes. He then spent three years at Santa Monica Junior College, although bad grades made him ineligible for one of them. Oregon State was to be his last stop before the NFL, but he arrived just three weeks before the season began and didn't have time to learn the Beavers' playbook. When the huddle would break, he'd often be left staring at Houshmandzadeh, his face a pathetic question mark. Every game presented Houshmandzadeh with a golden opportunity to undercut his flashy counterpart. But whether it was Johnson's endearing charm or a respect forged by shared childhood difficulties, Houshmandzadeh couldn't do it. So on their way to the line of scrimmage, he'd raise his hand and draw the route in the air for Johnson. Most of the time, it was a twirl and a point downfield: Go deep. "That was the signal for Chad to do what we call 'get missin',' " Houshmandzadeh says.
Johnson says their time at OSU linked them with a shared secret: fear. "It comes from the freakin' stupid road we each took to get here," he says. "One more bad move, one more wrong turn for either of us, and we're not here right now. That fear doesn't leave you. That's why T.J.'s the only one who understands why I do all this talking. I'm just trying to challenge myself because of fear. I'm scared, I'm afraid."
The relationship works because each knows that he wouldn't be where he is without the other. Houshmandzadeh has kept Johnson grounded, while Johnson has challenged Houshmandzadeh to reach new heights. But that hardly makes them twin sons of a different mother.
You might see both on their cell phones, but Johnson is likely leaving a message for Shaq about club-hopping, while Houshmandzadeh is probably checking in with his wife, Kaci, about school for their 3-year-old daughter, Kennedi. You might see them eating lunch at the same time, but Johnson will be noshing barbecue chicken with his hands, wiping the sauce on a pair of sweatpants hanging in his locker, while Houshmandzadeh will be using a knife, fork and napkin. You might see both head to practice early, but Johnson will be amusing himself in the stadium's echo chamber ("Hellloooo, what are you doooooing?"), while Houshmandzadeh is setting up orange cones to work on footwork and balance. "Their relationship is brotherly, and T.J. is like the older brother," says Bengals offensive coordinator Bob Bratkowski. "They squabble, sure, but by god, don't let anyone mess with my brother."
"Brothers?" says Houshmandzadeh, relaxing after spending an entire practice session working on 12-yard comeback routes and two hours in the weight room. "I think we're more like an old married couple that needs to consider getting some serious counseling."
"So that would make you the woman, then, right?" Johnson says.
"No," Houshmandzadeh says through clenched teeth. "That would make me the one warning you to get up outta my face with that kinda talk."
"Whatever it is," Johnson says with a wink and a smile, "it works."
"Damn, man, go get a haircut or something," Houshmandzadeh says, sending the teammates who have gathered into fits of wild laughter.
Hearing this, Johnson takes off his skullcap and sheepishly rubs his head. "It might look bad now," he shouts, "but by the time the season comes around again, I promise, it'll be looking great. You'll see."
He's talking about his hair. But he might as well be talking about his team.