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Just inside the soaring entry hall of his mini-mansion in suburban Atlanta is a bust of Terrell Owens. Sitting on a pedestal, molded from stark white plaster, it radiates a godlike aura, his chest and abs cut in ripped symmetry, his head shaven, his face serious and powerful. It is simple, clean, uncluttered, unlike his NFL career. Owens yearns to be everything represented by that sculpture--a gallant figure revered for his gifts. But he never has figured out how, never has been able to stay on a path that would allow his talents--not his antics--to define him.
Now, with an opportunity that seems heaven-sent, he has another shot at crafting his legacy, linked as ...