If you were watching college football in 2002, you remember the "Reese’s" commercials, the baggy scarlet jersey, and the way Maurice Clarett ran. He didn’t just run; he punished people. He was a 210-pound wrecking ball with the vision of a veteran and the ego of a king.
In just one season, he became a god in Columbus. Then, he became a ghost.
Honestly, the Maurice Clarett Ohio State saga is probably the most chaotic "one-and-done" story in the history of the sport. We talk about what-ifs all the time, but Clarett is the ultimate what-if. He led the Buckeyes to a 14-0 record and a BCS National Championship as a true freshman, breaking school records with 1,237 rushing yards and 18 touchdowns. He was the first freshman to lead a national champion in rushing since the 1940s.
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Then it all evaporated. By 2003, he was suspended. By 2004, he was suing the NFL. By 2006, he was in a police chase wearing a bulletproof vest with a hatchet and three handguns in his car.
The Freshman Season That Changed Everything
It started with a bang against Texas Tech. People expected him to be good, but nobody expected him to be that good immediately. He had this weirdly mature running style. Most freshmen dance around; Maurice just hit the hole and exploded.
His most famous play wasn’t even a run. It was "The Strip." In the 2003 Fiesta Bowl against Miami, Sean Taylor—another legend—intercepted a pass and was sprinting down the sideline. Most running backs would’ve given up. Not Maurice. He chased Taylor down, ripped the ball out of his hands, and gave Ohio State the ball back.
That one play basically sums up the 2002 Buckeyes. It was pure grit.
But while things looked perfect on the field, the wheels were already coming off behind the scenes. Maurice wasn't your typical "happy to be here" recruit. He was vocal. He complained about the university not paying for him to go home for a friend’s funeral. He challenged the NCAA’s amateurism model before NIL was even a glimmer in anyone's eye.
In hindsight, he was just twenty years too early for the current landscape of college football.
Why Was Maurice Clarett Suspended?
The downfall wasn't one single event; it was a pile-on. In 2003, Ohio State Athletic Director Andy Geiger announced Clarett was suspended for at least a year. The official reasons? Receiving improper benefits and lying to investigators.
Specifically, there was a police report where Maurice claimed over $10,000 in clothing, CDs, and cash were stolen from a car he was driving—a car provided by a local dealership. When the math didn't add up, the NCAA started digging. They found he’d received thousands in "benefits" and allegedly lied 14 different times during the probe.
He never played another snap for the Buckeyes.
The Lawsuit That Shook the NFL
Most kids would’ve transferred or waited. Maurice sued. He challenged the NFL’s "three-year rule," which says players must be three years out of high school to enter the draft.
For a second, he actually won. A district judge ruled in his favor, and for a few weeks in 2004, it looked like the NFL's doors were swinging open for underclassmen. But the Second Circuit Court of Appeals—including future Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor—overturned it. They ruled that the rule was protected by the collective bargaining agreement between the league and the players' union.
Maurice was stuck in no-man's land. No college, no NFL, and a growing problem with depression and substance abuse.
The Denver Broncos and the Final Collapse
When he finally became eligible in 2005, the Denver Broncos took a massive gamble. Mike Shanahan drafted him in the third round. It was a shocker.
At the NFL Combine, Clarett looked... bad. He ran a 4.72-second 40-yard dash. For a guy who was supposed to be the next big thing, he looked out of shape and slow. He showed up to Broncos camp and struggled with injuries and weight. He famously drank Grey Goose out of water bottles during the preseason because he was spiraling so hard.
He was cut before the season even started. He never played a single regular-season game in the NFL. Not one.
Life After the Scarlet and Gray
The years between 2006 and 2010 were dark. After the infamous highway chase in Columbus, he was sentenced to seven and a half years in prison for aggravated robbery and carrying a concealed weapon.
You’d think that’s where the story ends. Most of the time, it is.
But prison actually saved him. He started reading—like, really reading. Tolstoy, business books, philosophy. He got sober. He realized that the "Maurice Clarett" the world knew was a caricature of a frustrated kid.
Today, the Maurice Clarett Ohio State story has a surprisingly happy ending. He’s reconnected with the university. You’ll see him on the sidelines at the Horseshoe now, often mentoring younger players. He founded "The Red Zone," a behavioral health agency in Youngstown that helps people struggling with the same addiction and mental health issues he faced.
He’s a businessman now. He’s a father. He’s a guy who lost everything and somehow found a way to be okay with it.
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What We Can Learn From the Clarett Era
The biggest takeaway here isn't just about football. It's about the "one-and-done" pressure and the lack of support systems for young athletes who become million-dollar brands overnight.
- Mental Health Matters: Clarett has been open about how untreated depression drove his decision-making.
- The System Has Changed: If Clarett played today, his "improper benefits" would likely be a legal NIL deal worth seven figures.
- Redemption is Real: He’s proof that your worst mistake doesn't have to be your last chapter.
If you’re a Buckeye fan, don't remember him for the mugshot. Remember him for the 2002 season, where for twelve months, he was the best player on the planet.
Actionable Insights for Fans and Athletes:
If you want to understand the modern NIL landscape, start by reading Clarett’s book, One and Done. It provides a raw look at how the lack of financial and mental health resources in the early 2000s created a "perfect storm" for his collapse. For current young athletes, the lesson is clear: build a circle of advisors who care more about your personhood than your stats.