He was the number one pick. Not just a first-rounder, but the guy. In 1977, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers looked at a draft board that included Tony Dorsett—a future Hall of Famer—and said, "No, we want Ricky Bell."
If you ask a casual fan today who Ricky Bell was, you might get a blank stare. Maybe a vague memory of a USC legend. But for those who saw him play, especially during that magical 1979 run in Tampa, he was the heartbeat of a franchise that had spent years as the laughingstock of professional sports. He wasn't just a running back; he was the bridge between a winless punchline and a championship contender.
Then, just like that, he was gone. At age 29.
Most people get the story of Ricky Bell wrong. They see a "bust" because his stats didn't mirror Dorsett's. They see a tragic figure who died young. But the reality is a lot more complex, kinda messy, and honestly, a testament to what a human being can endure when their body starts betraying them before their career is even over.
The USC Years: A Bull in a China Shop
Before the NFL, Bell was a god in Los Angeles. It’s easy to forget how dominant he was at USC because the school has a "Tailback U" lineage that reads like a guest list for the Heisman ceremony. But Bell was different. He started as a linebacker. Think about that. A guy with the frame of a seeker-and-destroyer moving to the backfield.
John McKay, the legendary USC coach, eventually moved him to fullback to block for Anthony Davis. He was great at it. But when he finally got the featured tailback spot in 1975, he exploded.
- 1,875 yards in a single season (leading the nation).
- 347 yards in one game against Washington State (still a USC record).
- 51 carries in that same game.
Fifty-one. That’s not a workload; that’s an industrial stress test.
He finished third in the Heisman voting in '75 and second in '76. By the time the 1977 NFL Draft rolled around, he was the consensus "physical" choice. While Dorsett was the lightning, Bell was the thunder. And John McKay, who had left USC to coach the expansion Buccaneers, wanted his guy.
The 1977 Draft: The Choice That Defined Two Franchises
The Buccaneers were 0-14 in 1976. They were bad. Like, "orange-uniforms-and-no-hope" bad. McKay had the first pick and a decision to make: the flashy Dorsett or the dependable Bell.
He chose familiarity. He chose the kid he knew would run through a brick wall without asking why.
Early on, it looked like a mistake. While Dorsett was winning a Super Bowl and Offensive Rookie of the Year with the Cowboys, Bell was struggling behind a porous offensive line in Tampa. The fans were brutal. They called him a "bust." They booed him. They didn't see the punishment he was taking just to gain three yards.
Honestly, the pressure must have been suffocating. Imagine being the face of a winless franchise while the guy you were drafted over is becoming a national superstar.
1979: When Everything Finally Clicked
Everything changed in 1979. The Bucs started 5-0. The "Yucks" were suddenly the "Best in the West" (well, the NFC Central, but you get it).
Ricky Bell was the engine. He rushed for 1,263 yards that season. He wasn't dancing around people; he was punishing them. If you want to understand who he was as a player, you look at the 1979 divisional playoff game against the Philadelphia Eagles.
The Bucs won 24-17. It was the first playoff win in franchise history.
Bell carried the ball 38 times. That was an NFL playoff record at the time. He racked up 142 yards and two touchdowns. It was the peak. The Bucs were one game away from the Super Bowl, losing a 9-0 heartbreaker to the Rams in the NFC Championship.
For a brief moment, it looked like Bell was going to be the Hall of Famer everyone expected.
The Mystery Illness and the Silent Decline
The decline happened fast. Too fast. In 1980, the production dipped. By 1981, he was barely a factor. People—including some in the media and the stands—thought he had lost his "hunger." They thought he had gotten paid and gotten lazy.
The truth was much darker.
Bell was getting sick. His muscles were aching in ways that didn't feel like football soreness. He was losing weight. His skin was tightening and becoming inflamed. He was traded to the San Diego Chargers in 1982, but he wasn't the same. He eventually retired in 1983, weighing significantly less than his playing weight of 225 pounds.
He was finally diagnosed with dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that causes skin rashes and muscle weakness. It eventually leads to the hardening of the muscles and can affect the heart.
He didn't complain. He didn't go on a "woe is me" tour. He spent his final months working with kids, specifically a young boy named Ryan Blankenship who had special needs. Their bond became the focal point of the movie Triumph of the Heart: The Ricky Bell Story.
He died on November 28, 1984. He was only 29.
Why We Still Talk About Him
We talk about Ricky Bell because he represents a specific kind of athletic tragedy—not the kind where a player throws it all away, but the kind where a hero is taken by something he couldn't hit back.
He wasn't a "bust." He was a great player who ran out of time.
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If you look at his 1979 tape, you see a man who played with a violence and a grace that shouldn't coexist. He made the Tampa Bay Buccaneers relevant. He gave a city permission to believe in their team.
What You Can Do Next
If you want to truly appreciate the impact of Ricky Bell, you shouldn't just look at his Pro-Football-Reference page. Stats tell a lie in this case.
- Watch the 1979 NFC Divisional Playoff highlights. You can find them on YouTube. Look at how he hits the hole. Look at the way he finishes runs. It’s a masterclass in "power" running.
- Read about his work with Ryan Blankenship. It’s easy to lionize athletes for their physical feats, but Bell’s character in the face of a terminal diagnosis is his real legacy.
- Support Dermatomyositis research. It’s still a rare and misunderstood disease. Organizations like The Myositis Association continue the work to find treatments for the condition that took Bell too soon.
Ricky Bell was a superstar who didn't get the career he deserved, but he gave everything he had to the years he was given. That's worth remembering.
Actionable Insight: When evaluating "busts" in sports history, look closer at the physical toll and medical context. Bell’s career serves as a reminder that an athlete’s "prime" is a fragile window often dictated by factors far beyond the weight room or the practice field. To honor his legacy, consider donating to or volunteering with youth mentorship programs, as that was the work Bell prioritized in his final days.