Throwback Thursday: The Ballad of Ron Weaver, College Football's Greatest Impostor

Each week, VICE Sports takes a look back at an important event from this week in sports history for Throwback Thursday, or #TBT for all you cool kids. You can read previous installments here.

Why did he do it? He did it because he could, because he wanted to, because he found a way to game the system he aspired so desperately to be a part of. Can you blame him for trying? He was nearing 30, a former small-time college football player who was working at his family's liquor store in Salinas, California, and that's when Ron Weaver hatched the plan that briefly made him both famous and notorious.

It's been 20 years since Weaver was outed, right before the Sugar Bowl between Texas and Virginia Tech on December 31, 1995. Texas lost that game, 28-10, and the Longhorns at least partially blamed their defeat on Weaver, who until a few days before had been known to his teammates as defensive back Joel Ron McKelvey, an alias he borrowed from an acquaintance in the liquor business back in Salinas. It was a remarkable ruse, but the way Weaver recounted it to Sports Illustrated at the time, it was also far easier than he thought it would be. One step led to the next, which led to the next, and each step heightened Weaver's Gatsby-esque longings for himself. "My lifelong dream was to play football," he said at the time, "and I wanted it to last forever."

Weaver played wide receiver in high school; he enrolled at Monterey Peninsula College in 1984, and then moved on to Sacramento State, at the time a Division II school, in 1988. He played two seasons there, but he was undersized (5-foot-10, 175 pounds), and he ran no faster than 4.6 seconds in the 40-yard-dash. Weaver tried out for the Canadian Football League and failed; he tried out with the Houston Oilers and failed again; he went back home. He became an unpaid assistant at Monterey Peninsula College, coaching defensive backs, and that's when he said to himself, I could still play with these guys.

Weaver met Joel Ron McKelvey, who was 20, at the gym where he worked out. McKelvey was young and African-American and athletic-looking, which provided the cover he needed. Weaver reportedly asked McKelvey if he could borrow his identity to play football in Los Angeles, and according to Weaver McKelvey told him to go ahead. Weaver tried out at Pierce Community College as a defensive back. He was athletic enough that Pierce coach Bill Norton decided to take a chance on him.

With that, Ron Weaver's second life began. He enrolled at Pierce using McKelvey's Social Security number. He worked four nights a week at a restaurant in Malibu using his real name, and played at Pierce (located in the San Fernando Valley) under McKelvey's name. He told only a few people. His 40 time improved, and his bench press improved, and after his second season at Pierce—his sixth season in college football—he drew interest from a number of major schools. He thought maybe the NFL was a realistic possibility. By then, he had enough of a record from Pierce that he could easily enroll at Texas. And so he did.

He didn't play much at Texas (when he did, he occasionally got burned by speedy receivers), but he worked hard. He majored in kinesiology. He wanted to sustain football for as long as he could. He asked his position coach if he could redshirt, maybe wring another year out of a career that had already gone on far longer than it legally should have. Then, the day before the Sugar Bowl, Weaver's hometown newspaper published a story about his ruse. The newspaper discovered that Weaver was in his seventh season of college football and that he was actually 30 years old. The article also claimed that Weaver enrolled at Texas in part to write a book about his experiences. (Weaver said it wasn't about that.)

Weaver initially denied the reports to Longhorns coach John Mackovic, even offering to produce a birth certificate. He then departed the team hotel in New Orleans before the game and wound up in Hollywood with his sister, an actor and oddball character named Bonita Money—she once got into a fight with actress Shannon Doherty; appeared in a Frank Stallone film; and reportedly showed up at the trial of Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss to offer "support"—who was aware of her brother's ploy.

From there, Ron Weaver disappeared into a more typical American life. He pleaded guilty to misusing a Social Security number, but served no jail time. He moved back to California, tried out for an arena league team in San Jose and (you guessed it) failed. He went back to Monterey, moved to Phoenix, and then moved to La Jolla with his wife and son, which is where a newspaper reporter tracked him down roughly a decade ago. Weaver was managing a restaurant. "I still think about (my year at Texas)," he said. "I love the game even now. I'm closing in on 40, and sometimes I still think I can play. I love competition. I love being around sports."

As of now, there is no book, but according to his sister's Instagram account, she has entered into a holding agreement to produce an ESPN 30 for 30 documentary on her brother's story. At heart, it is a simple tale: the story of a man clinging to the American dream, a man who wanted to hold on to his youth for as long as possible, and in a way that sounds awfully familiar. Why did he do it? Because he could. Which of us, if afforded the opportunity, wouldn't do the same?