Ottis Anderson and me: A fan's quest for the meaning of the Hall of Fame - ESPN

I TRY NOT to feel slighted when the MVP of Super Bowl XXV doesn't hug me on a chilly December afternoon at MetLife Stadium, but it isn't easy.

Ottis «O.J.» Anderson, you see, is not stingy with hugs: former teammates, stadium buffet station chefs, New York Giants executives, fans too young to have seen him play, fans old enough to never forget seeing him play — if there's reasonable justification, the 69-year-old Anderson will wrap his still oak-tree-strong arms around you.

But not me, not yet anyway. I'm at MetLife for a game against the Minnesota Vikings, there to hang out with Anderson. Not long after he shakes my hand upon arrival, we're sitting at a high table in the Giants Legacy Club with another retired Giant, Rodney Hampton.

Hampton was a rookie in 1990, Anderson's 12th season in the league, and he explains that the veteran running back was asked by head coach Bill Parcells to inform him when Hampton was «ready.» Taking that mandate as seriously as he did everything in his long career, Anderson mentored the player destined to replace him as a starter through a very productive campaign. «To most people that was the season he helped us win a Super Bowl,» Hampton says. «But for me that was the season he taught me how to be a pro. He was everything to all of us in the [running backs] room: dad, uncle, big brother, mentor — call him anything you want.»

Well, anything except Hall of Famer.

Hampton and Anderson are sometime ambassadors for the Giants, paid to turn up at games to shmooze with fans, especially the kind who tend to watch the action from suites. Both men are naturals, quick with a selfie smile, game memory or insight about the current squad. They hug it out before departing to make their rounds, me