One world is dirt streaks on concrete walls, barred doors and muted dreams.
The other world is cardinal and gold in glittering cases, open doors offering endless hope.
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Big Man ON CAMPUS
It didn't seem likely that Ricky Rosas would become an important part of the USC football team, but that's exactly what has happened for the Trojans' 'little brother'
BILL PLASCHKE
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Every morning during the football season, Ricky Rosas leaves one world for the other world.
Every morning, he leaves his East Los Angeles home to catch bus No. 720, then transfers to bus No. 754, then jumps out near the Vermont Street entrance to USC.
The trips takes 90 minutes but spans a universe.
He leaves home as a developmentally disabled teen who could not finish high school.
He arrives at USC as the football program's magical, mysterious Ricky.
He is 4 feet 8. He weighs 91 pounds. He doesn't have a driver's license. He doesn't have money. He can't sign his name.
But around USC, nobody's name has been chanted more. Nobody has been hugged more. Nobody has been loved more. Nobody is richer.
"It's funny how the hugest of guys take care of the littlest guy," Ricky says.
In one world, there are struggles to live with three others in a house with one tiny bedroom and a primitive bathroom. His mother sleeps on the couch, his sister on the floor, Ricky on a bare mattress under a rickety bunk bed.
In the other world, there is the triumph of a job, handing out water at practice, picking up lunch for the coaches, shredding old game plans, Ricky on the sturdy foundation of importance.
In the one world, he has a sister who struggles with an artificial leg, a mother who can't find work, two small disability checks to cover their expenses, microwave soup at the lean end of every month.
In the other world, he has a title: Special Assistant to the Head Coach.
Ricky Rosas, 18, shakes his head.
"It's amazing how far you can move up in life, you know?" he says.
Pete Carroll shakes his head.
"How can I do this?" he says, repeating a question. "How can I not do this?"
After a recent USC practice in the middle of the most angst-ridden season in Carroll's tenure as coach, quarterback Mark Sanchez stays on the field to take extra snaps.
With the kids from the neighborhood.
As Sanchez is tossing passes to squealing 10-year-old boys, Carroll takes a break from serious football talk to smile.
"You see that over there?" says the coach. "That's what we do. That's who we are."
A year ago, it was into this community connection that Ricky Rosas walked, a vulnerable Los Angeles kid peering over the wall at Los Angeles' most powerful football program.
