“Make It Make Sense”: How Did Sean McVay Outshine Megatron in Georgia’s Football Lore—And Why That Still Baffles Fans Today?

Sean McVay and Calvin Johnson are two names that have traveled entirely different paths to football immortality, yet their shared roots in Georgia high school football continue to stir confusion and debate. One would go on to become the youngest head coach to win a Super Bowl, the other a Hall of Fame wide receiver widely considered one of the most dominant to ever play the game. And yet, at one particular point in time—when both were competing on Friday nights under the Georgia lights—it was McVay, not Megatron, who walked away with the ultimate crown: the state’s Offensive Player of the Year award. That one fact has bewildered fans for years, especially those who are only familiar with Johnson’s monstrous NFL legacy and McVay’s cerebral rise through the coaching ranks. But to truly understand how such a thing happened, and why it continues to evoke disbelief, one has to dig deep into the culture of Georgia high school football in the early 2000s, the metrics used to measure success back then, and the very different positions these two phenoms played.

In 2003, Sean McVay was the quarterback at Marist High School, an Atlanta powerhouse known for its disciplined, option-heavy offense and well-coached teams. He was smart, efficient, and gritty—traits that clearly foreshadowed his eventual trajectory in the coaching world. That year, McVay passed for over 1,500 yards and ran for over 600 more, leading his team to a 14-1 record and a state championship in Georgia’s Class 4A. He was the field general, the leader, the focal point of every snap. At the same time, Calvin Johnson was tearing up fields just miles away at Sandy Creek High School. A junior at the time, Johnson had already started to show flashes of the sheer dominance that would later define his NFL career. He stood 6’4″, ran like a gazelle, and could leap over defenders with effortless grace. But his numbers, impressive as they were, didn’t match McVay’s volume. And therein lies part of the mystery.

Back then, high school accolades like “Offensive Player of the Year” were often handed out with a strong lean toward quarterbacks. They touched the ball every play. They commanded the huddle. They racked up stats not just through the air but on the ground. Johnson, on the other hand, could only make an impact when the ball was thrown his way. And that was a big limitation in the context of high school offenses, many of which leaned heavily on running the ball and didn’t feature the kind of advanced passing attacks seen at the collegiate or professional level. Even though Johnson was clearly the most gifted athlete on the field—perhaps in the entire state—he simply didn’t get enough opportunities to showcase it numerically. McVay, meanwhile, was the driving engine of an elite team that went nearly undefeated. The results were tangible. The narrative was easy to write.

But as time went on, that narrative started to fall apart. Calvin Johnson went on to Georgia Tech and immediately became a nightmare for defensive coordinators. His sophomore and junior seasons were filled with jaw-dropping catches, highlight reels, and eventually, the top of NFL draft boards. He was taken second overall by the Detroit Lions in the 2007 NFL Draft and proceeded to carve out a career that redefined the wide receiver position. His size, speed, and humility combined into something rare—something generational. In just nine seasons, Johnson broke records, earned six Pro Bowl nods, and earned the nickname “Megatron” for his otherworldly performances. He retired early, but not before securing his spot in the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Sean McVay, meanwhile, didn’t even pursue playing at the collegiate level. He walked on at Miami University in Ohio and spent some time as a wide receiver, but it quickly became clear that his mind was his true weapon. He transitioned to coaching almost immediately, landing internships and assistant gigs that would propel him into the NFL coaching ranks faster than anyone could’ve predicted. By age 30, he was the head coach of the Los Angeles Rams. By 36, he was a Super Bowl champion. His memory, attention to detail, and offensive creativity have drawn comparisons to the greatest minds the game has ever seen. But still, no one will confuse Sean McVay the player with Calvin Johnson the legend.

That’s where the cognitive dissonance begins. How could someone who ended up having such a transcendent playing career be considered less impactful, even for a single season, than someone who wouldn’t go on to play professionally at all? How could McVay have been the better football player in Georgia in 2003? It comes down to timing, roles, and the simple fact that awards are snapshots in time. McVay peaked in high school. He was mature, physically and mentally, and operating in a system built for success. Johnson, on the other hand, was just getting started. He didn’t play in an offense that maximized his talent. His quarterback couldn’t always get him the ball. The system didn’t highlight his gifts the way modern offenses would have. It wasn’t a fair fight, and yet, the award was handed out in black and white.

To be fair, McVay’s high school career was nothing to scoff at. Those who watched him play describe him as a true coach on the field, someone who understood defenses in a way most teenagers couldn’t. He was calm under pressure and never rattled, attributes that mirrored the qualities he later displayed as an NFL coach. He was also surrounded by a strong supporting cast and an elite coaching staff at Marist, a program that demanded precision and excellence. His leadership was tangible, his stats respectable, and his team successful. Those were the ingredients voters looked for when crowning the state’s best offensive player.

Yet, the debate lingers because greatness isn’t always defined in the moment—it reveals itself over time. Johnson’s NFL career retroactively adds weight to the notion that he should have been lauded more in high school. His dominance at the next levels has reshaped how we view his early years. It’s possible that if today’s advanced scouting metrics and media exposure existed back then, Johnson might have received more attention. Highlight reels would have gone viral. Recruiting rankings would have been plastered across social media. The sheer absurdity of his athleticism would have been impossible to ignore.

What this moment in history reveals is how limited our perspectives can be when we rely solely on statistics, wins, or team success to judge individual greatness. McVay was a phenomenal high school quarterback who reached the pinnacle of his potential as a leader and playmaker. Johnson was a developing force of nature, still unpolished but undeniably unique. Both were worthy of praise, but their timelines and developmental arcs diverged. And that divergence is what causes so much retrospective confusion.

There’s also a cultural element to this debate. Football fans love underdog stories and late bloomers, but they worship raw talent and uncontainable athleticism even more. Johnson is the kind of player who leaves crowds in awe. He’s the reason fans come to stadiums. McVay, even at his best, was more about execution than electricity. That difference in style plays a huge role in how we remember athletes. One makes us think; the other makes us feel. Over time, feeling tends to win out.

Ultimately, the fact that this question still circulates in football circles today is a testament to both players’ lasting impact—albeit for vastly different reasons. McVay’s name will forever be etched in coaching lore, not for the passes he threw at Marist, but for the plays he drew up on NFL sidelines. Johnson’s name is spoken with reverence anytime the term “elite receiver” comes up. He was a unicorn—one that transformed the game even in a relatively short professional career. It’s natural to compare them because they share a rare overlap in their origin stories. But the comparison only goes so far before it becomes apples and oranges.

For those who saw them both in Georgia during those formative years, the answer likely lies in context. McVay was a complete high school quarterback who led a winning team. Johnson was a tantalizing talent not yet fully realized. Awards are temporary. Legacy is eternal. And while McVay may have taken home the trophy in 2003, it’s Megatron who ultimately won the long game—in the eyes of fans, analysts, and defenders who were unlucky enough to line up across from him. The fact that people still ask this question says less about the award itself and more about the awe Johnson inspires whenever his name is mentioned.

So maybe it doesn’t make sense on paper. Maybe it never will. But in a strange, poetic way, that brief moment when Sean McVay outshined Calvin Johnson serves as a reminder that greatness isn’t always obvious right away. Sometimes, it’s a quiet signal before the storm. Sometimes, the best player isn’t the one with the stats or the trophy, but the one who leaves a mark on the game that no award can measure.