Do Not Disturb

The garage door is jammed half open, the rollers off their track, and sunlight is beating down on the rear grill of the black Lamborghini and the neon purple bed of the Chevy Avalanche. � Oakland Raiders wideout Randy Moss, wearing a jordan 23 T-shirt, knee-length blue shorts and Nike sandals, pushes the bottom of the door, which is stuck at shoulder height. "Man," he shouts, "who f----- up my garage door?" �He glares at me. I shake my head. I'm innocent. "You see?" he says, as if he's proved his point. "You see? That's why I don't let nobody into my house. They are always f------ s--- up." He hits the electronic opener one more time. Nothing. He gives the door a stiff jerk. "Goddammit!" The SI photo crew has been coming and going all morning, shooting Moss in and around his Boca Raton, Fla., home, and although he repeatedly admonished them to keep the screen doors closed, to remove their shoes, not to "mud up" the house--see?--something got messed up. It has been Moss's experience that if he keeps his house spotless, his routine unsullied, if he keeps to himself, then there "ain't going to be no misunderstandings." That's also why he lives alone. When Randy meets the world, he has noticed, those interactions have tended to be messy. He gives the garage door another hard jolt, rattling its panels, and then tries the opener again. There is the satisfying clicking and whirring of the motor engaging and then the door lifting. He nods his head. Back on track.

In this era of supersized housing, Moss's primary residence could be taken as a philosophical statement. This is only one of four houses he owns, but this is the one he calls home. It would be a humble abode for a moderately successful dentist; for an NFL superstar with a $75 million contract, it is downright Gandhian. The three-bedroom tan stucco structure, about 1,700 square feet in a tract housing development built around a golf course and inhabited primarily by retirees, is at the end of a narrow lane on which Moss's Hummer and BMW, not to mention the Lamborghini, stand out amid the more utilitarian means of transportation deployed by his neighbors.

His living room is shrouded by shadows, blinds drawn. There is a drum set under a white tarp--Moss says he hasn't played in four years--and a brown leather sofa; ceramic figures of a panther, a giraffe, a tiger and a cheetah stalk the mantel. It has the feel of a playroom long abandoned by a boy now grown up. The rest of the house is similarly underappointed. "I like to keep my surroundings low-key," says Moss. "I don't need much around me. I'm easy, don't need a lot of racket."

But why does the highest-paid receiver in football live in such simple surroundings, amid retirees in checked pants steering golf carts past his cul de sac on their way to the 1st tee? "This community had three things going for it," he says. "One, it's gated. Two, I can fish. And three, old people don't bother me and I don't bother them. If there are too many kids or families around, they're going to be on me. The only thing the old people worry about is my vehicle's stereo system, but that's why I don't play it too loud. Old people, they sleep all day, as long as I don't wake 'em up."

In the den he takes off his shirt and reclines over a giant exercise ball, trying to stretch out his back. This off-season he has embarked on the most aggressive workout program of his career because he is determined to prove to the rest of the NFL that Raiders owner Al Davis, who on March 2 traded linebacker Napoleon Harris and two draft picks for Moss, stole the best receiver in football from the Minnesota Vikings. "I think, with the years he had and the numbers he put up, he couldn't believe he was given away for a player that he never heard of," says Dant� diTrapano, his longtime agent.

If anyone else lived in this little house, with the dark, underfurnished rooms and the sports cars gathering dust in the garage, you would assume him to be a lonely misanthrope, a Mr. Havisham who has forsaken the Midlands for the Florida sun. Yet for Moss, this house is part of an almost ascetic world view: He can't tolerate distractions, rarely has guests and professes to be ruthlessly self-sufficient. "I don't have any friends," he says. "I can't really have any friends. It's sad, really. It's lonely. But that's how I am. That's why I say that I don't really care what people think or say about me, because I'm my own man. Nobody helps me, comes and pays my bills when it's time [for them] to be paid, and nobody wakes me up in the morning or works out for me. My thing is, unless you've been in my shoes, don't say nothing to me; and if you don't care for me, then, oh well."

What you think about Randy Moss, he insists, says more about you than it does about him. Moss's antics, in particular his mock mooning of Packers backers after a clutch touchdown reception in a wild-card playoff win in Green Bay in January, have made Moss the favorite target of those who find in excessive end-zone celebrations the seeds of the demise of Western civilization. Some, including Fox announcer Joe Buck and studio host James Brown, expressed such despair over Moss's pantomime that it was as if the Hindenburg had risen over Lambeau Field only to go down in flames all over again. But there are also those, like my 77-year-old father, who found in Moss's celebration an act that typifies the bold iconoclasm that Moss, and a few other athletes of his generation, have come to represent. My father called me immediately after that game and said, "Did you see that? That was great." When I asked why, he gave an explanation that the keepers of NFL orthodoxy--from commissioner Paul Tagliabue to sports radio hosts nationwide--never seemed to consider: "It was funny."

Says Moss, "The Green Bay thing was fun, like being caught up in the moment. When happiness and joy hit you, it's hard to hold it in."

While the act was spontaneous, Moss concedes that it was rooted in revenge. "I told myself I was going to get Green Bay fans back for their little antics when I was hurt." Moss is referring to a performance by the University of Wisconsin marching band at the Vikings-Packers game on Nov. 14, 2004. Taunting Moss, who was on the sideline in street clothes because of a pulled hamstring, the band appeared with their tubas bearing cloth covers on which were printed letters that spelled out: where you at moss?

Still, Moss's faux moon was the latest in a string of incidents, some serious and others trivial, that have given detractors reason to overlook his Hall of Fame--caliber numbers. He already ranks eighth in career touchdown catches (90), and after two more of his typical seasons he will be in the top 10 of virtually every other significant receiving category. His status as that most prized of NFL receivers, one with the speed to blow by defensive backs and the size and strength to go up and get almost any ball thrown his way, is unquestioned. Ever since Moss came into the league in 1998 as the 21st pick in the draft, scouts and general managers have sought " Randy Moss types" when evaluating wideouts; entering this year's draft, Michigan's Braylon Edwards touted himself as such and became the No. 3 pick. Why then, when the Vikings were shopping Moss in February, were the Raiders and the New York Jets the only teams to show serious interest?