When you think of Adrian Peterson, what first comes to mind?

Was it some impossible run? An amazing game? Or maybe just the way he ran, like a locomotive, so much power and speed.

It was nothing like Joe Washington, like smoke through a keyhole. If he and Billy Sims were similar specimens, one was always running wide and the other up the middle and out of the I. Hard to compare.

Elvis Peacock?

Horace Ivory?

Steve Owens?

Kenny King?

Not that it matters.

Maybe Peterson will be remembered for his plainness. Because was there anything fancy about his time at Oklahoma? In the end, he was, and is, just this amazing blend of power and speed, complete with a special kind of maturity that allowed him not to be awed by his own talents, nor carry around some sense of entitlement as a result of possessing the same.

That’s why, for me, it goes back to that freshman season and a December night in New York, the night Jason White should have won his second consecutive Heisman Trophy, yet finished third to Matt Leinart and the guy he’d been handing the ball to much of the season.

The Oklahoma reporters caught up to Peterson before the ceremony, and after a while there was this challenging little back and forth as we tried to gauge just how much of this he was getting.

A freshman, at the Heisman ceremony? It’s not supposed to happen. It doesn’t happen. It never happens. But it was happening to him, this kid who’d just left the high school game.

Peterson said he got it. Memory says he was practically telling us to relax, not to worry, because the situation wasn’t lost on him. He got it. He was special. And yet, at the same time, all of his shrugs seemed to simultaneously be saying something else. It was no big deal.

And that’s when I decided he really was special.

He grasped the gravity of the moment, without being particularly impressed. Perhaps because, after all, it’s just a game.