Like all good stories, this one begins with faith. There are believers and nonbelievers, seers and skeptics. The believers told of a 255-pound quarterback who could throw it 80 yards on the fly, run past cornerbacks and run over linebackers. The nonbelievers thought they smelled a fable -- even the quarterback's name, Daunte Culpepper, has a fabulist ring to it. The skeptics couldn't bend their minds around the concept of so much size and so much speed and so much ... everything. The mind has limits. You'll see, the believers said. Someday you'll see.

Everybody sees now. Everybody knows. The nonbelievers, some of them his teammates with the Minnesota Vikings, have been converted. Through six games, the Vikings were undefeated and Culpepper was among the top-rated passers in the NFL (98.3), with a 63% completion average, 11 touchdown passes and only six picks. He's averaging a Jim Brown-like 5.0 yards per carry, running past cornerbacks and over linebackers and occasionally carrying a safety on his back if it means getting a first down.

And this is exactly what the believers have been saying from the beginning: When the game starts, it doesn't matter that he went to the University of Central Florida, or that he was the fourth of five quarterbacks taken in the first round of the 1999 draft, or that many so-called experts questioned the sanity of Vikings coach Dennis Green this off-season because he released Randall Cunningham and didn't re-sign Jeff George. None of it matters, because when Culpepper takes off with the ball or cocks his arm and zings it downfield, it's like nothing you've ever seen before. His feet, in an act of gravitational disdain, glide across the ground like a stone skimming a lake. Featuring the most massive posterior in the history of quarterbacking, he's bigger -- and possibly stronger -- than any of the legendary Purple People Eaters. "He's almost one of us," says offensive tackle Korey Stringer. "If he wasn't so fast, he'd be a guard."

His mobility has made the concept of a pocket irrelevant. After he ran for three touchdowns in a season-opening win over Chicago, there were national commentators who suggested defenses would catch up to him -- and soon. They said the smart defensive coordinators would use a spy linebacker to cut off his running lanes and force him to throw. Culpepper heard the talk and dismissed it: "Man, my first option is not to run. I am not a runner. I'm a quarterback." Since that first game, teams have, in fact, employed the spy tactic, frequently freeing the already dangerous Randy Moss and Cris Carter for game-breaking receptions.

"I know this sounds crazy, but I think he's going to the Hall of Fame," says Mike Kruczek, Culpepper's head coach at Central Florida. "When I saw Daunte in high school, I couldn't believe it. I said, 'No way he's coming to our school.' This was a 6'4", 238-pound guy throwing it 40 yards on one knee and running past defensive backs. He's the best I've ever seen, and I played with Terry Bradshaw. I saw Dan Marino in high school."

One previously dubious teammate, an influential starter Culpepper refuses to name, told Daunte his emergence has made him excited about football again. "Brought back his love for the game," the QB says, quietly but proudly.

Culpepper engenders strong feelings. This is, in fact, also a story about loyalty. It's a constant that threads like a tight spiral through his life. Someone is loyal to him, someone believes in him, and he repays that trust until no one is quite sure which came first, the debt or the repayment.

Those who believe never regret it. Culpepper was born to an unwed teenager named Barbara Henderson who was doing time in a Miami prison for armed robbery. The day after he was born, in January 1977, Daunte was given to Emma Culpepper, a 62-year-old woman in Ocala, Fla., who had gotten to know his birth mother through her job with a youth correctional center. Emma raised Daunte as her 15th and last child, none of whom were her own. Now 85, Emma lives in a house Daunte bought for her, a big house in a gated development with doctors and lawyers as neighbors. "I can never repay her, no matter how much money I make," Daunte says.

When he was 5 or 6, Daunte was reunited with his birth mother for a short time, but his unhappiness made Henderson return him to Emma. "My birth mother told me recently it broke her heart to see me leave out of her arms the second time. I thank her, though. Out of her love for me, she gave me back." He remains in contact with Henderson, of whom he says, "She got her life together. She's a productive member of society and I'm proud of her."

Through three years at Ocala's Vanguard High, Culpepper struggled with his grades. They were poor enough to prevent his being seriously recruited by the major football powers. The summer before his senior year, Central Florida offensive line coach Paul Lounsberry saw the intelligence that had enabled Culpepper to pick up a borrowed bass violin while in elementary school and eventually become proficient enough to play with a college orchestra, and the coach devised a plan for him to improve his academic standing. Daunte earned a 3.0 his senior year. With that average, he could have gone to Florida State or one of the other big schools that suddenly came calling. Later, he was advised by agents and NFL people to leave UCF after his junior year there, but he decided to stay with Central Florida. "They were good to me, and loyalty is something you should always hold sacred in your heart," he says.

Culpepper didn't throw a regular-season pass last year, his rookie season. The other QBs from his draft class -- Tim Couch, Akili Smith, Cade McNown, Shaun King, Donovan McNabb -- spent their year on the field. Culpepper's idea of a pressure-packed situation was running a two-minute drill against the first-team defense. "When you're the third guy, you pretty much just stay out of the way," Green says. But inside, Culpepper was antsy for a chance. During the off-season, when Green told Culpepper that Cunningham was being released, Culpepper told him, "Coach, I can do this." When Green told him the Vikings were unable to keep George, Culpepper told him, "Coach, I can do this." When the Vikings engaged in talks to unretire Marino, Culpepper said, "Coach, I can do this."

"Daunte is convinced that if he had gotten the chance to play last year, he would have played the same way," Green says. Says Culpepper, "After I was named the starter, I was looking at the papers and the magazines. Everything I picked up said Coach Green was making a mistake, that Coach Green wasn't going to be around after this year, what was Coach Green doing? I was like, 'Damn, I think I'm pretty good. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.' So that gave me fuel. It didn't make me angry; it made me work harder."

It also gave him another chance to show his loyalty. Green, after all, was linking his coaching fate directly to Culpepper's play. Of course, this was nothing new for Green, who changes personnel more often than Van Halen -- and with considerably more success. If the Vikes keep rolling behind Culpepper, Green will have guided his team to the postseason with seven different quarterbacks in nine years. How does he do it? According to his offensive coordinator Sherman Lewis, "Denny is a great teacher, calm, detailed, supportive. He's also not afraid to take a chance. People say, 'Denny must be losing it.' He doesn't care. And most coaches make their quarterback fit the system. Denny makes the system fit the quarterback. That's what great coaching is all about."

After he got the job, Culpepper spent part of the off-season working out with Carter, Moss and other teammates at Carter's FAST program in Boca Raton. It was a move intended to improve his conditioning (he's now running a consistent 4.5 40) and to allow him to get to know his teammates on a different level. "I knew he was a great athlete," Carter says. "But I didn't know how great until he came down this summer."

How good can he be? "I don't think there's a limit as long as I keep my head right, don't get above myself, work hard and remember where I came from," Culpepper says. He talks about teaming with Moss to become one of the greatest throw-and-catch duos of all time. He told Kruczek he doesn't know why a first-year starting quarterback can't win the Super Bowl. He says the Pro Bowl is a goal.

Pretty heady stuff for a guy who was dogged by nasty whispers and overanalysis before the '99 draft. There were suggestions that his weight would balloon once he got a big-money contract. And an agent, angry at being spurned by Culpepper, began circulating the rumor that Culpepper wasn't intelligent enough to run an NFL offense. "Teams were calling me, saying, 'We hear he's not very smart,'" Kruczek says. "It made me furious. I was a lot madder about it than D." Culpepper's response? "If you can play ball, you can play ball. All the rest is baloney."

In a way, though, none of this should come as a surprise; opening acts have always been Culpepper's specialty. He started playing football in the seventh grade, as a wide receiver. During the first week of practice, the quarterback threw him a pass that sailed over his head and skittered 30 yards downfield. Culpepper ran it down and threw it back to the quarterback on the fly. His coach said, "I think you're going to be my quarterback."

There has been no crystallizing moment this season that transformed the nonbelievers into believers. Culpepper has become a serial converter. Was it that three-touchdown opener against Chicago? Or Week 3 at New England, when the Vikings beat the Patriots in Culpepper's first close game on the road? Or could it have been against Tampa Bay in Week 6, when Culpepper -- in his first game on Monday Night Football -- did just about everything, including orchestrate a 73-yard, come-from-behind fourth-quarter drive that ended with a 42-yard game-winning TD pass to Moss? After that game, running back Robert Smith wondered, "How many more times does he have to prove himself before people realize what kind of talent he is?"

In real life, epiphanies are rare. Progress comes incrementally, like rock pushing upward over centuries to produce a mountain. One day you look and your quarterback is doing a lot of things right and very few things wrong. "I knew we were going to be all right during training camp," Carter says. "There wasn't any one thing, just an accumulation of things. He understood what was expected of him." Carter was one of the nonbelievers, publicly calling in the off-season for the Vikings to keep George. "I always thought Daunte was going to be a great player," Carter says now. "But I wanted him to know the level of commitment it would take to be a great player. You just don't assume it at this level."

Standing in the Vikings' locker room after a recent practice, Culpepper wants to emphasize the joy of his story. "I can't imagine being happier," he says. His quest to prove himself is not attended by any tired, cynical I'll-show-you arrogance, but he mentions an off-season item from this magazine, questioning his readiness. "It said this was the worst decision Denny Green ever made," Culpepper says, walking off. His face is vibrant, alive, free of the constraints of another interview. He turns his head slightly as he walks, arches an eyebrow and says: "Who knows -- it might turn out to be his best." After a quick laugh, he stops and turns. "Nah," he says. "I'm only kidding."

He might have been kidding, or maybe he decided it's not his place to speak this particular truth. Just let the nonbelievers become believers. More and more are, every Sunday.

This article appears in the October 30, 2000 issue of ESPN The Magazine.