Dear NFL,
There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it – I’m
breaking up with you. We have been through so much together that you will
always have a special place in my heart and I really hope we can stay friends.
This is really hard for me as you have been such a huge part
of my life for the last 45 years. Once I was old enough for the game to hold my
attention that was it, I was in love. I remember in 1970 sitting down with my
Dad for the first time and watching the Broncos. They had this “D” on their
helmets with a wild horse bursting from it - I thought it was the coolest thing
I’d ever seen. This guy wearing No. 44 – Floyd Little – was by far the best
player so he was immediately my favorite. I soon devoted an entire wall in my
room to Floyd posters and news clippings with the centerpiece being an
autographed photo my dad snagged through the Broncos QB Club.
We grew up together, you and I. You with your growing TV
coverage and me at Mile High Stadium. From Floyd to Charley Johnson, to Red,
Craig, Haven and the Orange Crush, to Elwood and the comebacks, the Drive, the
Helicopter and Super Bowls 32 and 33, to Grease, to Jake the Snake, to the
inexplicable Tebow wins to Peyton really wearing a Bronco uniform to Von and
the Super Bowl 50 win, it has been an incredible ride.
Even though I lived for it all game after game, week after
week, season after season, it’s time to give it up. The pacing around the room
and mumbling from being nervous on third and eight. The hunkering down in the
basement on a beautiful late summer night to research who might be a sleeper to
pick in late rounds of the fantasy draft. The poring over an injury report for
a completely meaningless game between Tennessee and Jacksonville in late
November to help decide who to pick in the weekly pool. The thinking
over my morning cereal how we can scheme to stop Brady and Gronkowski. Now that I’m
on the wrong side of 50, I just need it all to stop.
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| Ellen at I at the final of SB50 |
Standing in Levi’s Stadium with my daughter Ellen as the clock hit
zero for Super Bowl 50 and seeing the confetti cannons go off and the
scoreboard flash “Champions” was a feeling I will never forget. As I stood watching my guys put on the Champion hats and dance together, a flood of 45
years of joy, angst, exhilaration, depression and pride and all the other emotions from our relationship overwhelmed me. I knew
it was over. I cried.
It also pains me to say, but if I stay in this relationship,
it’s like I’m endorsing the violence. I have loved for you for so long, that it
has been easy to turn a blind eye to how doctors discovered my friend Keli
McGregor had CTE, or how Craig Morton now wakes up every morning, if he can actually
sleep, feeling like his neck is on fire, or how Jim McMahon, who in his prime
was one of the coolest, most vibrant personalities in sports, can’t remember
his name most days.
I don’t spite or judge anybody who loves you. You are
America’s game, after all, and I know how intoxicating being in love with you can
be. To steal George Costanza’s cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me.” And the main reason
I hope we stay friends is that I know I will not be able to help myself from
watching Bronco games. We will keep our season tickets and the girls' love for you will replace mine. But the fantasy
leagues, the pick ‘em pools, the talk shows, the pregame and postgame shows, the
message boards – it’s over. It’s a big world beyond your sidelines and it’s time
for something new. Maybe to study for my private pilot’s license, or at last learn the major and
minor pentatonic scales, or take on the list of home projects I have put off for
years.
So thanks for everything and I really do wish you well. I hope that like me, you look
back on our relationship and remember nothing but the good times. We’ll always
have Santa Clara!
