Culture

Bird, 'The Wire,' a life sentence paroled and a Colts game 40 years in the making

Published

12 months ago

January 5, 2024

Bird, 'The Wire,' a life sentence paroled and a Colts game 40 years in the making

Bleary-eyed from 16 hours on a Greyhound bus, he strolled into the stadium running on fumes. He’d barely slept in two days. The ride he was supposed to hitch from Charlotte to Indianapolis canceled at the last minute, and for a few nervy hours, Antonio Barnes started to have his doubts. The trip he’d waited 40 years for looked like it wasn’t going to happen.

But as he moved through the concourse at Lucas Oil Stadium an hour before the Colts faced the Raiders, it started to sink in. His pace quickened. His eyes widened. His voice picked up.

“I got chills right now,” he said. “Chills.”

Barnes, 57, is a lifer, a Colts fan since the Baltimore days. He wore No. 25 on his pee wee football team because that’s the number Nesby Glasgow wore on Sundays. He was a talent in his own right, too: one of his old coaches nicknamed him “Bird” because of his speed with the ball.

Back then, he’d catch the city bus to Memorial Stadium, buy a bleacher ticket for $5 and watch Glasgow and Bert Jones, Curtis Dickey and Glenn Doughty. When he didn’t have any money, he’d find a hole in the fence and sneak in. After the game was over, he’d weasel his way onto the field and try to meet the players. “They were tall as trees,” he remembers.

He remembers the last game he went to: Sept. 25, 1983, an overtime win over the Bears. Six months later the Colts would ditch Baltimore in the middle of the night, a sucker-punch some in the city never got over. But Barnes couldn’t quit them. When his entire family became Ravens fans, he refused. “The Colts are all I know,” he says.

For years, when he couldn’t watch the games, he’d try the radio. And when that didn’t work, he’d follow the scroll at the bottom of a screen.

“There were so many nights I’d just sit there in my cell, picturing what it’d be like to go to another game,” he says. “But you’re left with that thought that keeps running through your mind: I’m never getting out.”

It’s hard to dream when you’re serving a life sentence for conspiracy to commit murder.

It started with a handoff, a low-level dealer named Mickey Poole telling him to tuck a Ziploc full of heroin into his pocket and hide behind the Murphy towers. This was how young drug runners were groomed in Baltimore in the late 1970s. This was Barnes’ way in.

He was 12.

Back then he idolized the Mickey Pooles of the world, the older kids who drove the shiny cars, wore the flashy jewelry, had the girls on their arms and made any working stiff punching a clock from 9 to 5 look like a fool. They owned the streets. Barnes wanted to own them, too.

“In our world,” says his nephew Demon Brown, “the only successful people we saw were selling drugs and carrying guns.”

So whenever Mickey would signal for a vial or two, Barnes would hurry over from his hiding spot with that Ziploc bag, out of breath because he’d been running so hard. They’d sell an entire package in a day. Barnes would walk home with $50. “I could buy anything I wanted,” he remembers.

Within a few years he was selling the dope himself — marijuana at first, then valium, eventually cocaine and heroin. Business was booming around the towers, which the locals referred to as the “murder homes.” Sometimes, he’d sell 30 bags in an afternoon. He was 14, pulling in $500 a day.

“A dealer of death,” he calls himself now.

He learned to push away guilt. The way he saw it, he was in too deep, “immune,” he says, “to what I was seeing every day.” The drugs. The decay. The murders. He was 9 when a friend fell out of a 10th-floor window, dying instantly. He was 11 when his older brother, Reggie, was locked up; 15 when his birth father died of an overdose.

But he had a loving mother, a hardworking stepfather, a family that didn’t want for anything when so many around them did. His stepfather drove a crane at a steel company and made a good wage. His mother cooked dinner every night.

“We had a black-and-white television, and nobody we knew had one of those,” Barnes says. “Us kids wanted bikes for Christmas? We got bikes. We wanted ice skates? We got ice skates.”

Mary Barnes was no fool. She heard the whispers. She noticed her son wasn’t home. Finally, she confronted him. “You were raised better than this,” she scolded. “There will be consequences to what you’re doing.”

Antonio denied all of it. “Lied right to her face,” he says now, still ashamed.

He was climbing the ranks, working with a high-up hustler named Butch Peacock. Anytime the plainclothes police — “Knockers” — would roll up, Butch would shout, “Bird, grab the bag and go!” and Barnes would listen, because he relished that feeling, of being needed, of being trusted, of being part of it.

One Saturday, while Barnes was playing shortstop in a little league game, the Knockers closed in. His teammates begged him to stay. He ignored them. He darted off the diamond in the middle of an inning, grabbed the duffel bag and disappeared into the towers while the cops chased. He climbed 10 flights of stairs and nearly passed out before a neighbor let him slip into an apartment.

Inside that duffel bag that day: a half-dozen guns, thousands in cash and 200 caps of cocaine. Later that night, Butch handed him a different bag. It had $4,000 in it. “This is all yours,” he told him.

Barnes rose from runner to dealer to mid-level player. He quit football. He dropped out of high school. He drove around the streets of west Baltimore with a .357 Colt Magnum resting on his lap. “Like it was a credit card,” he says. A few nights a week, he’d work the count, sorting through some $20,000 in cash, plenty of it in $1 and $5 bills, stacking the drug ring’s profits from a single day’s work.

He never killed anyone, he says, but he’s also not ignorant to all that he was caught up in. He was awash in a world of violence.

“That was our business,” he says. “On those streets, it was either you or them. They’re out to rob you. They’ll kill you. They’ll snatch you up, duct tape your mouth and torture you if you didn’t give them what they want. They’d put your mother on the phone to scare you more.”

They found Butch in the front seat of his car one morning, blood trickling down his neck, a bullet in the back of his head. He’d been executed at point-blank range outside a nightclub.

Barnes shrugged it off. He told himself he just had to be sharper. “That’s how backwards my thinking was,” he says. So instead of getting out, he plunged further in. He started running with a new crew, one headed by the city’s most notorious gangster at the time: Timmirror Stanfield.

They busted through his back door at 5:30 one morning. Barnes, cornered in bed, had his arm around his girlfriend, Tammie, who was nine months pregnant with their daughter.

“Bird, take your hands out from under those covers,” he remembers the officer telling him. “Do it real slow.”

He’d been arrested before on misdemeanor weapons charges, but this was different. Five members of Stanfield’s crew would be tried for killing a state’s witness before that witness could testify in a separate case, the boss for murder and four of his top lieutenants — including Barnes — for conspiracy.

According to prosecutors, the dispute started when a low-level dealer didn’t show Stanfield “appropriate respect” during an argument on the fourth floor of the Murphy towers. Police said Stanfield put one bullet in the dealer’s chest and five in his head. The trial lasted nine weeks, interrupted at one point when Marlow Bates, a co-defendant and Stanfield’s half-brother, warned one of the witnesses, “You’re going to die.”

Barnes barely paid attention, sleeping through most of it. He was 20 years old and arrogant, convinced he had nothing to worry about.

A witness who had originally placed him at the murder scene later recanted under oath. He refused to cooperate with police. He figured they had nothing on him. “I thought it was the easiest case in the world to beat,” Barnes says. “I wasn’t there when the shooting happened.”

After closing arguments, the jury deliberated for 90 minutes before landing on the verdicts. His attorney took it as a promising sign. “When it comes back this quick,” Barnes remembered hearing, “that usually means not guilty.”

It was a Wednesday. April 1, 1987. Barnes made plans for that evening. He was going out to celebrate.

They called his name first, and when he heard that word — GUILTY — he damn near fell over. His stomach tightened. His knees wobbled. He started to lose his breath. The first thought that ran through his mind was how embarrassed he’d be if the front page of the next day’s Baltimore Sun read, “BIRD FAINTS AFTER VERDICT.”

The rest was a blur. Guilty, all of them. Life sentences, all of them. Stanfield and Bates snickered after they heard the verdict, according to the Sun, laughing out loud in the courtroom.

Instead of passing out, Barnes remained as cocky as ever. He exited the courtroom, handcuffs clamped around his wrists, and eyed Ed Burns, the Baltimore city homicide detective whose eight-month investigation led to the arrests and dismantling of Stanfield’s gang.

“You happy now?” Barnes asked, flashing a smile. “See ya in a year or two.”

More than a decade later, Burns would co-write a television drama with a longtime Baltimore Sun cops reporter named David Simon. They called it “The Wire.” One of the most feared drug kingpins in the show went by the name Marlo Stanfield. And in the sixth episode of the second season, a vicious hitman stands trial for killing a state’s witness, defiant to the end.

They called him Bird.

Over 36 years, Barnes bounced among 14 prisons, including a stay in the late 1990s at Marion, a maximum-security facility in Illinois. Three cells down from him was famed New York City mobster John Gotti. The two talked baseball, Gotti never missing a chance to rub it in when his Yankees beat up on Barnes’ Orioles.

His dreams of getting out died slowly, one appeal after another swiftly denied by the state. It didn’t really hit him until two years into his sentence that he was going to grow old inside, wasn’t going to get to watch his newborn daughter grow up. That’s when the depression sunk in. The anger. The regret.

Panic attacks would come at night, startling him from sleep. He’d have visions of his past life — Eight months ago, I was here; three years ago, here … — and just lie there, mind racing, eyes open, until 3 in the morning.

Slowly, Barnes came to reckon with what he’d done, the choices he made and the harm he caused. He weighed the pain he brought his family and his community. He didn’t pull the trigger on the fourth floor of the Murphy towers that day — he wasn’t even there, he maintains — but he was part of the poison plaguing his city and choking its youth.

“I can never make up for what I did,” he says.

In prison, he learned to read and write, earned his G.E.D. and led counseling meetings for troubled inmates. He became a published author — “Prison is Not a Playground” is Barnes’ story in his own words, starting with that plastic bag Mickey Poole slipped him as a 12-year-old.

He tutored those with developmental disabilities, including a former cellmate. “Antonio is an amazing example of someone deciding that they’re going to grow and develop instead of being sucked into all the negativity that happens in there,” said Brian Teausant, that inmate’s father.

He worked as a suicide companion for 23 years, counseling the prisons’ most at-risk inmates. He founded three self-help programs that, according to one of his former wardens, led to a decline in inmate discipline issues. “Wardens don’t usually put their John Hancock on a letter of support for someone with a life sentence,” Barnes notes proudly. More than one did for him.

He was denied parole five times. At one hearing, Barnes was asked, “How can we put you back in a community that you helped rip apart?

He thought for a moment.

“Because Bird is dead,” he told them. “And you’re talking to Mr. Antonio Barnes.”

Still, the denials battered his belief and tested his patience.

“They were trying to see if I’d give up,” he says. “It was hard. But I told myself, ‘I will die before I give up.’”

Then one afternoon last spring, while he was reading in the prison law library, another inmate told him the parole officer was looking for him. He grew anxious. He hurried upstairs to her office. “Maryland is letting you go,” she told him.

He felt his knees start to wobble, same as 36 years prior, when he stood in that Baltimore City courtroom as a cocky 20-year-old. His stomach tightened. He could barely speak. Only this time, it was relief.

“I was shaking like a ’57 Chevy,” he says.

On July 20, he walked out of the Coleman Federal Correctional Complex in central Florida. An Uber driver picked him up and gave him a lift to the bus station, where he hopped on a Greyhound bound for Charlotte. Barnes sat in the backseat, staring out the window, and when the car pulled onto the highway, he closed his eyes and began to cry.

Now, instead of a pistol on his nightstand, he keeps his cell phone nearby. The calls come late, sometimes at 2:30 or 3 in the morning, and it’s his job to answer them.

Barnes currently works as a peer support specialist at ARJ, a mental health center in Charlotte co-owned by his nephew Demon Brown, who overcame his own troubled teenage years on the streets of Baltimore, plus three stays in a juvenile facility, to become a standout point guard for UNC Charlotte’s basketball team in the early 2000s.

Demon had a room ready for his uncle and a job waiting for him after Barnes was released in July. “As soon as he came home, he told me he wanted to help others any way he could,” Demon says. “How many guys getting out of prison think like that?

“I’m telling you, the only thing he ever talked about doing for himself was getting up to a Colts game.”

At ARJ, Barnes specializes in the center’s most at-risk patients, a lot like the ones he worked with in prison. He’s taken what he learned on the inside and now uses it to save lives.

“A lot of these patients are battling substance abuse issues,” Brown says. “Some are just out of prison. Some are in and out of shelters. Some are homeless. It’s incredibly challenging, and Antonio just has this talent, like this empathy for them, that helps him connect.”

One recent call came in the middle of the night. A woman was delirious, wanting to hurt herself. Barnes stayed on the phone with her for five hours.

“I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, I don’t do none of that,” he says. “But every time we have a successful story with one of our patients, that’s the biggest high in the world for me.”

His goal is to have “Prison is Not a Playground” passed out in juvenile detention centers across Charlotte. He wants to speak to classrooms. He wants to use his story to change lives. He goes back to what Detective Ed Burns told him 37 years ago while he sat in a jail cell awaiting processing after his conviction. “Barnes, you’re smart,” Burns said. “You can still make something of your life.”

He’s determined to.

He never watched “The Wire.” No need, he says. He lived it. (On Wednesday, Simon posted on X — formerly Twitter — that the Bird character was not based on Barnes or any one person, that the name was “a simple shout-out by Ed Burns and myself to a Baltimore street legend whose adventures date to the 1970s.”)

But Barnes says Burns “saved my life.” He calls the life sentence he was handed in April 1987 “the greatest reward a career criminal could receive.” Without it, he believes, he wouldn’t be alive.

Away from work, he’s still acclimating to his new life, and sometimes has trouble sleeping, startled awake by those little noises he never used to hear in prison. He takes long walks in the afternoons, still in disbelief that he’s a free man. He borrowed a car recently so he could practice parking, something he hadn’t done since the spring of 1987.

He started saving for a trip to Indianapolis as soon as he was released this summer, then burned through just about every dollar he had to make it happen. He was granted permission from his parole officer to make the trip, then slogged through 16 hours on a Greyhound, too excited to sleep. “That ride could’ve taken two days,” he says, “and it wouldn’t have bothered me.”

Around noon on New Year’s Eve, he slid into his seat in Section 126 at Lucas Oil Stadium, stunned by the scene in front of him. He’d never seen so much blue in his life. He snapped photos. He learned that everyone stands when it’s 3rd down. He sweated out a 23-20 win for the Colts that kept their playoff hopes alive.

“It still don’t seem like it’s real,” he texted his nephew.

After the game, he lingered inside the stadium for over an hour, until the place was almost empty.

“Still feels like a dream I’m going to wake up from.”

(Illustration: John Bradford / The Athletic; photos courtesy of Antonio Barnes, Bobby Ellis / Getty Images)

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Culture

His dad’s illness drew Andrew Wiggins away from basketball. Now the Warrior is rediscovering his joy

Published

2 hours ago

December 26, 2024

Press Room

His dad’s illness drew Andrew Wiggins away from basketball. Now the Warrior is rediscovering his joy

SAN FRANCISCO — Andrew Wiggins has always been the quiet one in the Golden State Warriors mix of stars, content with chilling in the background while the big personalities and loud voices hoard all the attention. The stage of personality, with its burdens, isn’t worth mounting.

He would sit back and smile, shaking his head as Draymond Green talked his talk, laughing uncontrollably as Steph Curry danced his dance. And when the festivities were done, win or lose, Wiggins would scoop up his young daughters and head home to be with his family, like his father taught him to do.

But over the previous two seasons, Warriors coach Steve Kerr noticed a different kind of quiet taking hold within one of his most important players. Something more than his usual reservedness. Something deeper. As Mitchell Wiggins’ health deteriorated rapidly, his son withdrew. From the team, from the game, from everything.

“It was brutal because it was an ongoing thing for such a long time where his dad was suffering,” Kerr said. “To see someone you love, your father, suffering for such a long period of time — you can imagine how that would impact your daily existence.”

Wiggins took an extended leave of absence to be with his father two seasons ago and missed some time here and there last season as Mitchell went through various treatments. His numbers declined significantly, his defensive energy disappeared and the Warriors went right down with him.

Those who suffer in silence tend to sacrifice empathy. What exactly was wrong, how deep his hurt, was kept locked behind Wiggins’ penchant for privacy. Thus, he was a central figure of blame for the Warriors missing the playoffs and became the subject of the fan base’s trade wishes.

If only fans knew how much none of it mattered.

“Not caring about basketball as much,” Wiggins said. “You got your life to worry about. You’ve got certain things going on in your life that are your priority. Basketball is kind of in the shadows. You try to figure out a good balance.”

Mitchell Wiggins died in September at the age of 64, devastating a close-knit family. Mitchell and his wife, Marita Payne-Wiggins, were both stellar athletes in their younger days, and they helped their children navigate the cutthroat world of professional sports while not losing sight of the most important things in life.

Three months later, the fog has lifted enough for his soul to breathe. The hurt has settled. After wading through months on top of months of pending grief, bereavement has subsided. Life continues for Wiggins, even with the dad-sized hole in his heart.

Where Wiggins once felt lost and helpless while watching his father suffer through various treatments, he has managed to rediscover his spirit and find reconnection in the wake of his death.

It has been an up-and-down start to this season for the Warriors as they search for the help Curry needs to make another run in the Western Conference. One of the most encouraging signs for them to this point is the reappearance of Wiggins’ smile and the return to the souped-up role player who was so integral to the Warriors’ 2022 title.

After two years of missed games, uneven performances and trade rumors, Wiggins is showing signs of emerging from the fog. His father’s death in September, and the long health struggles that preceded it, shook him and his family to the bone. The mourning will never abate, but Wiggins looks like a man at peace with his surroundings.

“My mind is definitely in a better place,” he said.

Andrew Wiggins warms up before a Golden State game at Chase Center. (Noah Graham / NBAE via Getty Images)

It has been a long road to get here. One game before the All-Star break in 2023, Wiggins left the Warriors. He missed the final 25 games of the regular season for what the team called personal reasons. No more specifics were given at the time, and he returned for the playoffs, where the Warriors were bounced in the second round by the Los Angeles Lakers.

Wiggins was a more regular presence last season, playing in 71 games. But for a large portion of the season, he wasn’t really there. He averaged just 13.2 points per game, almost four points lower than his previous career low, as a rookie with the Minnesota Timberwolves in 2014-15. He shot 35.8 percent from 3-point range, took only 2.7 free throws per game and floated on defense to the point that Kerr chose to take Wiggins out of the starting lineup for the first time in his career. The Warriors knew Wiggins was carrying a heavy burden while his father was in and out of the hospital.

This season, his numbers are back where they belong — 17.3 points, 4.1 rebounds and 42.6 percent from 3-point range, all numbers at or better than his lone All-Star season in 2021-22. There are still uneven nights, like a 1-for-7 shooting performance from 3 in a loss Monday to the Indiana Pacers. But there are also real glimpses of the difference-maker Wiggins can be, including in a game last weekend against his former team.

As the Warriors started to pull away from the Timberwolves in the fourth quarter on Saturday, burly forward Julius Randle grabbed the ball and took Wiggins to the paint. If this was last season, Wiggins might have given in as Randle backed him down. He might not have been able to summon the strength and the give-a-damn to bow his back, absorb the first hit and respond with force.

Wiggins was giving up a few inches and more than 50 pounds, but he clenched his jaw and got into the fight. He took the first collision, and then a second as Randle backed him down and elevated for a turnaround jumper. Wiggins held his ground, kept his base strong and went right up with Randle, shoving the shot right down the Wolves forward’s throat to preserve a seven-point lead with three minutes to play.

The defensive stand set up a Curry 3, and then another to balloon the lead to double digits. Then came the hammer, an alley-oop dunk from Wiggins and a finger-roll layup in the last two minutes to ice the victory against his former team.

“Just really grinding and just getting back to myself and being with my family and friends,” he said earlier this month. “Just remembering that I’ve been doing this for a long time at a high level. This is what I can do. At the end of the day, just going out there, defending, playing two-way basketball.”

Just like dad back in the day.

Mitchell Wiggins during his time with the Rockets in the 1980s. (Bill Baptist / NBAE via Getty Images; Tim de Frisco / Allsport via Getty Images)

Mitchell Wiggins was a dawg on the court. He was an All-American at Florida State and a first-round draft choice of the Indiana Pacers in 1983. But he made a name for himself as a defensive specialist and rugged, rebounding guard for the great Houston Rockets teams of the mid-1980s.

“He was a warrior,” said Timberwolves television analyst Jim Petersen, who played with Mitchell on those Rockets teams. “He was so competitive. He was an amazing offensive rebounder for a guard, and that tells you something about his toughness. And then also he was a lockdown defender as well. He was our defensive stopper.”

While at Florida State, Mitchell met his future wife, Marita Payne, a sprinter who went on to win two silver medals for Canada in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. They were star athletes, but family was at the center of everything. Andrew has two older brothers and three younger sisters, and the children learned about love, connection and trust by watching their parents.

When Andrew was traded to the Timberwolves before his rookie season in a deal that sent Kevin Love to Cleveland to team up with LeBron James, Mitchell, Marita and their three daughters moved from Toronto to Minnesota to be closer to him. Wiggins’ sisters were fixtures at Target Center during his time there, and the importance of family was a constant theme of his six seasons with the organization.

“You can see the tight-knit group that they were. I mean, it’s pretty evident that family is the most important thing to Andrew,” Petersen said. “And that’s the thing. Your heart was breaking for Andrew when you knew Mitchell was going through his health problems because it was affecting Andrew so much on the court. You could see how connected they are as a group.”

The bond between father and son was no joke. After Wiggins was the second-best player during the Warriors’ run to the championship in 2022, Mitchell Wiggins beamed, but maybe not for the reason you would expect.

The basketball was great, of course. For the first seven seasons of his career, Wiggins had been assailed as a disappointment, a No. 1 overall pick with all the physical talent in the world but without the motor to make a difference. He was a worthy wingman to Curry’s brilliance. Mitchell reveled in the redemption, but he couldn’t stop talking about the father Andrew was to his two daughters, about the brother he was to his siblings, about the son he was to him and Marita.

“Everybody realized the talent he had early on, the athletic talent,” Mitchell told The Athletic in the champagne-soaked postgame celebration. “But the biggest thing that me and his mom are proud of is the man and the son that he became. He’s a father that adores his kids, like I adore my kids. When I see him with his girls, his eyes light up. As a father, that’s when I’m most proud.”

Mitchell Wiggins was, is, a monument in the mind of his All-Star son. Behind the scenes, in private moments, Wiggins struggled to grapple with the reality of life without his father. Trauma tends to arrive suddenly, coming out of nowhere to alter lives. But Wiggins was stalked by it for years, haunted by its inevitability.

Even as Wiggins kept his father’s condition private, the Warriors were well aware of the heartache he endured. They never questioned his need to be away from the team. They never doubted his commitment to the organization.

“Everybody loves Wiggs because of who he is, what kind of human being he is, what kind of father and husband he is,” Kerr said. “And we know the pain that he’s been through the last couple of years. You could see it in his play, but just in his demeanor.”

His father was always there for him, so Andrew did not hesitate to leave basketball behind when Mitchell was in need. There was no debate, no pull back to the game and only steadfast support from the Warriors organization. However long it took, whatever he had to do, they were behind him all the way.

“I wouldn’t say it’s all a blur now, but it was just something that’s going on and you’re literally just taking it day by day,” Wiggins said about taking care of his father. “That’s how it was for me. You’re not thinking big picture. You’re not planning for the future. You’re not thinking about the past. You’re literally taking it day by day.”

Kerr, former GM Bob Myers and all of Wiggins’ teammates closed ranks around him, refusing to let anything leak as the public clamored for more information. It only reinforced Wiggins’ belief in what he has with the Warriors.

“This is a first-class organization,” he said. “I don’t think it gets any better than this, to be honest. This is top notch.”

One of the Wiggins family’s greatest resources throughout their patriarch’s long battle was Dr. Robby Sikka, who befriended Andrew during his time as Timberwolves vice president of basketball operations and player wellness under former lead executive Gersson Rosas. Sikka oversaw all aspects of player health in the position and led the team’s response to COVID-19 in 2020.

So when his father grew ill, Wiggins reached out to Sikka for help in navigating the byzantine health care system. Sikka was a constant presence, answering questions, reaching out to health care professionals and serving as a guiding light through the darkness.

“I was going through a lot, but Robby was always there for me,” Wiggins said. “I trust him. He’s like a brother. He’s part of the family now.”

Sikka also helped Karl-Anthony Towns when his mother fell ill with COVID and eventually died and has grown close with Anthony Edwards ever since the front office Sikka was a part of drafted him No. 1 overall in 2020.

All three players have lost a parent in their young lives (Edwards lost his mother to cancer in 2015 when he was 14). And now all three are investing in an app that Sikka is developing dedicated to giving people access to in-depth medical information and care. The Smart Health app will launch early in 2025 and is designed to help provide average people access to the same kind of expert medical guidance that professional athletes receive. It provides secure storage for medical records to expedite what can be a cumbersome process of sharing personal health data with new doctors. It uses artificial intelligence to answer health questions and it also tracks nutrition, sleep and everything else that goes into maintaining good health.

“What Robby is doing is giving everyone the opportunity to truly have full access to their medical records, so that they don’t always need to make an appointment to answer a question for themselves,” said Towns, who played with Wiggins for five and a half seasons in Minnesota. “I told Robby that as long as we can save lives, that’s all that I’m here for. I think that this opportunity truly has an opportunity to save not just one, but millions of lives.”

For Wiggins, the motivation was simple. Sikka was a crucial part of his family’s journey with Mitchell, giving him a knowledgeable sounding board in the toughest of times. He does not believe that winning Rookie of the Year should be a prerequisite for having access to that type of assistance when a loved one is sick.

“It helps cut out the hassle and gets you straight to the point,” Wiggins said. “It’s always more important and you’re more attached when it’s personal and when you’ve been through something.”

Wiggins smiled as he talked about paying it forward. And he smiled at the gift that is coming his family’s way. His fiancée, Mychal, is pregnant with the couple’s third child. This one is a boy.

“First boy in the family,” he said. “We’re all very excited. We’re all looking forward to it. My daughters are very happy. They talk about it every day. It’s going to be great.”

The Warriors’ plane ride home from Minnesota was joyous, following their much-needed win on the Timberwolves court. But Kerr found a moment even better than Saturday’s rebound victory. It warmed his heart in a way that reminded him of a significance greater than basketball. The real wins following debilitating losses.

He saw Wiggins with his daughters as they roamed the charter plane. He saw Mychal and felt the swell of warmth. He saw Wiggins’ trademark grin, the one that only surfaces from a visceral happiness. It doesn’t come easy. The rare display of Wigg’s widest smile is always a moment in that locker room, and they cherish it as such.

More than perhaps anyone in the Golden State franchise, Kerr knows what such a moment means to Wiggins and what it took to recapture this serenity.

“Just seeing those little girls on the plane,” Kerr said. “They’re just beautiful girls. And Wiggs has that million-megawatt smile. It’s so funny because he’s so quiet. But you can see the gleam in his eyes and in his smile. He loves life, and he loves his family. He’s a very simple person in that regard. He doesn’t need a whole lot. He’s not in this for the fame or the glory. No, he loves to play basketball, he loves his family and he enjoys his existence.”

His father died much too soon. But he didn’t leave his son unprepared. Wiggins, who turns 30 in February, has the blueprint for his own family. Mitchell showed him what it means to be a father from the moment Andrew arrived.

The circle of life produces beauty with its hardships. A beauty exists in this transition for Wiggins. The hurt he feels is evidence of a worthy father. The love he feels for his family is evident of a tradition of passing down.

And now he’ll have a son. Kerr called it karma, Wiggins getting the chance to recreate the wonderful relationship he had with his father.

“I’ve always been really close with my family. That’s just how we grew up. I want that for my kids,” Wiggins said, repeating himself for emphasis. “I want that for my kids.”

This will be the first Christmas without Mitchell. Andrew will be on national television as his Warriors play the Lakers. The spotlight following Curry and LeBron James is bright and sure to shine on Wiggins.

He will assuredly shy away from it as much as humanly possible. But when it does find him, it will shine on a man who again knows peace. A father who has picked up the baton of his patriarch. A son who lost a dad who will never leave.

“I think about my dad every day,” Wiggins said. “Twenty-four seven.”

The Warriors are 15-13 this season, in eighth place in the West and still very much trying to find their way to competitiveness. Wiggins finding his way back to them is a good place to start.

“It’s wonderful to see him at peace,” Kerr said. “It’s obviously a terrible outcome to all of this with his father passing away. I think just peace of mind, expecting a boy here in a couple of months and two beautiful little girls, a great family. He’s happy. And we were all thrilled to see that because of what a wonderful person he is.”

(Illustration: Meech Robinson / The Athletic; top photos: Nathaniel S. Butler, Garrett Ellwood / NBAE via Getty Images; Kavin Mistry / Getty Images)

Culture

Why Bill Belichick abandoned hope of landing NFL job, pursuit of wins record

Published

11 hours ago

December 26, 2024

Press Room

Why Bill Belichick abandoned hope of landing NFL job, pursuit of wins record

Bill Belichick’s foray into college football drew plenty of double takes across the industry, but the logic behind his decision might have been as simple as it was surprising.

“He’s a football coach,” a source close to Belichick said. “He’s going to coach somewhere.”

After 49 seasons in the NFL, Belichick made a stark career change Wednesday when he accepted the head coaching job at the University of North Carolina.

Welcome to Chapel Hill, Bill Belichick!
The eight-time Super Bowl Champion has officially been named our next @UNCFootball Head Coach. #GoHeels x #ChapelBill pic.twitter.com/cnngQI7gnC
— UNC Tar Heels (@GoHeels) December 12, 2024
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The 72-year-old’s pursuit of Don Shula’s wins record has been put on hold, perhaps permanently. Belichick needed 15 wins to surpass the NFL’s all-time mark of 347.

The record meant a lot to Belichick, particularly in recent years when it appeared to be more attainable. So, why did he call off the chase?

It’s perhaps more important to assess the situation from the opposite viewpoint.

One NFL team with a coaching vacancy had already ruled out the idea of interviewing Belichick, according to a league source. Sources with a couple of other teams with potential head coach vacancies didn’t believe there’d be enough support within the building to hire Belichick. The New York Jets, who will be hiring a coach and general manager, were never considered a possibility due to their long-running shared animosity for each other.

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And among the seven coaching vacancies last year — excluding the New England Patriots, who fired Belichick — the architect of the greatest dynasty in league history only drew serious interest from the Atlanta Falcons. Several of those teams quickly dismissed the idea of interviewing Belichick, according to league sources. Some even expressed relief Belichick wouldn’t disrupt the organization’s power structure.

Belichick, the most prepared figure in the NFL for so long, had to recognize a chilling reality: He’d once again be a long shot to get a job in the league’s upcoming hiring cycle. It’s common for coaches to put out feelers to gauge their attractiveness to organizations.

“(Belichick) burned a lot of bridges over his career,” a high-ranking team executive said.

Belichick still wanted to coach, though, so it was important for him to act. North Carolina, which employed his father in the 1950s, was the most high-profile program with an opening. Belichick turns 73 in April and couldn’t run the risk of being shut out of another hiring cycle.

“If he wanted to coach again, he almost had to take this job,” another team executive said.

Another longtime Belichick associate thought the move to UNC made sense for other reasons, too. Belichick will essentially have unilateral control over the program, which wouldn’t necessarily be the case if he had gotten another NFL opportunity. And a handful of Belichick’s closest friends — Nick Saban, Greg Schiano, Chip Kelly, Kirk Ferentz and Jedd Fisch — have enjoyed success at the college level. He can use them as resources as he acclimates to a different football world.

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Also consider that Belichick could have waited to see if there’d be openings with the Dallas Cowboys, New York Giants or Jacksonville Jaguars — among other teams — but they ultimately might not have been great fits. Cowboys owner and general manager Jerry Jones isn’t ceding control of his front office, and it’s too early to know what the upcoming power structure will look like within the Giants and Jaguars if more drastic changes are on the way.

“There might be some owners who want (Belichick’s) structure and stability, but he is 72,” another longtime executive from a team that was involved in last year’s NFL hiring cycle said. “I think a lot of teams want to build something long-term, and he clearly has a capped timeline.”

Belichick’s resume still stands alone. He is viewed by his peers as the greatest coach of his era, if not in history. And last season, even as the Patriots wallowed to a 4-13 record, a couple of personnel executives said Belichick’s defense still displayed some revolutionary concepts.

But they had fair and objective criticisms about the way things ended with the Patriots, with their record worsening in each of his last two seasons and failing to win a playoff game over his final five years. Parting with quarterback Tom Brady was a head-scratcher, but the failure to find a suitable successor made the matter exponentially worse.

Belichick’s push for organizational control has also been at the center of discussion with teams. One executive referred to the Patriots as a “unicorn” during the Belichick era, as he won three Super Bowls in his first five seasons, gained considerably more control after Scott Pioli’s departure in 2009 and was able to run the team how he saw fit. That’s not a common structure for much of the league.

Plus, the model had deteriorated in Belichick’s later years with the Patriots. There was a push for more collaboration with the 2021 NFL Draft, but that collaboration fell apart in 2022, according to league sources. Patriots scouts were often frustrated by their lack of involvement after the annual combine — nearly two months before the draft — or their general inclusion in the building throughout the season.

“I think people would be concerned about the culture in the building,” a fourth executive said. “(Belichick’s) culture worked when they were winning, but he got fired because they weren’t winning.”

Of course, the culture also extends to the locker room. Modern-day players don’t relate to the old-school coaching approach the way they did 10 or even 20 years ago. As one of Belichick’s former players recently said, “It’s nice to go somewhere and not get told how much you suck every day.”

That player was not alone in that sentiment. And adding to that, coaches and executives from other teams were turned off by Belichick’s public alienation of former Patriots quarterback Mac Jones.

Belichick has enjoyed unprecedented levels of success throughout his career. No one around the league would ever deny that.

But while teams eye a long-term solution with their next head coach, they have a lot of fair questions about the way it fell apart in New England and whether Belichick would be the right fit within their organization. And even if Belichick did turn around an NFL team, his age limits his longevity.

Naturally, the same questions will exist at North Carolina, but here’s the difference: UNC was offering a job, and it was anything but guaranteed the NFL would do the same.

(Photo: Timothy T Ludwig / Getty Images)

Culture

How Jared Goff hitting rock bottom became his and the Detroit Lions’ salvation

Published

23 hours ago

December 25, 2024

Press Room

How Jared Goff hitting rock bottom became his and the Detroit Lions’ salvation

ALLEN PARK, Mich. — First came the beating, another desultory setback in the rapidly degenerating professional life of Jared Goff, the face of a flailing franchise’s enduring futility. That was torture enough. What Goff truly dreaded, however, was The Meeting. Summoned to Detroit Lions coach Dan Campbell’s office on a late-October Tuesday in 2022, Goff feared the worst, and with good reason. Two days earlier, in an ugly road defeat to the Dallas Cowboys, he’d been responsible for almost as many turnovers (four) as points (six). The Lions were 1-5, and 4-18-1 since Campbell had taken over as a rookie head coach and Goff had become the starting quarterback. It felt like the whole world wanted him benched, and that Campbell, if only out of self-preservation, would imminently grant that wish.

If the perception was that Goff was broken, well, it was a fair assumption. At 24, he’d gone head-to-head with Tom Brady on Super Sunday. Now, having just turned 28, he’d lost his mojo. He was getting booed by the home crowd, and his failings were constantly flaunted. Los Angeles Rams coach Sean McVay, the man who’d rejected Goff, had just hoisted a Lombardi Trophy in his home stadium, validating his wunderkind status. And he’d done it in his first season with Matthew Stafford, the Lions’ longtime starting quarterback who’d been swapped out for Goff. In dating terms, Goff had been dumped by his partner and was now eating ice cream alone on the couch while watching the ex escort a radiant new flame up the red carpet.

As Goff entered Campbell’s office, he braced himself for bad news. “I know how this thing goes,” he told himself. “I’m not naïve. Is this it for me?” Yet Campbell, an outside-the-box hire with an unflinching nature, told his struggling starter he was sticking with him. And as Goff began to exhale, he had an epiphany.

“Man, I’ve got to stop trying to do too much,” Goff told Campbell. “I’ve been trying to overcome certain things throughout the game, constantly thinking that this is the moment we’re gonna turn it around. I’m squeezing so hard trying to help us win, because we all want it so badly. I have to release that a little bit and just do my job, one play at a time. I’m just gonna do my job and not worry about the rest of it.”

Campbell stared back at his quarterback and smiled. “Jared,” he said, “that’s all I’ve wanted you to do this whole time.”

It was a mental shift that helped Goff manage the emotions he’d experienced since being traded to the Lions after the 2020 season, a move that blindsided him and crushed his confidence. The conversation fortified his bond with Campbell and laid the groundwork for a connection with a famished fan base that would come to view his redemption story as its own. Long before Goff became an MVP candidate and the Lions (10-1), who host the Chicago Bears on Thanksgiving, became the betting favorite to win Super Bowl LIX and inspired an iconic chant, the embattled quarterback unlocked the mystery in the nick of time.

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“It’s like you squeeze so hard, and the actual answer is to release,” Goff explained last week while sitting in an upstairs room of his Bloomfield Hills, Mich., home, which doubles as a film-watching sanctuary and memorabilia alcove. “Everyone wanted to fire Dan, fire (general manager Brad Holmes) and bench me. If we’d kept losing, of course they would. (But) it’s funny — you do your job one play at a time, and a little momentum starts to build. You do it 10 plays in a row, then 15, then 20, and the other 10 on offense are doing their job, and good things start to happen.

“It’s ironic that when you try to do less, more happens.”

Goff is a rock star in the Motor City, a pinpoint passer in the midst of a career year for a team laying waste to its opponents. He may have walked into Campbell’s office with trepidation that day 25 months ago, but he emerged with a bounce in his step that has morphed into a strut.

The day after that fateful meeting, Lions owner Sheila Ford Hamp showed up at practice, spoke to reporters and gave Campbell and Holmes a vote of confidence. Four days later, Goff threw for 321 yards in a 31-27 defeat to the Miami Dolphins. And then, somewhat abruptly, the plot shifted and the losing stopped. The Lions are 32-9 since, a tally that includes their first two postseason victories since Jan. 5, 1992, and Goff’s job security rivals Red Bull driver Max Verstappen’s.

In May, the Lions signed Goff to a four-year, $212 million contract extension, with $170 million guaranteed. In late November, Goff is armed with eye-popping numbers that serve as a sharp rebuttal to any remaining doubters. His 109.9 passer rating is the league’s second best, as is his 72.9 percent completion percentage. He’s averaging an NFL-high 9.02 yards per attempt, and he’s part of an MVP conversation that includes fellow quarterbacks Lamar Jackson and Josh Allen and running backs Saquon Barkley and Derrick Henry.

“Jared Goff is operating with as much command and poise as any quarterback in the league,” said San Francisco 49ers assistant head coach/defense Brandon Staley, who was the Rams’ defensive coordinator during Goff’s final season with the team. “They’re putting a lot on his plate pre-snap, and they’re using his experience and knowledge to get into premier plays almost every snap. The timing and ball distribution has been elite all year long. His swagger, unselfishness, and toughness are leading that football team.”

Indianapolis Colts defensive coordinator Gus Bradley, whose team suffered a 24-6 defeat to the Lions on Sunday, views Goff’s success as a direct result of his comfort with Detroit’s offensive scheme: “He has the answers. He knows what he’s looking for. They know how to attack. He and his coaches just see it the same way.”

“He has taken efficiency to a whole new level,” added Atlanta Falcons head coach Raheem Morris.

Since being drafted first overall by the Rams in 2016, the former Cal star has relied upon elite accuracy, a quick release and a penchant for remaining cool under fire. What’s different now, as Staley and Bradley suggest, is Goff’s mental grasp of the position, which deepened when Ben Johnson took over as the Lions’ offensive coordinator after the 2021 season.

“I like to say it’s as much his offense as mine,” said Johnson, who has turned down head coaching opportunities in each of the past two cycles. “It’s really based on what Jared does well, what he felt most comfortable with. And we’ve tried the last two and a half years to challenge him and push him outside his comfort zone.”

Campbell noticed an appreciable difference in his quarterback this past offseason. “When he came in,” Campbell said, “you could tell there was a different feel — like, he wanted to have even more ownership in the offense and to take it to a different level. So now the offense is evolving because of his ability to process and see it.”

Jared Goff’s ownership and understanding of the Lions offense has grown exponentially under offensive coordinator Ben Johnson. (Ryan Kang / Getty Images)

Last month, Johnson told Goff that he’s “now asking these PhD-level questions over the course of the week” that the quarterback hadn’t broached previously. “The game’s slowing down for him, too,” Johnson said. “He can recognize coverages right off the bat. He’ll say during the week, ‘Hey, I know we think that they’re doing Cover 2 in this situation, but if they go man, where do you want me to go with the ball?’ Or, ‘I know it’s not a Cover 0 team, but we’re in this exotic formation, and if they do it versus this and I see it, what do you want me to get to?’”

Two Sundays ago, in the third quarter of the Lions’ 52-6 thrashing of the Jacksonville Jaguars, Goff, en route to a 412-yard passing performance, threw a 5-yard touchdown to tight end Brock Wright that particularly stood out to Johnson. The plan was to deliver a backside throw to wide receiver Tim Patrick, who was lined up to the right of the formation. Goff started by looking left, attempting to get Jags safety Darnell Savage to drift toward Wright, who was running to the far left corner of the end zone. When Goff looked back to his right, he noticed Savage had instead moved to his left toward Patrick — as if the Jags knew exactly what the Lions were planning. Rather than proceeding to his third read, Goff alertly turned back to his left and found Wright, abandoned by Savage, wide open for the easy TD.

“It’s just an example of where he is now,” Johnson said. “It wasn’t like that when he first got here.”

Brock on 🤘#JAXvsDET | 📺 CBS pic.twitter.com/9M4hdMMovV
— Detroit Lions (@Lions) November 17, 2024

Goff’s commitment to intensive film study makes sense, given his physical limitations. Unlike peers such as Jackson, Allen and Patrick Mahomes, Goff can’t rely on his athleticism to get him out of jams and make off-schedule plays. “You do have to find different ways to win in the pocket because you aren’t as fleet of foot,” Goff said. “I have to play disciplined. And the work that I have to do from Monday through Friday, I feel like has to be more. That’s where I feel like I’m able to get my edge, whereas other guys have their athletic ability as their edge.”

There’s another reason Goff is so intent on trying to master his craft: He’s aware of his reputation, and still a bit sensitive about the prevailing perception that McVay, known for his schematic acumen, discarded him because the coach needed an upgrade in that department. It’s a narrative that began in 2017 when it became clear that McVay, then the youngest coach in modern NFL history, was giving his second-year quarterback cues via the in-helmet communications system as Goff waited to receive the snap. It intensified after Goff’s poor performance in L.A.’s 13-3 defeat to the New England Patriots in Super Bowl LIII.

Because McVay had become the brightest young star in his profession — the joke in league circles was that even his acquaintances were getting head-coaching interviews — it was easy to conclude that Goff wasn’t good enough to bring the coach’s brainy schemes to life. The Rams’ decision to deal him just weeks after he’d come off the bench to win a road playoff game with a broken right thumb seemed abrupt and suggested that there were deep-seated reasons for McVay’s dissatisfaction.

“Everyone externally just assumed that I suck,” Goff said, “because why else would this be happening? People thought, ‘He’s done. He’s damaged goods. His story is over. His career will end in this way. This will be the end of the road.’”

Most of the NFL world, including Rams coach Sean McVay, seemed to think Jared Goff was “damaged goods” by the end of his time in L.A. (Abbie Parr / Getty Images)

The trade hit Goff like an earthquake. The Rams, who’d signed the quarterback to a massive contract extension only 17 months earlier, were so desperate to get out of that deal and land Stafford that they included two first-round draft picks and a third-round selection. Goff got the news while hanging out at his Hidden Hills, Calif., home on a Saturday night in late January, via a phone call from McVay — who was in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, celebrating the deal in real time with Stafford and then-Rams left tackle Andrew Whitworth, one of Goff’s closest friends on the team.

The news broke instantly, before Holmes, the Lions’ newly hired GM, could get ahold of his new quarterback. Eventually, Goff took phone calls from Holmes — who’d been the Rams’ director of college scouting when he was drafted — and Campbell, both of whom were still at the Lions’ facility as midnight approached.

At first, Goff seemed shellshocked, but when he heard the excitement in Holmes’ and Campbell’s voices, he became fired up and defiant. The next morning, he told me, “I’m just excited to be somewhere that I know wants me and appreciates me.” His phrasing was intentional. McVay’s reproach over the past two seasons had beaten him down, and this was a stark juxtaposition.

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Most of the football world viewed him as a declining quarterback who’d be a stopgap starter — at best — for the Lions, but Holmes and Campbell saw things differently. “Everybody created that monster and that was never the case with us,” said Holmes, who called it a “lazy narrative.” Goff, who’d gone 1-11 as a true freshman starter for Cal in 2013, viewed it as a chance to do something epic.

“The opportunity that I have to be at the ground floor of something is something that most guys don’t get in their career,” he recalled thinking. “You can either see it as something that’s happened to you or something that’s happening for you.”

The turnaround didn’t happen quickly — and Goff’s self-esteem suffered along the way. “It felt like he got traded here to never be talked about again,” said Goff’s wife, Christen, who was his girlfriend at the time. The model and actress relocated from L.A. to Detroit after the trade and had an up-close-and-personal view of the struggle. In 2021, the Lions didn’t win their first game until December, beginning with an 0-10-1 stretch that included a 28-19 road defeat to the Rams.

In February, a week before Stafford and the Rams would defeat the Cincinnati Bengals in Super Bowl LVI at SoFi Stadium, I visited Goff at his Hidden Hills home, and he did his best to put a positive spin on the situation. “We all run our own race, whatever that may be,” he told me then, expressing excitement at the prospect of working with Johnson as his coordinator. “It’s part of the journey, and this year obviously was a tough experience. My time will come, whenever that may be, to get another crack at it, and in order to get there, there’s a lot of work that needs to be done.”

So Goff did the work — schematically and psychically. He felt stung by the way his Rams tenure ended and experienced conflicting emotions as they won a Super Bowl without him, but he refused to let bitterness be his driving force.

“It’s not vindictive for me,” he insisted. “And I think that was a big part of the journey, that it couldn’t be. Because that’s not enough. That’s not enough to motivate you to get through the hard times. It was never that. … It truly became, how can I help this team and help this city and be a part of this rebuild and do everything I could for Dan and for this coaching staff?”

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Even as the losses mounted, and Goff sensed he might be out of time, Campbell and Holmes never wavered in their support. Both men had long admired Goff’s mental and physical toughness. As things turned around in 2022, Goff’s grit and refusal to fold began to resonate with a fan base conditioned to wallow in enduring misery. The Lions rallied to make a late playoff push but were eliminated on the final night of the regular season — when the Rams lost to the Seattle Seahawks in overtime. Goff got the news during pregame warmups at Lambeau Field, where the Lions’ NFC North rivals, the Green Bay Packers, still faced a win-and-in scenario. Intent on spoiling the Packers’ party, Goff and his teammates earned a 20-16 victory that ended an era for another former Cal quarterback: It was four-time MVP Aaron Rodgers’ final game with the franchise.

It took 12 games before Dan Campbell and Jared Goff celebrated their first win together, but the Lions never wavered in their support for their QB. (Rey Del Rio / Getty Images)

Last season, as the Lions closed in on their first division title and home playoff game in 30 years, it became clear that Goff might have to confront his demons in a conspicuous setting. Sure enough, as if the bracket were drawn up by screenwriters, the third-seeded Lions hosted the sixth-seeded Rams in a first-round playoff game at Ford Field. If Detroit was going to break an NFL-record nine-game postseason losing streak, Goff would have to get past McVay and Stafford.

In the lead-up to the game, Goff tried hard not to make the story about him. As it turned out, tens of thousands of empathic observers would adopt a different approach.

When Goff entered the tunnel to take the field for pregame warmups 50 minutes before kickoff, his image was projected onto the stadium’s video screens. Spontaneously, fans began chanting his name, increasing the volume minutes later when Stafford, who’d spent 12 years as Detroit’s starter, took the field. It was an acknowledgment of the stakes, of Goff’s difficult journey and of a region’s unmitigated embrace of a player who’d won the respect of the paying public.

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“That’s what it felt like,” Goff recalled. “It was very surreal. I was like, ‘Holy s—; this is incredible.’ … They knew I was dumped by this team. They knew that basically (the Rams) said I wasn’t good enough. And they were saying, ‘No, you’re our guy. You are good enough for us. Let’s go win it.’”

Said Christen Goff: “That was so incredible. Everybody here got it. It’s not like they’re cheering his name because they are obsessed with him and they think he’s just everything. It’s because every single one of those people have been him before, or they just get that story, and it resonates with them. … It didn’t feel like fans; it felt like family.”

On the sideline, Goff sidled up to Johnson and told the coordinator, “Dude, I feel great! Let’s go!”

“Yeah,” Johnson answered, “I’d be feeling pretty good if the whole stadium was chanting my name, too.”

Goff delivered, sealing the Lions’ 24-23 victory with an 11-yard pass to star receiver Amon-Ra St. Brown just after the two-minute warning — a typically bold Campbell second-down call — and the chants got even louder. When he reached the locker room, his teammates were joyfully mimicking the “Jared Goff” mantra. He cherished the moment, believing it was a one-off.

Ja-red GOFF! Ja-red GOFF!#AllGrit pic.twitter.com/NGBoC8KRMN
— Detroit Lions (@Lions) January 15, 2024

“I thought that was the end of it,” Goff said. “But yeah, it’s taken on a life of its own.”

The chant resumed a week later at Ford Field as the Lions defeated the Tampa Bay Buccaneers to reach the NFC Championship Game. Soon after, it went viral, surfacing at a University of Michigan hockey game, a Grand Rapids Griffins hockey game and a high school cheerleading competition in eastern Michigan. The chant has since been busted out at Red Wings and Pistons games, at most Lions road games and at Green Day and Creed concerts.

“Now it’s just a fun thing that everybody’s doing when they’re drunk at a bar, which is honestly just as amazing,” Christen Goff said. “I’ve seen it everywhere. People send me videos; I think somebody got married in Italy and a chant broke out. Now I think it’s Michigan’s inside joke.”

Campbell’s wife, Holly, doesn’t see the phenomenon ceasing anytime soon: “I think 50 years from now, Jared Goff chants will still be happening. I think it’s just a thing now. And it’s beautiful, because it is about the underdog fighting adversity and coming out on top.”

Jared Goff has come to be the perfect representation of Detroit. (Cooper Neill / Getty Images)

Last January, it appeared that Goff’s amazing journey would land him back on the sport’s grandest stage. The Bay Area native returned to his home region for the NFC Championship Game, and Detroit took a commanding, 24-7 halftime lead over the 49ers at Levi’s Stadium. A furious San Francisco comeback dashed that dream — or, quite possibly, delayed it.

The Lions have looked like a legitimate contender from the jump in 2024, and Goff has continued to slay ghosts and smash narratives. In the season opener, he beat the Rams again at Ford Field. In early November, Goff — who as a Golden Bears freshman was pulled from a game at Oregon because he couldn’t throw in a driving rainstorm — completed his first 11 passes, and 18 of 22 overall, in similarly wet conditions in Green Bay.

The following week, in a Sunday night road clash with the Houston Texans, Goff threw five interceptions — more than half his current total for the entire season. Yet the Lions, trailing 23-7 at halftime, rallied to win, 26-23, on Jake Bates’ 52-yard field goal as time expired. Afterward, in the visitors’ locker room, Goff channeled another California native, Kendrick Lamar, and essentially dropped a “Not Like Us” remix while addressing his teammates: “If that ain’t a f—ing lesson that it ain’t over until it’s over, that’s what it is, boys. Way to fight all day. We’re f—ing different. We’re f—ing different than all 31 in this league.”

We found a way pic.twitter.com/lzSSpJVMfM
— Detroit Lions (@Lions) November 11, 2024

Later, Goff harkened back to the trying times he, many of his teammates and their coaches have experienced together, and the resolve it fostered.

“Yeah, we are (different),” Goff said, leaning forward in the chair where he sits during his marathon film-study sessions at home. “There aren’t many teams who can go through that and win, on the road, on ‘Sunday Night Football,’ with five turnovers — the whole thing. It took everyone to win that game.

“There are no other teams like us. You can’t replicate it unless you go through what we’ve been through. Which is not fun. And most people don’t survive. And most head coaches don’t stand firm with it — and stand in the s—, and stand in the mud, and take all the criticism.”

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Goff’s voice rose as he continued.

“I think there were moments where Dan could have turned his back on me,” the quarterback said. “He was the head coach on a team that was 0-10-1, and then at the end of the season we were 3-13-1. Could’ve done it then; could’ve done it in the middle of that first season; could’ve done it the next year when we were 1-6 to start. And he never did. And I’m thankful for that. ‘Cause you see it all over the league, where somebody’s head’s got to fall. They were calling for his head. They were calling for Brad’s head. They were calling for my head. And Dan just held the line and said, ‘No, I believe in what we’re doing here, I believe in Jared, I believe in what we have going on, and he’s our guy.’ And here we are.”

As he continues his unlikely comeback story, Goff is exactly where he wants to be, in a place that appreciates every bit of adversity he has overcome. His name may be chanted all over the world, but the 30-year-old quarterback belongs to Detroit and its appreciative fans, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

“I think they relate to the journey a lot,” Goff said. “Especially the last four years of everyone telling you you’re not good enough, and you kind of turning away from that and saying, ‘Hey, watch me. Let’s see. Let’s see what happens.’ And that motivates me. But I’m not motivated by that as much as I am motivated by wanting to win for this city.”

(Top photo: Cooper Neill / Getty Images)