Letter to My Younger Self

Dear 8-year-old AD, 

I got a very valuable piece of advice for you. So don’t be skimming this letter like you be skimming your homework. I need you to lock in for what I’m about to tell you.

Now I know you sit around daydreaming that you got superpowers like one of those dudes from the X-Men. More than anything, you wish you could close your eyes, put your hands up to your temples like Professor X and concentrate so hard that you literally see into the future.

You want to know the answer to one question and one question only. 

Do I make it out?

I see you sitting around the house after school, cutting up your math homework into 22 little strips, rolling them up into balls — 11 on 11. “Madden” in the imagination. Moving around your paper football guys, running plays. When Mom comes into the kitchen, you sweep them all into the little hiding space behind the house phone, right? Your little secret. Your imaginary world. 

Am I going to be one of THOSE guys some day?

Well, I got all the answers for you. Call me Professor X. 

You ready? 

Do I really play in the NFL some day?

That all depends. 

Are you going to stay off the dang Wendy’s double cheeseburgers??? Man, I know they’re good as hell. Those little square patties. That late ’90s Wendy’s. That Dave Thomas Wendy’s. Oh my gosh. I know they’re good, but come on, bro. You’re eating yourself out of the league before you’re even in the fourth grade!!! The Wendy’s got you wearing your T-shirt in the public pool, man. They’re trying to move you up in age groups in Pop Warner — not because you’re dominating, but because you just be falling on people and hurting them. 

Believe it or not, in the future they’re going to call you an animal. One of the hardest workers in football. You’re gonna go so hard in college that they’re going to hold you back from practice. From practice.

Coaches will be physically taking your helmet and telling you to relax. 

But I’m just gonna give it to you straight: Right now, you lazy as hell!!! 

I’m me. And you’re YOU. The kid in the pool with his T-shirt on, shy as hell, wondering “Do people notice I got my shirt on?”

THEY NOTICE, DOG.

So how do you become me? 

First off, we need to get you off the Wendy’s and onto a bike or something. That’s step 1. But more than anything, we need to get you to listen to Dad. I know he’s a little intense. He’s one of those dads who are so ripped that the other kids be looking at you like, “That’s your DAD???” 

You don’t gotta look outside your house for a superhero. You got one living right under your own roof. 

Dear 12-year-old AD,

It’s time to head down to the dungeon. 

It’s a movie down there. A horror movie. Dank. Gloomy. The one exposed lightbulb hanging in the corner. Another one by the washing machine. It’s looking like SAW down there. It ain’t a basement, it’s a Pittsburgh basement. No AC. Drain in the middle of the floor. Water bubbling up from time to time. That muck. Walls sweating. Breathe it in, bro. That Pittsburgh basement smell. 

That old-school hardware. Dad bagged himself $1,300 worth of used weights from like 1957. Bought in a parking lot off some old powerlifter. Them mean weights. 

You hear that iron clankin’ down there before dawn, echoing off the walls. Cliiiiiinnng. Cliiiiiing. Cliiiiiing. I’m talking ringing out. It’s 6 o’clock in the morning and you’re just trying to eat some Cocoa Puffs or something, and you hear that banging and clanging of iron-on-cement coming from down the stairwell. 

He’s calling up to you.

“Come on down, son!!! (Clang) This gym is always open!!! (Clang) We never close!!!!”

“...................”

“(Clang) Lazy!!!! (Clang) Soft!!!” 

“...........Dang man, I’m just trying to eat my Cap’n Crunch.”

I hate to tell you this, but if you really want to live out your dreams, you gotta go down there. The path to heaven goes through hell. You gotta swallow your pride and walk down those stairs and give in to a world of pain. 

You gotta get under that barbell for the first time. That’s the only way. It’s going to be embarrassing. It’s gonna to hurt. Dad is going to be putting those 45s on the bar, laughing his ass off, and there’s going to be so much rust accumulated on those plates that they gotta be at least 55 pounds for real — ain’t no way those rusty plates aren’t 55 in a Pittsburgh basement.

Lift the bar. 

Suffer. 

Throw up in your mouth a little bit. 

It’s alright. It’s the process. Eventually, you’re going to get addicted to it. You’re going to see your body change, and you’re going to like it. But more importantly, you’re going to see your mindset change. And you’re going to love it. By the time you get to high school, you’re going to be in the dungeon every morning at 4:30 on the dot with dad, bangin’ and clangin’ before school. Mom shuffling through the madness in her slippers with a basket of laundry. Dad pumping us all up. 

“EVERYONE ELSE IS SLEEPING!!! YOU WORKING!!!! LET ’EM SLEEP!!! LET THESE MF’ERS SLEEP!!!!”

Mom rolling her eyes....

“SHE’S NOT SLEEPING NEITHER!!! SHE WORKING!!! LET ’EM SLEEP!!!! HARD WORK PAYS OFF!!!”

All the other kids are gonna be trying to impress their coaches, or impress some girls, or impress the scouts. But all you want to do is impress your dad. He’ll be sitting up there on those cold metal bleachers for every game, and every practice, and he always says, “If I like it, everybody else is gonna love it.”

You live to hear him say, “Man, you played a hell of a game out there.”

That’s the best feeling in the world. 

By your senior year, you’ll be so addicted to the grind that you’ll be the one knocking on his door at 4 in the morning. 

“Pssssttt. Time to get up, old man. Let’s roll.” 

Back into the dungeon. Your sanctuary. 

You’re becoming something different. You’ll play those rich kids from Mt. Lebanon one night and they’ll have you so pissed off that you’ll get into the backfield during a handoff and grab the running back with your one arm, and the QB with your other arm, and literally helicopter spin his ass for a sack. Turn him into a whirlybird. 

And that’s when you’ll realize: “Ohhhhh, he wasn’t lying. The work pays off. The work can turn you into a monster.” 

The college letters are coming in now. But you got one problem. And no amount of squats can overcome it. The coaches think your arms are too short. By the end of your senior year, you’ll only have 3 offers. And it ain’t Georgia or USC, kid. 

Toledo, Akron or Pitt.

Those are your options. 

To hell with the SEC. You always wanted to go to Pitt anyway. Let’s make history in our own backyard. 

---

---

Dear 19-year-old AD,

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. From where I’m sitting now, I can see palm trees and infinity pools. You got a beautiful family. You did things beyond your wildest dreams. 

But you know what moment you would give anything to go back to right now? 

Sophomore year at the University of Pittsburgh. Saturday night in South Oakland after a big win. You and your boys. Chicken fingers and fries at The O. (If you know you know. Man, how could they even make any money giving you all them fries in that brown paper bag???) Going down to the house parties on South Bouquet Street. In Pittsburgh, we do those real house parties. We never seen the inside of a club. We like an old-school experience. We wanna see those wooden kitchen cabinets, bro. We wanna see that big bluetooth speaker. We like it so packed in the living room that people are dancing up against the walls. You knew it was a good party if you flipped the lights on at the end of the night and all the walls had turned blue from everybody’s jeans rubbing up against it. 

You’d pay a million dollars to have one more week at Pitt. Soak it all in while you can.  

You owe Pitt and Coach Wannstedt everything, because they gave a chance to a 3-star with short arms who would never be able to stop the run. I see you out there an hour early on the practice field, just sitting on your helmet and waiting. Like it’s Christmas Eve. Just waiting to dominate these MF’ers. 

Hearing dad’s voice in your head…..

“PRACTICE LIKE YOU WANNA PLAY!!!”

See, they’re all out there just going through the motions. 

They just practicing. 

You’re out there to dominate. Humiliate. 

You’ll have the coaches literally holding you back on the sidelines. 

“They need a break, AD. Give them a breather.”

If you practice like a maniac, you will play like a maniac. 

If you take your foot off the gas for one second and get complacent, it’s all gonna go away. All of it. The critics ain’t even wrong: Your frame isn’t perfect. Your build is not ideal for a DT. You don’t got the pedigree. 

But you got something they don’t.

It’s pumping in your f***ing chest. 

At the end of your senior season, if you keep grinding, they’re going to call you up on stage to hold that Bronko Nagurski trophy. 

The kid who used to play “Madden” with the rolled up balls of paper. 

The kid who used to eat 2 boiled hot dogs and a bag of plain Lay’s before every high school football game. 

The kid who never got on an airplane until his freshman year of college. 

The kid who used to want to see into the future. 

.....The best defensive player in college football?

For real??? You almost won’t believe it. 

The ceremony will be on your dad’s birthday, too. Isn’t that crazy?

You’ll hand him the Nagurski and say, “This is yours.”

He was right. Yelling in the basement every morning before the sun was up. 

As a kid, you thought it was a cliché. 

As a man, you realize it was the realest thing anybody ever said to you…..

Hard work pays off.

Dear 27-year-old AD,

I know how bad it hurts. I think about it now, and I’m still sick.

How in the hell did y’all just lose the Super Bowl to the Patriots? God, bro. The worst part is, the night before the game, your daughter was so excited about the confetti, man. She couldn’t stop asking you about the confetti party after the game. She wanted to play around in that confetti so bad, and you promised her, “Don’t worry baby, we’re going to do it for you. You and me are going to make snow angels.” 

That’s going to be one of the most painful memories of your life, walking off that field as the clock hit zero, and looking up into the stands for your family and seeing Jaeda looking all confused like....

:(

With that 8-year-old-kid face, just in disbelief. How could this happen??? How could the bad guys win??? How could daddy not do what he promised???

You weren’t her superhero that day. 

You’re going to get to the locker room and cry harder than you’ve ever cried in your life.

But you have to use that pain. Let it sink into your bones. Let it drive you crazy. Every single rep in the dungeon, for three straight years, you’ll be repeating “We’ll be back, we’ll be back, we’ll be back.”

And when you get back there, it can’t be like last time. When you’re back there, you gotta tap into that dark side. You gotta remember all the people along the way who looked at you and said, “Yeahhhhh, you’re good, but you’re a little on the small side.” 

All those people who said, “Yeah, you did it in college, but can you do it in the pros?”

Remember at the Senior Bowl, after you dominated, after you won damn near every trophy you could win? What did that NFL coach tell you? “Ehhhh, I dunno. You ain’t the biggest guy. You’ll be able to rush the passer, sure. But I don’t know if I’d take you in the first round. You won’t be able to stop the run in this league.”

He wasn’t being a jerk. He was super cool. He was just being honest. 

And what did you tell him?

“I guess time will tell, huh?”

Remember when you saw him chilling in the lobby of that hotel after your rookie year? Smoking that cigar, laughing when he recognized you?

He was already apologizing before you even said hello. 

“Yeahhhhh, you proved me wrong. My bad.”

“Double-digit TFLs, man!!! I guess time will always tell!!!”

In life, there’s two feelings that just can’t be beat. The first is proving MF’ers wrong. The second is playing in the confetti. 

In that second Super Bowl, if you tap into everything that your father ever preached to you down in the dungeon, you will make your mark. 

4th and 1, with everything on the line, you will not be denied. 

Game. 

You dreamed this ever since you were playing with those paper balls. 

Jaeda will be making snow angels in the confetti. Your two boys will be taking little piles and stuffing them in their pockets. You’ll be finding pieces of yellow confetti for months all over the house, and you’ll want to cry tears of joy every time. 

You did it all.

The last thing on your bucket list.  

You transformed from a shy kid into a Super Bowl champ. Into a father of 4 beautiful kids. Into a guy they call “legend.” 

You didn’t just live your dream of playing in the league and being a guy. 

You become one of those guys. 

So at 32, just walk away. 

You have nothing left to prove. 

Do it like Barry did it. 

Let them miss you. 

Leave a pristine legacy. The one thing you can’t outrun, or outwork, or outthink, is TIME. Go be with your family. 

And when they keep texting you, “You sure you don’t want a second ring, big dog?”

Just text back, “I’m at peace bro. I’m good.”

“You sure???” 

“Man I gotta go out in the driveway and practice volleyball with my daughter, bro. That’s all YOU.” 

Dear 34-year-old AD,

Your name is already on the damn building. 

Pretty poetic. 

When you donate enough money, they actually name the gym after you. Every time a Pitt player walks into a workout, they get a little reminder of our story. And it’s definitely a little bit nicer in there than the dungeon, that’s for sure. They got plumbing in there. Mineral water. Fluffy towels. And you know what’s crazy? These kids are really whining about a 7 am workout. (You’re getting NIL money and you're crying about 7 am??? Y’all lazy as hell.)

The fact is, when you look back on all this now as a 34-year-old man, you really have to pinch yourself. They’re actually going to be putting your number up in the rafters at Pitt this weekend. 

Right between Mike Ditka and Hugh Green.  

How surreal is that? 

It means more because it’s Pittsburgh. It just does. 

If your No. 97 was retired at LSU, or at Michigan, or at Penn State???

It would just be an honor. An accolade. Another trophy. 

But it ain’t LSU. It ain’t Michigan. 

It’s Pittsburgh. I etched my name into history in my own backyard. The first time I ever left this town was when I got drafted by the Rams at 22 years old. Every offseason, I’d come back and just be out around town. I’d be at Peter’s Pub and people would be looking at me doing double takes, like, “Yo, you’re in the NFL dog. Don’t you live in LA? Why are you in Pittsburgh?”

And I’d just look at them like, “Bro, why are YOU in Pittsburgh? I’m a Pittsburgher. This is my home.”

It hits so different when you grew up here. 

It hits so different when you know the smell of a Pittsburgh basement. 

It hits so different when you used to close your eyes and wish so bad that you could just get the spoilers. 

Did I make it???

Am I really gonna be one of those guys, some day???

You don’t gotta press your hands to your temples like Professor X and try to imagine it anymore, little homie. 

Your name will ring out. 

Your number will be immortalized. 

You will make your mark. 

IF.

IF.......

If you stop eating them damn double cheeseburgers, bro. 

HARD WORK!!! (Clang!!!!)

PAYS OFF!!! (Clang!!!!)

Sincerely, 

AD