A Letter to Riley

Dear Riley, 

You won’t remember last season.

You won’t remember Lutz’s game-winner against the Chiefs, Nik’s game-saving stop against the Commanders, or J-Mac’s incredible interception and Marvin’s TD catch against the Bills.

You won’t remember our crazy comebacks, our win streak, or the deafening roar of our fans at Mile High.

You won’t remember us being Overdogs.

You also won’t remember the cameras zooming in on me during the AFC Championship Game, sitting in a suite with a boot. You won’t remember how close we were to the Super Bowl, or how badly I wanted to be out there with my teammates.

But one day, when you’re older, you might hear about it.

So I want you to hear it from me, in my own words. I want you to know how I’ve leaned on my faith in Jesus and our family to keep moving forward. Not just in the context of this season, but as a man, a husband, an athlete, and now as a father. 

Our season didn’t end the way I thought it would. I broke my ankle one step away from the Super Bowl. It hurt. Bad. Not just physically. It hurt because I love playing the game with my teammates. It hurt because we’ve built something really special. It hurt because when you’re that close to something you’ve dreamed about your whole life, you don’t want it taken out of your hands.

For a while, I wrestled with that feeling. 

I’m not a very patient person. I like structure. A game plan. An opponent. I don’t sit still well. If I’m not doing something, playing something, moving toward something, I get restless.

After the injury, I had to find a new rhythm. I was very bored. I couldn’t wait for you to arrive. Neither could your mom, because I was driving her crazy being around the house all day. 

Maybe you felt the same, because you decided to arrive a week early.

And after you arrived … well, suddenly the stillness didn’t feel miserable anymore.

It felt like a gift.

I got to be there. Fully there. Not thinking about the next drive or the next season. I was able just to hold you and listen to you breathe. I already knew your mom was the strongest, most incredible woman — but watching her become your mother and figuring out how to take care of both of us at our most vulnerable moments made me appreciate her in a whole new way. 

Your mom helped me get through this injury without losing my mind. She’s unbreakable. Literally nothing seems to faze her. She always sees the positive. After we found out my ankle was broken, her first reaction in the locker room was actually a smile followed by the kind of joke only she could make — “I was wondering what was taking you so long.” Then she captured the moment with a picture because she understands that to become the people we want to be, we have to handle heartbreak as honorably as we do our triumphs. Your mom knows that life is bigger than the game of football.

I’m so grateful that you have a role model like your mother. 

The past couple months have been a reminder of an important lesson your grandfather taught me about reframing wins and losses. (Get ready — you’re going to hear a LOT about wins and losses.)

When I was eight years old, your grandfather came home one Tuesday in the middle of the day, which he never did. He sat us all down on the couch and looked us in the eye and told us he had just been fired as the OC at the University of Miami. He told us point blank. No shame. No hiding. 

Then he picked up the phone and called your great-grandparents and said, “It’s gonna be on the bottom of the TV. Y’all will see it on the ticker.”

Your grandfather had been rising up the college coaching ranks for much of my childhood. Miami was his biggest job yet, and we expected him to be there a while. It was over in less than two years.

That day he told us: When God closes one door, He opens another.

He was right.

After he was fired, he coached my flag football team. He wrote a book. He stayed home with our family for a whole year. He ended up coaching high school football, where he won three state titles and impacted more lives than he ever could have imagined. It eventually led him to a calling in full-time ministry.

What seemed like failure was actually direction.

Your grandmother, Gammie, showed me what strength and purpose look like, too. With dad out of college coaching, she went back to nursing school to help support our family. Four kids at home. Studying at rec league games and dance recitals. Graduating with honors. Working nights. I still don’t know how she did it.

At one point, we were on free and reduced school lunch, but never once did I feel like we were lacking. We had what was most important — a house full of faith. Faith in Jesus. And two of the strongest, hardest-working parents you could ever ask for.

When you’re surrounded by people who believe in you completely, you don’t grow up thinking about what you don’t have. You think about your dreams and what you can achieve, what you can accomplish to make things better for yourself and others. You don’t think about losing, you just think about winning.

That’s something I want for you.

This season certainly wasn’t the only time I’ve had a tough break on the football field, and hopefully I’ll play long enough for you to remember a few of my setbacks. I don’t necessarily want that to happen, but I also know that adversity is inevitable. At some point, you’ll probably hear that I was benched and broken at Auburn. That I fell just short at Oregon. And that I was the last quarterback taken in the first round. I’ve been doubted. I’ve been dismissed. And I have my fair share of critics.

Those things don’t feel good. Early on, they tore me up. I immediately wanted to prove everyone wrong. I wanted to please everybody. Every comment felt personal. Every doubt felt like disrespect. I developed a chip on my shoulder. 

But I’ve learned that the chip can’t become your identity. It breaks too easily. It’s too fragile. My relationship with Jesus Christ, however, is not. He is my identity.

I learned exactly what this means during my career at Auburn. 

It happened in Jordan-Hare Stadium, a place so important to me when I was growing up. I had always dreamed of being on that field, leading Auburn to a national championship. But what actually ended up happening was no dream. I was laying on the field with a broken ankle and we were about to lose to Mississippi State after blowing a 28–3 lead. It was a mess … as low as I’ve ever felt in my football career.

Earlier that year, after being benched and humiliated against Georgia State (and before an epic comeback win at LSU), your mom — who was my girlfriend at the time — knew I was struggling. She sent me two songs, still my favorite two songs today: “Reason to Praise” and “I belong to Jesus” by Bethel Music. 

Those songs changed my life. Jesus Christ had changed my life. I had finally learned and understood my identity was not in the game of football. It couldn’t be. The highs can never sustain you, and the lows can shatter you. But Jesus Christ will never let you down. I can put my faith in the hope and foundation of him. I can live in that freedom. I can live with that identity. I am a child of God.

When I picked myself up and limped off the field that day, I had a greater sense that I wasn’t alone. And it wasn’t about me anymore.

I learned that my value isn’t tied to a depth chart, a draft position, an injury report, or a stat line. I love and thrive on competition. I compete at literally everything. But I don’t play for approval. I play for a higher purpose.

That’s what’s different. 

No matter what, I know two things: I belong to Jesus, and I always have a reason to praise Him.

As you grow up, it is important that your foundation is rooted in this same truth. Not in what others say, think, or even write about you (which in my profession happens a lot). The outside noise doesn’t determine who you are, where you’re going, or the strength of your relationships. Being your authentic self almost guarantees that some people will question or disagree with you. Plenty of that happened last year. Plenty will happen every year. Even if it ends with a Super Bowl.

Some of your best learning will come from challenges and disagreements — from conflict. That happened this year, too. Lean in and don’t be afraid. You can have different ideas than someone and still work together. A real discussion with a coach or teammate is not a bad thing. Rooted in respect, it can help you and them reach greater heights and a deeper understanding. 

These are opportunities to grow.

I’ve shared a lot with you, but the point in all this is that chasing your passion comes with both success and disappointment. Ultimately, through perseverance and building a strong foundation, you can find peace in your purpose.

Right now, my purpose feels clearer than ever. 

I’m grateful for my teammates and a head coach and staff that believe in me. I’m grateful for our fans and all of Broncos country. I’m grateful for the opportunity I’ve been given in Denver. 

More than anything, I’m grateful for perspective.

Our family’s story isn’t about having everything handed to us. It’s about our faith, sacrifice, and showing up for each other. People carry a lot of strength inside them, like your Uncle Caleb’s path from injury to All-Conference, or Uncle Tez’s journey from Woodlawn to the League. 

That’s the legacy you’re stepping into.

Not perfection. Not comfort.

But belief.

As I write this, I am finishing up rehab for my ankle — and learning how to rock you back to sleep at 3 a.m. I’ll be back on the field soon. Stronger. Wiser. Hungrier. But if I’m being honest, the biggest win of this past season wasn’t a playoff game.

It was being slowed down long enough to hold you in my arms and realize that sometimes God’s plan doesn’t look like what you prayed for….

It looks better.

One day, you’re going to face your own setbacks. Things won’t go how you drew them up. Doors will close. When they do, I hope you remember this….

Losing isn’t the end. Being doubted isn’t the end. Getting hurt isn’t the end.

Sometimes it’s just a redirect. A new path, a new beginning. And sometimes, it’s the only way God can slow you down enough to show you what really matters. 

For me, that is you. 

I love you more than any win. 

-Dad