#115: What quarterbacks know about hope that greeting cards don’t.
Why we need to stop caveating our encouragement when others need it most.
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It was clutch time and the Commanders were down.
Two yards from glory, their rookie quarterback Jayden Daniels was bent double, gasping for air after taking a hit that I can only imagine felt like Thor’s hammer to the ribs. The timeout horn blared, thankfully someone had noticed he needed a minute.
That's when Marcus Mariota, the veteran backup quarterback, jogged onto the field. He didn't bring a complicated play call or tactical wisdom. Instead, he placed a steady hand on Daniels' back. Daniels leaned in, almost resting his head on Mariota's shoulder, so his mic easily caught the veteran’s bold words.
"Stand up. Get your air. Use your god-given ability. Go win us this game."
No fluff, just unwavering belief. Some might say Mariota added undue pressure or was a bit presumptive…
But wouldn't you know it — Daniels straightened up, found his receiver, and made that touchdown pass, threaded between two defenders, look easy.
I've spent my life around football.
It runs in our family's DNA like Pennsylvania steel and stubborn determination. My dad Harry (yes, that's him at the center of the pyramid!) rode a partial place-kicking scholarship into being the first college graduate in our family.
Growing up, I lived a low-key, northern version of Friday Night Lights. Football was the reason my small town gathered at our cornfield-flanked stadium to cheer on my high school team (Go Cougars!). It was also the reason my family gathered on Sunday afternoons, cheering the Pittsburgh Steelers on to multiple Super Bowl victories. (The 70s, those were the days.)
Through the years I kept up my football habit. It turned out to be very helpful for finding common ground with my teenage son, defense contractor CEOs, and everyone in between. But these days, I have a next level of investment. Not because I care that much who wins (don’t tell Harry), but because I’m a sucker for interpersonal displays of connection and camaraderie.
Those mic'd up moments and locker room cameras catch the raw humanity that used to be hidden beneath helmets and shoulder pads: Offensive lines practicing their victory dances. Coaches giving post-game atta-boys. And one-on-one player interactions of pure support.
The stakes are high out on that field — loss is an ever present specter, literally waiting for one wrong move. Careers are ended in a blink of an eye. But those men don’t tiptoe around the pressure or risk… or possibility.
Even though nothing is guaranteed and whatever happens next will probably hurt, they encourage the hell out of each other.
Because if they’re not going for greatness, what else are they doing there?
It reminds me of Wayne.
I've written about it before, how Wayne's unexpected words saved my life. Right after my husband died (literally a few days after the funeral), when the future looked about as bright as a black hole, he didn't offer the usual platitudes. No "hang in there" or "it'll get better." Instead, he took a deep breath and said, "Things will be great again."
The reactions I get when I share this story are fascinating. Half the people are in awe of his courage and belief. The other half recoil — "How could he promise that? What if he'd been wrong?"
Between Wayne and Mariota, here's what I've realized: We're so afraid of overpromising that we under-deliver on hope.
We toss out generic ‘it'll be okay’s’ like stale cookies, when what people really need is someone to believe in their ability to achieve the best possible outcome, and name it out loud.
Mariota didn't have control over the defensive line, the receiver’s knees, or the ref's flags. Wayne couldn't guarantee my future would unfold as he hoped. But they both took the leap. Because they knew that sometimes people need someone else to believe in them more boldly than they believe in themselves.
We pull our punches, thinking we're protecting each other. But what if our careful hedging is actually a disservice?
What if, like Daniels gasping for air on that field, we need someone to remind us of the strength we already possess? Or in my case — a new widow, a new single mom — someone to dare to speak about the infinite possibility that the future still holds.
The truth is, we're all quarterbacks in the fourth quarter sometimes.
Bent over. Winded. Pummeled. Wondering if we've got enough left to make it even another inch. In those moments, we don't need careful caveats or vanilla platitudes. We need someone who knows us to stand beside us and remind us of our god-given talents.
And maybe, just maybe, we need to be that someone for others too.
So here's my challenge to you: Next time you see a loved one in need of remembering who the hell they are and what they are capable — don't whisper it. Don't hedge it. Don't water it down with caveats and conditions. Stand up. Take a deep breath. And tell them exactly what you see in them.
This encouragement does not need to negate the hard times this person is going through. Mariota didn’t tell Daniels that that hit wasn’t so hard, he shoulda been there when Mariota got slammed by that 300lb literal gorilla, etc. And Wayne definitely didn’t tell me that my grief would disappear in an instant, as soon as I focused on the future and decided to get over it.
There’s a mile of difference between bypassing vs believing, overpromising vs fortifying, encouraging vs ignoring someone’s pain. Don’t shove “you got this!” down anyone’s throat, but when you see that your friend could really use a hand, could use some hope… lend it.
After all, you never know when your words might be the ones that change everything.
With bold encouragement,
Beautiful. Just what I needed. Thank you.
Spot on. Fantastic piece! Go Commanders.