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I think every quarterback has that oh s*** moment.
Green Bay Packers
Aug. 4, 2025
JORDAN LOVE
PHOTOS BY SAM ROBLES/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
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I’m not even talking about “Welcome to the NFL.”
I’m talking about that first real ohhhhhhh s***.
Mine was November 7, 2021.
When you’re the backup, they always say, “Prepare like you’re going to be the starter, every week.” And you really believe you’re doing it, that’s the funny thing. But there’s levels to this game. Aaron got ruled out with COVID mid-week, and my job was to step up and make sure that the standard didn’t drop.
Against the Chiefs. At Arrowhead. Chris Jones. Frank Clark. Honey Badger. Plus, I think Pat might’ve been a 99 in Madden that year.
It’s all good when you’re kicked back in the film room. You’re the smartest dude in the world when it’s all on a screen. Then you’re out there for real, breaking the huddle at Arrowhead, and you got Honey Badger lurking around the secondary, mixing up the looks, and they’re running Cover 0 every play until you prove to them that you can figure it out. You’re doing the earmuffs, trying to get the plays from the sideline, and the crowd is going crazy, and you got 10 guys looking you dead in the eyes like, “Alright, what’s the plan?”
Man, I was swimming, I can’t lie. I remember the first drive, I’m at the line trying to call out checks at the top of my lungs, and I realize it’s so loud that I can’t even hear myself screaming. Play clock is running down. Honey Badger is edging up to the line, then he’s bailing, then he’s running up again. Devious.
I’m thinking, Yo, this is not preseason.
I got punched in the mouth that whole first half. It was humbling. But I’ll never forget, we ran out for the second half, I knew there was one thing I could count on for sure. I knew that way up there at the top of the stadium, in the very last row – literally the last row – one person was cheering me on. Even if the whole stadium was against me, I still had somebody up there who had my back.
My mom. Always.
Rocking her shades. Hands between her legs. Not saying a word. Just praying I don’t get hurt.
Same as it’s always been, since I was 14 years old.
That was the year that I lost my best friend in the world — my dad.
My world was turned upside down. I wanted to quit football. Honestly, I kind of wanted to give up on everything. I was just a lost kid. So my mom made this deal with me.
“If you keep playing football, you know I’ll always be there for you.”
Simple as that.
“No matter what. Even if you’re just holding a clipboard. You’ll always know that somebody is in the stands cheering for you.”
So I ran out there for the second half at Arrowhead with 75,000 people booing the hell out of me, and one person way up there saying to herself, “Come on, Jordan. You need to play better. I love you, but you really need to play better.”
I know he would’ve wanted it that way.
JORDAN LOVE
My dad actually wanted to name me Michael Jordan. That’s real. Michael Jordan Love. My mom vetoed it, thank God.
When I say my dad taught me everything, I really mean everything. We’d be out in the yard from the time I could walk — no, really from the time I could stand. Football, basketball, every sport imaginable. There’s a picture of me from when I was a baby and my dad is putting me up on a race horse. I’m like one, in my diaper, and I’m chilling up on some Secretariat-looking dude.
That was my partner, man.
I can honestly say before July 13, 2013, I had pretty much the perfect upbringing. But that’s the crazy thing about life. You think you got all the time in the world. You think nothing is ever going to change.
And then it changes.
It was the summer after my freshman year of high school. I was at a basketball game. Regular day. My dad was at home. My mom was in the crowd. And I remember it was so weird, because I saw her get up and leave in the middle of the game. It gave me this strange feeling, because it was so unlike her. Then, at the end of the game, my aunt came up to me and my little sister and told us that she was going to drive us home. But she wouldn’t say where my mom went.
I’m asking a million questions, and she was like, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take you to our house for a minute.”
We pull into my aunt’s driveway, and you know how when something serious happens, and your family has to tell you something, you’re just kind of sitting in the car, and the radio’s not on, and nobody is unlocking the doors? My aunt is trying to pull herself together, and it’s totally silent.
I’m like, “What? What? Tell us.”
“...........Your dad passed away.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He passed away. I’m so sorry.”
All I can remember is getting out of the car and laying in the grass, crying.
But it still didn’t feel real. I felt like my mom was the key to the whole thing. If I could just talk to my mom, then she’d tell us that it was all just a nightmare or a miscommunication. My dad was just at the hospital or something. It couldn’t actually be real.
It felt like we were at my aunt’s house for 10 hours. Finally, my mom walked in the front door, and that’s when I knew. When I saw the look on her face, I just knew.
My dad was actually gone.
I didn’t find out until later on, but he had taken his own life. It still hurts me to say those words to this day, but I think there’s a lot of power in sharing our story.
Everyone always says that cliché, “He was the last person you ever would have thought…..”
But my dad……. Yeah, he was really the last person.
He hadn’t been his normal self for a while. He was hiding all that stuff from us kids, but the medication that he was taking for his blood pressure had really changed him. They couldn’t figure out what was going on, and he was really suffering. My mom called it a “medical demon,” and that’s the only way you could ever explain it. My dad was such a happy, positive, giving dude….. The light in every room.
Then the light went out.
That void in my life was just so big. Especially at 14.
When I was at home in the cocoon of my family, I could kind of deal with it, because we all had each other. But when school started in the fall, and I had to be around my friends again, it was so hard. Everyone knew what had happened. No one knew what to say to me. All I wanted was for people to act normal with me, as crazy as that sounds. People looking at me different and feeling pity for me actually made it worse. Everybody meant well, but even people putting their hands on my shoulder, and saying “I’m sorry, bro, you good?” ….. it was like a trigger. All of a sudden, I’m reliving everything.
PHOTO courtesy of JORDAN LOVE
Everybody reacts to tragedy differently. There’s no normal way. But for me, it was like a little gift every time one of my friends cracked a joke with me, like nothing had happened.
When football started that fall, I wanted to quit. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. I was a nobody. I was the smallest kid on the field — literally. My freshman year, I was 5'6", 136 pounds. Maybe 5'7" with my Vans on. I didn’t even make JV. I was the backup QB on the freshman team. Just some dude.
Going into that sophomore year, my mom was driving me to practice, and when we got there, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I told her, “I don’t want to do this anymore. Maybe I’ll quit and focus on basketball.”
And it’s funny because it’s never like the movies, you know? My mom was not doing movie dialogue. It was just mom dialogue.
“That doesn’t make any logical sense to me, Jordan.”
“Why? I’m the backup. Who cares?”
“No, this doesn’t make sense. You love football.”
“Mom, I don’t play.”
She saw right through me. She saw how much I was hurting. I just wasn’t in my right mind. So she made a deal with me.
She said, “Just give it one more year. If you don’t love it at the end of this year, and you want to stop, then we’ll stop.”
I couldn’t say no to my mom. I gave in. Got out the car….. Went to practice. Kept going. And I wish that I could say “The rest is history.” But it wasn’t history. Like I said, I was a regular-ass dude. I made the JV squad, and I had a lot of fun with my friends. When I was on the field, I could kind of forget about everything for a few hours. That was a win.
My junior year, I hit a growth spurt, and I made varsity, but I was still the QB2. My peers were putting on hats on ESPN, committing to LSU or ’Bama or whatever, and I was holding a clipboard at Liberty High.
But I’ll never forget, one of my coaches, Bryan Nixon, he was always giving me encouragement. He’d pull me aside and be like, “Man, you’re going to grow even more. Just stay patient. Keep working.”
The third game of the season, I finally got my chance to start. I did OK, but I didn’t think I was much, to be honest. I really have to give it to my teammates, because they were the ones telling me, “Nah J, when you’re in there, it just feels different. The ball comes out different. You got this.”
I remember getting my first recruiting letter at the end of that season, and it wasn’t even really a letter. It was just one of those mass emails from Eastern Washington that was like, “Hey [Name], you’re on our radar.”
They weren’t even FBS, but I was over the moon.
It’s so funny, because even my teammates now on the Packers are always being like, “Yo, J, you from Utah, right?”
And I have to tell them, “No, bro, I’m from Cali.”
“Cali??? Then why’d you go to Utah State?”
“Bro, because that was my biggest offer.”
Logan, Utah. Let’s goooo. It was a culture shock, but I didn’t care. I was a backup FBS quarterback. I made it. They redshirted me, but I made it!
The craziest part was that my mom was still flying out every weekend.
I was telling her, “Mom, you don’t have to do this. I’m literally not even playing. Like, I’m not even holding the clipboard. I’m just there.”
She said, “Well, then I’m going to be there too.”
“Mom…..”
“No. I’m good. See you Saturday.”
I’d see her during the warmups, down by the railing, super early. Waving.
“Yo, is that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, you not playing.”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, we’re in Ida-ho.”
“Yep.”
Just waving.
She was always there. Just like my dad. She never thought in a million years that her son would be an NFL quarterback. She just wanted to know that I was OK.
To call myself a late bloomer doesn’t do it justice. I remember I was in study hall my freshman year, and I was sitting with Ray Lewis’ son — Rayshad. We’re just talking, and he’s like, “Yo, would you ever think about leaving early?”
And I said, “Leaving early? Bro, I think we’d get in trouble.”
He said, “No, bro. I’m talking about the league. Would you ever leave early?”
And I just looked at him like he was crazy.
“Bro, I’m the backup quarterback at Utah State. What are you talking about? I’m just here for the free education. I’m hoping to get a few snaps before I get up out of here with this degree.”
And he was looking at me like I was crazy. He’s gassing me up.
“Man, you gotta believe in yourself. Come on, bro. You can be a monster.”
He was Ray Lewis’ son. So I get it. He had that ambition in his DNA. But in my mind, I was just a dude. And it’s interesting, looking back on my life, just how many random people believed in me and would make these little comments that I’d store away in the back of my mind.
I didn’t start really building that true confidence until my sophomore year, when I took over as the starter. I don’t want to say it happened overnight, but it almost felt that way. We went 11–2 that season, and it was like I was just playing. Flowing. Not overthinking anything. Everything slowed down. I really, truly fell in love with the game that season.
Without that brotherhood of football, I never would have made it. That camaraderie of football took me out of a really dark and lonely place. Through everything, the one thing that I could always count on was my friends and family. There’s just no way I’d be here without them. No way I’d have made it out of Bakersfield. No way in hell that I’d be the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.
It’s funny, for years, it felt like all anybody ever asked me about was draft night. I felt like nobody really cared about my actual story, because I was so tied to the whole meme of that night.
Look, I’ll be real with you — I was just as shocked as anybody that I ended up here.
I was sitting on that couch on draft night, watching the end of Round 1, thinking there was no way that anybody left on the board was taking a QB.
Then out of the blue, my phone rings. I look down, and I see “Green Bay, Wisconsin” on the caller ID.
“Hi Jordan. Green Bay Packers.”
What???
“Just letting you know we’re going to be moving up to take you here.”
I think I basically blacked out for 24 hours. The main thing I can remember is my whole family going crazy, and this euphoria of like…. Damn, we actually did it.
I don’t think it really set in for me until I started doing interviews, and every question was basically, “What about Aaron?”
In my mind, I was like, “What do you mean? He’s one of the best to ever do it. I’m about to learn everything I can from this dude.”
But before me and Aaron could even talk, the narrative was rolling. And it’s so crazy to me, because from the jump, Aaron was great with me. He laid out how he was in my same situation, and that he wanted to make sure there was no hostility. I told him I just wanted to learn and soak it all in.
I mean, I’d been a QB2 for a lot of my life. For me, it was nothing new. It was perfect, actually. Think about it: you’re coming into this league at 21 years old. It’s a different world. I’m not even talking about just football. You have to be able to command a room and know how to talk to different guys, how to motivate them — what to say, what not to say. I got to watch Aaron and how he handled those situations, and that was invaluable.
Of course, I also got to watch him spin that thing. There’s nothing like it. When him and Davante were out on that practice field, they wouldn’t miss. Literally. They had some kind of telepathic thing going on. Aaron would snap the ball, and he’d just glance over at Davante’s release, and within a split second, he knew where to put it — doot — back shoulder. Perfect. There was no check, no communication. Just a look.
Then you’d watch him on Sundays, and he’s dictating the terms to the defense. He’s putting them on the back foot, not the other way around. In college, you’re just playing. In the NFL, you have to be manipulating. I learned that from Aaron. He’d always be looking over to the opponents’ sideline after every single play, and I didn’t understand what he was doing. It’s chaos out there — you’re trying to get the play from your own sideline, the crowd is yelling, you got different packages coming in and out.
I’m thinking: What’s he looking at?
A couple plays later, it clicked. Their bench had a couple subs running on a half-second late, and A-Rod caught them sleeping. He ran up to the line and got us a free play.
The elite guys, it’s like they’re playing two games of chess at the same time.
That’s why I laugh when I think back on all the media stuff when I first got drafted, because it was almost like people wanted A-Rod to be up at the blackboard, like “Alright, this is how you play quarterback.” But that’s not what it’s like in the NFL. You learn so much just by absorbing the way the greats play the game out on that field every day — the footwork, the presence, the demeanor, the reads.
I probably watched every single snap A-Rod ever took, but the biggest lesson I learned from him is how consistent you have to be — day in and day out. No excuses. No off days. Just consistency, period.
It’s funny, when I finally took over for him in 2023, I knew the score. You can’t block out the noise these days. Even my mom was like, “Big shoes to fill. You going to be alright? You gotta play good, or they’ll get another quarterback.”
Hahahah. I’m like, Yeah, thanks, Mom. I got you.
My first start at Lambeau, it was like nothing could go right. Just bad ball. We were getting booed in our own house. We got into the locker room down 17–0 at the half, and I could feel the tension. But I really feel like those moments are what make you. I still think about that moment a lot — not even just that moment, but all the times I was down bad on this journey.
There were so many times when this whole thing could’ve went the other way.
What if I never got my shot my junior year of high school?
What if I had just quit football and felt sorry for myself after my dad passed?
What if I didn’t have all those people in my life who saw something in me — and made a little comment that kept me going?
Those are the moments you reflect back on when nothing is going right.
That’s where I went to the locker room at halftime, when I could feel the defense looking at me like, “Damn, can y’all move the ball and help us out?”
In my head, it was like….
“You know what? Let me block out all this noise. Let me just take a breath and realize how far I’ve come. I’m the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. I get to play football for a living. I’m doing something that would’ve been beyond my father’s wildest dreams….. Life is too short, man. I’m here for a reason. Let’s just have fun with it and let it fly.”
We went out there and it just flowed. We came back and won 18–17, and I feel like I proved something that day. Not just to the Lambeau crowd, or to Packers Nation, but really to myself.
I’m not Aaron Rodgers. I’m not a guy with a five-star pedigree. I’m my own man with my own story, and I want to make my own mark on this franchise. I want to write my own chapter here, following in the footsteps of the legends who wore this G before me. And I just think about what all this would have meant to my father.
He used to love watching Donovan McNabb on Sundays — he was an Eagles fan, and that was his guy — and he’d be telling me, “That’s going to be you out there some day, son. That’s going to be you.”
Did he really believe it?
I don’t know. Maybe he was just trying to gas me up. Maybe he was just trying to give a short, skinny kid from Bakersfield some confidence.
I want to believe that he believed it.
All I know is, he was always telling anybody who would listen…..
“My son Jordan…. You ever see him throw? He’s going to be something some day. He’s going to be a quarterback.”
It’s been a long road, but damn if you weren’t right, Dad. When we went into Dallas in the Wild Card and sent those boys home, I know you were somewhere smiling.
So, Mom …… Dad ….. My whole family …..
And every single person who has had my back since I was 14 years old …. Everybody who made a little comment to me that kept me believing …
Everybody who made this dream possible …..
You already know.
Rain, sleet or snow. I know you got my back. I’ll be looking for you.
See you up there.
—J
My dad’s motto was, “Try everything.”
He just had this relentless positivity about him. In his mind, me and my sisters could really do anything.
Him and my mom were both police officers. My dad was a sergeant for the Bakersfield Police Department and my mom was California Highway Patrol, but they couldn’t have been more different personalities. The smile never left my dad’s face. My mom, she was the yin to his yang. She was all business. She had an aura, you know? And that aura said, “Did you do your homework?”
Me and my friends would be out in the yard playing capture the flag or whatever, and she’d come home from work rocking those police aviators, and all my boys would be shook.
“Don’t you boys have a pop quiz tomorrow?”
“Yo, how’s she even know about that???”
One of those moms. You know the type.
My dad, he was my road dog. He used to pick me up after working a double shift and we’d pull up straight to the Little League field in his police cruiser. He’d be in the outfield helping coach with his full BPD uniform on, beeper in the belt buckle and everything. Everybody in town knew “Big O.” Everybody loved him.
He was literally always just there.
To me, there’s no higher praise for a dad. In almost every memory I have. He was there.
There’s this photo that I love of him and me, from when I was really little. He’s passed out on the edge of the bed in the middle of the day, taking a nap, probably after we were playing around outside for hours, and I’m laying on his chest, completely passed out right with him.
None of This Was Supposed to Happen
by JORDAN LOVE
PHOTO BY SAM MALLER/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
She was always there. Just like
my dad.
“
PHOTO courtesy of JORDAN LOVE
PHOTOS courtesy of JORDAN LOVE
PHOTO BY SAM MALLER/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
PHOTO BY Rey Del Rio/GETTY IMAGES
PHOTO BY Michael Reaves/GETTY IMAGES
PHOTO BY Todd Rosenberg/GETTY IMAGES
PHOTO BY SAM MALLER/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
Green Bay Packers
July 2025
JORDAN LOVE
I think every quarterback has that oh sh*t moment.
I’m my own man with my own story, and I want to make my own mark on this franchise.
“
JORDAN LOVE
PHOTO BY SAM MALLER/THE PLAYERS' TRIBUNE
I’m my own man with my own story, and I want to make my own mark on this franchise.
“
JORDAN LOVE
Green Bay Packers
Aug. 4, 2025
JORDAN LOVE
I’m not Aaron Rodgers. I’m not a guy with a five-star pedigree. I’m my own man with my own story, and I want to make my own mark on this franchise. I want to write my own chapter here, following in the footsteps of the legends who wore this G before me. And I just think about what all this would have meant to my father.
He used to love watching Donovan McNabb on Sundays — he was an Eagles fan, and that was his guy — and he’d be telling me, “That’s going to be you out there some day, son. That’s going to be you.”
Did he really believe it?
I don’t know. Maybe he was just trying to gas me up. Maybe he was just trying to give a short, skinny kid from Bakersfield some confidence.
I want to believe that he believed it.
All I know is, he was always telling anybody who would listen…..
“My son Jordan…. You ever see him throw? He’s going to be something some day. He’s going to be a quarterback.”
It’s been a long road, but damn if you weren’t right, Dad. When we went into Dallas in the Wild Card and sent those boys home, I know you were somewhere smiling.
So, Mom …… Dad ….. My whole family …..
And every single person who has had my back since I was 14 years old …. Everybody who made a little comment to me that kept me believing …
Everybody who made this dream possible …..
You already know.
Rain, sleet or snow. I know you got my back. I’ll be looking for you.
See you up there.
—J
My first start at Lambeau, it was like nothing could go right. Just bad ball. We were getting booed in our own house. We got into the locker room down 17–0 at the half, and I could feel the tension. But I really feel like those moments are what make you. I still think about that moment a lot — not even just that moment, but all the times I was down bad on this journey.
There were so many times when this whole thing could’ve went the other way.
What if I never got my shot my junior year of high school?
What if I had just quit football and felt sorry for myself after my dad passed?
What if I didn’t have all those people in my life who saw something in me — and made a little comment that kept me going?
Those are the moments you reflect back on when nothing is going right.
That’s where I went to the locker room at halftime, when I could feel the defense looking at me like, “Damn, can y’all move the ball and help us out?”
In my head, it was like….
“You know what? Let me block out all this noise. Let me just take a breath and realize how far I’ve come. I’m the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. I get to play football for a living. I’m doing something that would’ve been beyond my father’s wildest dreams….. Life is too short, man. I’m here for a reason. Let’s just have fun with it and let it fly.”
We went out there and it just flowed. We came back and won 18–17, and I feel like I proved something that day. Not just to the Lambeau crowd, or to Packers Nation, but really to myself.
Of course, I also got to watch him spin that thing. There’s nothing like it. When him and Davante were out on that practice field, they wouldn’t miss. Literally. They had some kind of telepathic thing going on. Aaron would snap the ball, and he’d just glance over at Davante’s release, and within a split second, he knew where to put it — doot — back shoulder. Perfect. There was no check, no communication. Just a look.
Then you’d watch him on Sundays, and he’s dictating the terms to the defense. He’s putting them on the back foot, not the other way around. In college, you’re just playing. In the NFL, you have to be manipulating. I learned that from Aaron. He’d always be looking over to the opponents’ sideline after every single play, and I didn’t understand what he was doing. It’s chaos out there — you’re trying to get the play from your own sideline, the crowd is yelling, you got different packages coming in and out.
I’m thinking: What’s he looking at?
A couple plays later, it clicked. Their bench had a couple subs running on a half-second late, and A-Rod caught them sleeping. He ran up to the line and got us a free play.
The elite guys, it’s like they’re playing two games of chess at the same time.
That’s why I laugh when I think back on all the media stuff when I first got drafted, because it was almost like people wanted A-Rod to be up at the blackboard, like “Alright, this is how you play quarterback.” But that’s not what it’s like in the NFL. You learn so much just by absorbing the way the greats play the game out on that field every day — the footwork, the presence, the demeanor, the reads.
I probably watched every single snap A-Rod ever took, but the biggest lesson I learned from him is how consistent you have to be — day in and day out. No excuses. No off days. Just consistency, period.
It’s funny, when I finally took over for him in 2023, I knew the score. You can’t block out the noise these days. Even my mom was like, “Big shoes to fill. You going to be alright? You gotta play good, or they’ll get another quarterback.”
Hahahah. I’m like, Yeah, thanks, Mom. I got you.
It’s funny, for years, it felt like all anybody ever asked me about was draft night. I felt like nobody really cared about my actual story, because I was so tied to the whole meme of that night.
Look, I’ll be real with you — I was just as shocked as anybody that I ended up here.
I was sitting on that couch on draft night, watching the end of Round 1, thinking there was no way that anybody left on the board was taking a QB.
Then out of the blue, my phone rings. I look down, and I see “Green Bay, Wisconsin” on the caller ID.
“Hi Jordan. Green Bay Packers.”
What???
“Just letting you know we’re going to be moving up to take you here.”
I think I basically blacked out for 24 hours. The main thing I can remember is my whole family going crazy, and this euphoria of like…. Damn, we actually did it.
I don’t think it really set in for me until I started doing interviews, and every question was basically, “What about Aaron?”
In my mind, I was like, “What do you mean? He’s one of the best to ever do it. I’m about to learn everything I can from this dude.”
But before me and Aaron could even talk, the narrative was rolling. And it’s so crazy to me, because from the jump, Aaron was great with me. He laid out how he was in my same situation, and that he wanted to make sure there was no hostility. I told him I just wanted to learn and soak it all in.
I mean, I’d been a QB2 for a lot of my life. For me, it was nothing new. It was perfect, actually. Think about it: you’re coming into this league at 21 years old. It’s a different world. I’m not even talking about just football. You have to be able to command a room and know how to talk to different guys, how to motivate them — what to say, what not to say. I got to watch Aaron and how he handled those situations, and that was invaluable.
To call myself a late bloomer doesn’t do it justice. I remember I was in study hall my freshman year, and I was sitting with Ray Lewis’ son — Rayshad. We’re just talking, and he’s like, “Yo, would you ever think about leaving early?”
And I said, “Leaving early? Bro, I think we’d get in trouble.”
He said, “No, bro. I’m talking about the league. Would you ever leave early?”
And I just looked at him like he was crazy.
“Bro, I’m the backup quarterback at Utah State. What are you talking about? I’m just here for the free education. I’m hoping to get a few snaps before I get up out of here with this degree.”
And he was looking at me like I was crazy. He’s gassing me up.
“Man, you gotta believe in yourself. Come on, bro. You can be a monster.”
He was Ray Lewis’ son. So I get it. He had that ambition in his DNA. But in my mind, I was just a dude. And it’s interesting, looking back on my life, just how many random people believed in me and would make these little comments that I’d store away in the back of my mind.
I didn’t start really building that true confidence until my sophomore year, when I took over as the starter. I don’t want to say it happened overnight, but it almost felt that way. We went 11–2 that season, and it was like I was just playing. Flowing. Not overthinking anything. Everything slowed down. I really, truly fell in love with the game that season.
Without that brotherhood of football, I never would have made it. That camaraderie of football took me out of a really dark and lonely place. Through everything, the one thing that I could always count on was my friends and family. There’s just no way I’d be here without them. No way I’d have made it out of Bakersfield. No way in hell that I’d be the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.
Logan, Utah. Let’s goooo. It was a culture shock, but I didn’t care. I was a backup FBS quarterback. I made it. They redshirted me, but I made it!
The craziest part was that my mom was still flying out every weekend.
I was telling her, “Mom, you don’t have to do this. I’m literally not even playing. Like, I’m not even holding the clipboard. I’m just there.”
She said, “Well, then I’m going to be there too.”
“Mom…..”
“No. I’m good. See you Saturday.”
I’d see her during the warmups, down by the railing, super early. Waving.
“Yo, is that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, you not playing.”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, we’re in Ida-ho.”
“Yep.”
Just waving.
She was always there. Just like my dad. She never thought in a million years that her son would be an NFL quarterback. She just wanted to know that I was OK.
Everybody reacts to tragedy differently. There’s no normal way. But for me, it was like a little gift every time one of my friends cracked a joke with me, like nothing had happened.
When football started that fall, I wanted to quit. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. I was a nobody. I was the smallest kid on the field — literally. My freshman year, I was 5'6", 136 pounds. Maybe 5'7" with my Vans on. I didn’t even make JV. I was the backup QB on the freshman team. Just some dude.
Going into that sophomore year, my mom was driving me to practice, and when we got there, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I told her, “I don’t want to do this anymore. Maybe I’ll quit and focus on basketball.”
And it’s funny because it’s never like the movies, you know? My mom was not doing movie dialogue. It was just mom dialogue.
“That doesn’t make any logical sense to me, Jordan.”
“Why? I’m the backup. Who cares?”
“No, this doesn’t make sense. You love football.”
“Mom, I don’t play.”
She saw right through me. She saw how much I was hurting. I just wasn’t in my right mind. So she made a deal with me.
She said, “Just give it one more year. If you don’t love it at the end of this year, and you want to stop, then we’ll stop.”
I couldn’t say no to my mom. I gave in. Got out the car….. Went to practice. Kept going. And I wish that I could say “The rest is history.” But it wasn’t history. Like I said, I was a regular-ass dude. I made the JV squad, and I had a lot of fun with my friends. When I was on the field, I could kind of forget about everything for a few hours. That was a win.
My junior year, I hit a growth spurt, and I made varsity, but I was still the QB2. My peers were putting on hats on ESPN, committing to LSU or ’Bama or whatever, and I was holding a clipboard at Liberty High.
But I’ll never forget, one of my coaches, Bryan Nixon, he was always giving me encouragement. He’d pull me aside and be like, “Man, you’re going to grow even more. Just stay patient. Keep working.”
The third game of the season, I finally got my chance to start. I did OK, but I didn’t think I was much, to be honest. I really have to give it to my teammates, because they were the ones telling me, “Nah J, when you’re in there, it just feels different. The ball comes out different. You got this.”
I remember getting my first recruiting letter at the end of that season, and it wasn’t even really a letter. It was just one of those mass emails from Eastern Washington that was like, “Hey [Name], you’re on our radar.”
They weren’t even FBS, but I was over the moon.
It’s so funny, because even my teammates now on the Packers are always being like, “Yo, J, you from Utah, right?”
And I have to tell them, “No, bro, I’m from Cali.”
“Cali??? Then why’d you go to Utah State?”
“Bro, because that was my biggest offer.”
It was the summer after my freshman year of high school. I was at a basketball game. Regular day. My dad was at home. My mom was in the crowd. And I remember it was so weird, because I saw her get up and leave in the middle of the game. It gave me this strange feeling, because it was so unlike her. Then, at the end of the game, my aunt came up to me and my little sister and told us that she was going to drive us home. But she wouldn’t say where my mom went.
I’m asking a million questions, and she was like, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take you to our house for a minute.”
We pull into my aunt’s driveway, and you know how when something serious happens, and your family has to tell you something, you’re just kind of sitting in the car, and the radio’s not on, and nobody is unlocking the doors? My aunt is trying to pull herself together, and it’s totally silent.
I’m like, “What? What? Tell us.”
“...........Your dad passed away.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He passed away. I’m so sorry.”
All I can remember is getting out of the car and laying in the grass, crying.
But it still didn’t feel real. I felt like my mom was the key to the whole thing. If I could just talk to my mom, then she’d tell us that it was all just a nightmare or a miscommunication. My dad was just at the hospital or something. It couldn’t actually be real.
It felt like we were at my aunt’s house for 10 hours. Finally, my mom walked in the front door, and that’s when I knew. When I saw the look on her face, I just knew.
My dad was actually gone.
I didn’t find out until later on, but he had taken his own life. It still hurts me to say those words to this day, but I think there’s a lot of power in sharing our story.
Everyone always says that cliché, “He was the last person you ever would have thought…..”
But my dad……. Yeah, he was really the last person.
He hadn’t been his normal self for a while. He was hiding all that stuff from us kids, but the medication that he was taking for his blood pressure had really changed him. They couldn’t figure out what was going on, and he was really suffering. My mom called it a “medical demon,” and that’s the only way you could ever explain it. My dad was such a happy, positive, giving dude….. The light in every room.
Then the light went out.
That void in my life was just so big. Especially at 14.
When I was at home in the cocoon of my family, I could kind of deal with it, because we all had each other. But when school started in the fall, and I had to be around my friends again, it was so hard. Everyone knew what had happened. No one knew what to say to me. All I wanted was for people to act normal with me, as crazy as that sounds. People looking at me different and feeling pity for me actually made it worse. Everybody meant well, but even people putting their hands on my shoulder, and saying “I’m sorry, bro, you good?” ….. it was like a trigger. All of a sudden, I’m reliving everything.
That was my partner, man.
I can honestly say before July 13, 2013, I had pretty much the perfect upbringing. But that’s the crazy thing about life. You think you got all the time in the world. You think nothing is ever going to change.
And then it changes.
My dad’s motto was, “Try everything.”
He just had this relentless positivity about him. In his mind, me and my sisters could really do anything.
Him and my mom were both police officers. My dad was a sergeant for the Bakersfield Police Department and my mom was California Highway Patrol, but they couldn’t have been more different personalities. The smile never left my dad’s face. My mom, she was the yin to his yang. She was all business. She had an aura, you know? And that aura said, “Did you do your homework?”
Me and my friends would be out in the yard playing capture the flag or whatever, and she’d come home from work rocking those police aviators, and all my boys would be shook.
“Don’t you boys have a pop quiz tomorrow?”
“Yo, how’s she even know about that???”
One of those moms. You know the type.
My dad, he was my road dog. He used to pick me up after working a double shift and we’d pull up straight to the Little League field in his police cruiser. He’d be in the outfield helping coach with his full BPD uniform on, beeper in the belt buckle and everything. Everybody in town knew “Big O.” Everybody loved him.
He was literally always just there.
To me, there’s no higher praise for a dad. In almost every memory I have. He was there.
There’s this photo that I love of him and me, from when I was really little. He’s passed out on the edge of the bed in the middle of the day, taking a nap, probably after we were playing around outside for hours, and I’m laying on his chest, completely passed out right with him.
My dad actually wanted to name me Michael Jordan. That’s real. Michael Jordan Love. My mom vetoed it, thank God.
When I say my dad taught me everything, I really mean everything. We’d be out in the yard from the time I could walk — no, really from the time I could stand. Football, basketball, every sport imaginable. There’s a picture of me from when I was a baby and my dad is putting me up on a race horse. I’m like one, in my diaper, and I’m chilling up on some Secretariat-looking dude.
Rocking her shades. Hands between her legs. Not saying a word. Just praying I don’t get hurt.
Same as it’s always been, since I was 14 years old.
That was the year that I lost my best friend in the world — my dad.
My world was turned upside down. I wanted to quit football. Honestly, I kind of wanted to give up on everything. I was just a lost kid. So my mom made this deal with me.
“If you keep playing football, you know I’ll always be there for you.”
Simple as that.
“No matter what. Even if you’re just holding a clipboard. You’ll always know that somebody is in the stands cheering for you.”
So I ran out there for the second half at Arrowhead with 75,000 people booing the hell out of me, and one person way up there saying to herself, “Come on, Jordan. You need to play better. I love you, but you really need to play better.”
I know he would’ve wanted it that way.
I’m not even talking about “Welcome to the NFL.”
I’m talking about that first real ohhhhhhh s***.
Mine was November 7, 2021.
When you’re the backup, they always say, “Prepare like you’re going to be the starter, every week.” And you really believe you’re doing it, that’s the funny thing. But there’s levels to this game. Aaron got ruled out with COVID mid-week, and my job was to step up and make sure that the standard didn’t drop.
Against the Chiefs. At Arrowhead. Chris Jones. Frank Clark. Honey Badger. Plus, I think Pat might’ve been a 99 in Madden that year.
It’s all good when you’re kicked back in the film room. You’re the smartest dude in the world when it’s all on a screen. Then you’re out there for real, breaking the huddle at Arrowhead, and you got Honey Badger lurking around the secondary, mixing up the looks, and they’re running Cover 0 every play until you prove to them that you can figure it out. You’re doing the earmuffs, trying to get the plays from the sideline, and the crowd is going crazy, and you got 10 guys looking you dead in the eyes like, “Alright, what’s the plan?”
Man, I was swimming, I can’t lie. I remember the first drive, I’m at the line trying to call out checks at the top of my lungs, and I realize it’s so loud that I can’t even hear myself screaming. Play clock is running down. Honey Badger is edging up to the line, then he’s bailing, then he’s running up again. Devious.
I’m thinking, Yo, this is not preseason.
I got punched in the mouth that whole first half. It was humbling. But I’ll never forget, we ran out for the second half, I knew there was one thing I could count on for sure. I knew that way up there at the top of the stadium, in the very last row – literally the last row – one person was cheering me on. Even if the whole stadium was against me, I still had somebody up there who had my back.
My mom. Always.
I’m not Aaron Rodgers. I’m not a guy with a five-star pedigree. I’m my own man with my own story, and I want to make my own mark on this franchise. I want to write my own chapter here, following in the footsteps of the legends who wore this G before me. And I just think about what all this would have meant to my father.
He used to love watching Donovan McNabb on Sundays — he was an Eagles fan, and that was his guy — and he’d be telling me, “That’s going to be you out there some day, son. That’s going to be you.”
Did he really believe it?
I don’t know. Maybe he was just trying to gas me up. Maybe he was just trying to give a short, skinny kid from Bakersfield some confidence.
I want to believe that he believed it.
All I know is, he was always telling anybody who would listen…..
“My son Jordan…. You ever see him throw? He’s going to be something some day. He’s going to be a quarterback.”
It’s been a long road, but damn if you weren’t right, Dad. When we went into Dallas in the Wild Card and sent those boys home, I know you were somewhere smiling.
So, Mom …… Dad ….. My whole family …..
And every single person who has had my back since I was 14 years old …. Everybody who made a little comment to me that kept me believing …
Everybody who made this dream possible …..
You already know.
Rain, sleet or snow. I know you got my back. I’ll be looking for you.
See you up there.
—J
My first start at Lambeau, it was like nothing could go right. Just bad ball. We were getting booed in our own house. We got into the locker room down 17–0 at the half, and I could feel the tension. But I really feel like those moments are what make you. I still think about that moment a lot — not even just that moment, but all the times I was down bad on this journey.
There were so many times when this whole thing could’ve went the other way.
What if I never got my shot my junior year of high school?
What if I had just quit football and felt sorry for myself after my dad passed?
What if I didn’t have all those people in my life who saw something in me — and made a little comment that kept me going?
Those are the moments you reflect back on when nothing is going right.
That’s where I went to the locker room at halftime, when I could feel the defense looking at me like, “Damn, can y’all move the ball and help us out?”
In my head, it was like….
“You know what? Let me block out all this noise. Let me just take a breath and realize how far I’ve come. I’m the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. I get to play football for a living. I’m doing something that would’ve been beyond my father’s wildest dreams….. Life is too short, man. I’m here for a reason. Let’s just have fun with it and let it fly.”
We went out there and it just flowed. We came back and won 18–17, and I feel like I proved something that day. Not just to the Lambeau crowd, or to Packers Nation, but really to myself.
Of course, I also got to watch him spin that thing. There’s nothing like it. When him and Davante were out on that practice field, they wouldn’t miss. Literally. They had some kind of telepathic thing going on. Aaron would snap the ball, and he’d just glance over at Davante’s release, and within a split second, he knew where to put it — doot — back shoulder. Perfect. There was no check, no communication. Just a look.
Then you’d watch him on Sundays, and he’s dictating the terms to the defense. He’s putting them on the back foot, not the other way around. In college, you’re just playing. In the NFL, you have to be manipulating. I learned that from Aaron. He’d always be looking over to the opponents’ sideline after every single play, and I didn’t understand what he was doing. It’s chaos out there — you’re trying to get the play from your own sideline, the crowd is yelling, you got different packages coming in and out.
I’m thinking: What’s he looking at?
A couple plays later, it clicked. Their bench had a couple subs running on a half-second late, and A-Rod caught them sleeping. He ran up to the line and got us a free play.
The elite guys, it’s like they’re playing two games of chess at the same time.
That’s why I laugh when I think back on all the media stuff when I first got drafted, because it was almost like people wanted A-Rod to be up at the blackboard, like “Alright, this is how you play quarterback.” But that’s not what it’s like in the NFL. You learn so much just by absorbing the way the greats play the game out on that field every day — the footwork, the presence, the demeanor, the reads.
I probably watched every single snap A-Rod ever took, but the biggest lesson I learned from him is how consistent you have to be — day in and day out. No excuses. No off days. Just consistency, period.
It’s funny, when I finally took over for him in 2023, I knew the score. You can’t block out the noise these days. Even my mom was like, “Big shoes to fill. You going to be alright? You gotta play good, or they’ll get another quarterback.”
Hahahah. I’m like, Yeah, thanks, Mom. I got you.
It’s funny, for years, it felt like all anybody ever asked me about was draft night. I felt like nobody really cared about my actual story, because I was so tied to the whole meme of that night.
Look, I’ll be real with you — I was just as shocked as anybody that I ended up here.
I was sitting on that couch on draft night, watching the end of Round 1, thinking there was no way that anybody left on the board was taking a QB.
Then out of the blue, my phone rings. I look down, and I see “Green Bay, Wisconsin” on the caller ID.
“Hi Jordan. Green Bay Packers.”
What???
“Just letting you know we’re going to be moving up to take you here.”
I think I basically blacked out for 24 hours. The main thing I can remember is my whole family going crazy, and this euphoria of like…. Damn, we actually did it.
I don’t think it really set in for me until I started doing interviews, and every question was basically, “What about Aaron?”
In my mind, I was like, “What do you mean? He’s one of the best to ever do it. I’m about to learn everything I can from this dude.”
But before me and Aaron could even talk, the narrative was rolling. And it’s so crazy to me, because from the jump, Aaron was great with me. He laid out how he was in my same situation, and that he wanted to make sure there was no hostility. I told him I just wanted to learn and soak it all in.
I mean, I’d been a QB2 for a lot of my life. For me, it was nothing new. It was perfect, actually. Think about it: you’re coming into this league at 21 years old. It’s a different world. I’m not even talking about just football. You have to be able to command a room and know how to talk to different guys, how to motivate them — what to say, what not to say. I got to watch Aaron and how he handled those situations, and that was invaluable.
To call myself a late bloomer doesn’t do it justice. I remember I was in study hall my freshman year, and I was sitting with Ray Lewis’ son — Rayshad. We’re just talking, and he’s like, “Yo, would you ever think about leaving early?”
And I said, “Leaving early? Bro, I think we’d get in trouble.”
He said, “No, bro. I’m talking about the league. Would you ever leave early?”
And I just looked at him like he was crazy.
“Bro, I’m the backup quarterback at Utah State. What are you talking about? I’m just here for the free education. I’m hoping to get a few snaps before I get up out of here with this degree.”
And he was looking at me like I was crazy. He’s gassing me up.
“Man, you gotta believe in yourself. Come on, bro. You can be a monster.”
He was Ray Lewis’ son. So I get it. He had that ambition in his DNA. But in my mind, I was just a dude. And it’s interesting, looking back on my life, just how many random people believed in me and would make these little comments that I’d store away in the back of my mind.
I didn’t start really building that true confidence until my sophomore year, when I took over as the starter. I don’t want to say it happened overnight, but it almost felt that way. We went 11–2 that season, and it was like I was just playing. Flowing. Not overthinking anything. Everything slowed down. I really, truly fell in love with the game that season.
Without that brotherhood of football, I never would have made it. That camaraderie of football took me out of a really dark and lonely place. Through everything, the one thing that I could always count on was my friends and family. There’s just no way I’d be here without them. No way I’d have made it out of Bakersfield. No way in hell that I’d be the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.
Logan, Utah. Let’s goooo. It was a culture shock, but I didn’t care. I was a backup FBS quarterback. I made it. They redshirted me, but I made it!
The craziest part was that my mom was still flying out every weekend.
I was telling her, “Mom, you don’t have to do this. I’m literally not even playing. Like, I’m not even holding the clipboard. I’m just there.”
She said, “Well, then I’m going to be there too.”
“Mom…..”
“No. I’m good. See you Saturday.”
I’d see her during the warmups, down by the railing, super early. Waving.
“Yo, is that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, you not playing.”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, we’re in Ida-ho.”
“Yep.”
Just waving.
She was always there. Just like my dad. She never thought in a million years that her son would be an NFL quarterback. She just wanted to know that I was OK.
Everybody reacts to tragedy differently. There’s no normal way. But for me, it was like a little gift every time one of my friends cracked a joke with me, like nothing had happened.
When football started that fall, I wanted to quit. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. I was a nobody. I was the smallest kid on the field — literally. My freshman year, I was 5'6", 136 pounds. Maybe 5'7" with my Vans on. I didn’t even make JV. I was the backup QB on the freshman team. Just some dude.
Going into that sophomore year, my mom was driving me to practice, and when we got there, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I told her, “I don’t want to do this anymore. Maybe I’ll quit and focus on basketball.”
And it’s funny because it’s never like the movies, you know? My mom was not doing movie dialogue. It was just mom dialogue.
“That doesn’t make any logical sense to me, Jordan.”
“Why? I’m the backup. Who cares?”
“No, this doesn’t make sense. You love football.”
“Mom, I don’t play.”
She saw right through me. She saw how much I was hurting. I just wasn’t in my right mind. So she made a deal with me.
She said, “Just give it one more year. If you don’t love it at the end of this year, and you want to stop, then we’ll stop.”
I couldn’t say no to my mom. I gave in. Got out the car….. Went to practice. Kept going. And I wish that I could say “The rest is history.” But it wasn’t history. Like I said, I was a regular-ass dude. I made the JV squad, and I had a lot of fun with my friends. When I was on the field, I could kind of forget about everything for a few hours. That was a win.
My junior year, I hit a growth spurt, and I made varsity, but I was still the QB2. My peers were putting on hats on ESPN, committing to LSU or ’Bama or whatever, and I was holding a clipboard at Liberty High.
But I’ll never forget, one of my coaches, Bryan Nixon, he was always giving me encouragement. He’d pull me aside and be like, “Man, you’re going to grow even more. Just stay patient. Keep working.”
The third game of the season, I finally got my chance to start. I did OK, but I didn’t think I was much, to be honest. I really have to give it to my teammates, because they were the ones telling me, “Nah J, when you’re in there, it just feels different. The ball comes out different. You got this.”
I remember getting my first recruiting letter at the end of that season, and it wasn’t even really a letter. It was just one of those mass emails from Eastern Washington that was like, “Hey [Name], you’re on our radar.”
They weren’t even FBS, but I was over the moon.
It’s so funny, because even my teammates now on the Packers are always being like, “Yo, J, you from Utah, right?”
And I have to tell them, “No, bro, I’m from Cali.”
“Cali??? Then why’d you go to Utah State?”
“Bro, because that was my biggest offer.”
It was the summer after my freshman year of high school. I was at a basketball game. Regular day. My dad was at home. My mom was in the crowd. And I remember it was so weird, because I saw her get up and leave in the middle of the game. It gave me this strange feeling, because it was so unlike her. Then, at the end of the game, my aunt came up to me and my little sister and told us that she was going to drive us home. But she wouldn’t say where my mom went.
I’m asking a million questions, and she was like, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take you to our house for a minute.”
We pull into my aunt’s driveway, and you know how when something serious happens, and your family has to tell you something, you’re just kind of sitting in the car, and the radio’s not on, and nobody is unlocking the doors? My aunt is trying to pull herself together, and it’s totally silent.
I’m like, “What? What? Tell us.”
“...........Your dad passed away.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He passed away. I’m so sorry.”
All I can remember is getting out of the car and laying in the grass, crying.
But it still didn’t feel real. I felt like my mom was the key to the whole thing. If I could just talk to my mom, then she’d tell us that it was all just a nightmare or a miscommunication. My dad was just at the hospital or something. It couldn’t actually be real.
It felt like we were at my aunt’s house for 10 hours. Finally, my mom walked in the front door, and that’s when I knew. When I saw the look on her face, I just knew.
My dad was actually gone.
I didn’t find out until later on, but he had taken his own life. It still hurts me to say those words to this day, but I think there’s a lot of power in sharing our story.
Everyone always says that cliché, “He was the last person you ever would have thought…..”
But my dad……. Yeah, he was really the last person.
He hadn’t been his normal self for a while. He was hiding all that stuff from us kids, but the medication that he was taking for his blood pressure had really changed him. They couldn’t figure out what was going on, and he was really suffering. My mom called it a “medical demon,” and that’s the only way you could ever explain it. My dad was such a happy, positive, giving dude….. The light in every room.
Then the light went out.
That void in my life was just so big. Especially at 14.
When I was at home in the cocoon of my family, I could kind of deal with it, because we all had each other. But when school started in the fall, and I had to be around my friends again, it was so hard. Everyone knew what had happened. No one knew what to say to me. All I wanted was for people to act normal with me, as crazy as that sounds. People looking at me different and feeling pity for me actually made it worse. Everybody meant well, but even people putting their hands on my shoulder, and saying “I’m sorry, bro, you good?” ….. it was like a trigger. All of a sudden, I’m reliving everything.
That was my partner, man.
I can honestly say before July 13, 2013, I had pretty much the perfect upbringing. But that’s the crazy thing about life. You think you got all the time in the world. You think nothing is ever going to change.
And then it changes.
My dad’s motto was, “Try everything.”
He just had this relentless positivity about him. In his mind, me and my sisters could really do anything.
Him and my mom were both police officers. My dad was a sergeant for the Bakersfield Police Department and my mom was California Highway Patrol, but they couldn’t have been more different personalities. The smile never left my dad’s face. My mom, she was the yin to his yang. She was all business. She had an aura, you know? And that aura said, “Did you do your homework?”
Me and my friends would be out in the yard playing capture the flag or whatever, and she’d come home from work rocking those police aviators, and all my boys would be shook.
“Don’t you boys have a pop quiz tomorrow?”
“Yo, how’s she even know about that???”
One of those moms. You know the type.
My dad, he was my road dog. He used to pick me up after working a double shift and we’d pull up straight to the Little League field in his police cruiser. He’d be in the outfield helping coach with his full BPD uniform on, beeper in the belt buckle and everything. Everybody in town knew “Big O.” Everybody loved him.
He was literally always just there.
To me, there’s no higher praise for a dad. In almost every memory I have. He was there.
There’s this photo that I love of him and me, from when I was really little. He’s passed out on the edge of the bed in the middle of the day, taking a nap, probably after we were playing around outside for hours, and I’m laying on his chest, completely passed out right with him.
My dad actually wanted to name me Michael Jordan. That’s real. Michael Jordan Love. My mom vetoed it, thank God.
When I say my dad taught me everything, I really mean everything. We’d be out in the yard from the time I could walk — no, really from the time I could stand. Football, basketball, every sport imaginable. There’s a picture of me from when I was a baby and my dad is putting me up on a race horse. I’m like one, in my diaper, and I’m chilling up on some Secretariat-looking dude.
Rocking her shades. Hands between her legs. Not saying a word. Just praying I don’t get hurt.
Same as it’s always been, since I was 14 years old.
That was the year that I lost my best friend in the world — my dad.
My world was turned upside down. I wanted to quit football. Honestly, I kind of wanted to give up on everything. I was just a lost kid. So my mom made this deal with me.
“If you keep playing football, you know I’ll always be there for you.”
Simple as that.
“No matter what. Even if you’re just holding a clipboard. You’ll always know that somebody is in the stands cheering for you.”
So I ran out there for the second half at Arrowhead with 75,000 people booing the hell out of me, and one person way up there saying to herself, “Come on, Jordan. You need to play better. I love you, but you really need to play better.”
I know he would’ve wanted it that way.
I’m not even talking about “Welcome to the NFL.”
I’m talking about that first real ohhhhhhh s***.
Mine was November 7, 2021.
When you’re the backup, they always say, “Prepare like you’re going to be the starter, every week.” And you really believe you’re doing it, that’s the funny thing. But there’s levels to this game. Aaron got ruled out with COVID mid-week, and my job was to step up and make sure that the standard didn’t drop.
Against the Chiefs. At Arrowhead. Chris Jones. Frank Clark. Honey Badger. Plus, I think Pat might’ve been a 99 in Madden that year.
It’s all good when you’re kicked back in the film room. You’re the smartest dude in the world when it’s all on a screen. Then you’re out there for real, breaking the huddle at Arrowhead, and you got Honey Badger lurking around the secondary, mixing up the looks, and they’re running Cover 0 every play until you prove to them that you can figure it out. You’re doing the earmuffs, trying to get the plays from the sideline, and the crowd is going crazy, and you got 10 guys looking you dead in the eyes like, “Alright, what’s the plan?”
Man, I was swimming, I can’t lie. I remember the first drive, I’m at the line trying to call out checks at the top of my lungs, and I realize it’s so loud that I can’t even hear myself screaming. Play clock is running down. Honey Badger is edging up to the line, then he’s bailing, then he’s running up again. Devious.
I’m thinking, Yo, this is not preseason.
I got punched in the mouth that whole first half. It was humbling. But I’ll never forget, we ran out for the second half, I knew there was one thing I could count on for sure. I knew that way up there at the top of the stadium, in the very last row – literally the last row – one person was cheering me on. Even if the whole stadium was against me, I still had somebody up there who had my back.
My mom. Always.
I think every quarterback has that oh s*** moment.
I’m not Aaron Rodgers. I’m not a guy with a five-star pedigree. I’m my own man with my own story, and I want to make my own mark on this franchise. I want to write my own chapter here, following in the footsteps of the legends who wore this G before me. And I just think about what all this would have meant to my father.
He used to love watching Donovan McNabb on Sundays — he was an Eagles fan, and that was his guy — and he’d be telling me, “That’s going to be you out there some day, son. That’s going to be you.”
Did he really believe it?
I don’t know. Maybe he was just trying to gas me up. Maybe he was just trying to give a short, skinny kid from Bakersfield some confidence.
I want to believe that he believed it.
All I know is, he was always telling anybody who would listen…..
“My son Jordan…. You ever see him throw? He’s going to be something some day. He’s going to be a quarterback.”
It’s been a long road, but damn if you weren’t right, Dad. When we went into Dallas in the Wild Card and sent those boys home, I know you were somewhere smiling.
So, Mom …… Dad ….. My whole family …..
And every single person who has had my back since I was 14 years old …. Everybody who made a little comment to me that kept me believing …
Everybody who made this dream possible …..
You already know.
Rain, sleet or snow. I know you got my back. I’ll be looking for you.
See you up there.
—J
My first start at Lambeau, it was like nothing could go right. Just bad ball. We were getting booed in our own house. We got into the locker room down 17–0 at the half, and I could feel the tension. But I really feel like those moments are what make you. I still think about that moment a lot — not even just that moment, but all the times I was down bad on this journey.
There were so many times when this whole thing could’ve went the other way.
What if I never got my shot my junior year of high school?
What if I had just quit football and felt sorry for myself after my dad passed?
What if I didn’t have all those people in my life who saw something in me — and made a little comment that kept me going?
Those are the moments you reflect back on when nothing is going right.
That’s where I went to the locker room at halftime, when I could feel the defense looking at me like, “Damn, can y’all move the ball and help us out?”
In my head, it was like….
“You know what? Let me block out all this noise. Let me just take a breath and realize how far I’ve come. I’m the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. I get to play football for a living. I’m doing something that would’ve been beyond my father’s wildest dreams….. Life is too short, man. I’m here for a reason. Let’s just have fun with it and let it fly.”
We went out there and it just flowed. We came back and won 18–17, and I feel like I proved something that day. Not just to the Lambeau crowd, or to Packers Nation, but really to myself.
Of course, I also got to watch him spin that thing. There’s nothing like it. When him and Davante were out on that practice field, they wouldn’t miss. Literally. They had some kind of telepathic thing going on. Aaron would snap the ball, and he’d just glance over at Davante’s release, and within a split second, he knew where to put it — doot — back shoulder. Perfect. There was no check, no communication. Just a look.
Then you’d watch him on Sundays, and he’s dictating the terms to the defense. He’s putting them on the back foot, not the other way around. In college, you’re just playing. In the NFL, you have to be manipulating. I learned that from Aaron. He’d always be looking over to the opponents’ sideline after every single play, and I didn’t understand what he was doing. It’s chaos out there — you’re trying to get the play from your own sideline, the crowd is yelling, you got different packages coming in and out.
I’m thinking: What’s he looking at?
A couple plays later, it clicked. Their bench had a couple subs running on a half-second late, and A-Rod caught them sleeping. He ran up to the line and got us a free play.
The elite guys, it’s like they’re playing two games of chess at the same time.
That’s why I laugh when I think back on all the media stuff when I first got drafted, because it was almost like people wanted A-Rod to be up at the blackboard, like “Alright, this is how you play quarterback.” But that’s not what it’s like in the NFL. You learn so much just by absorbing the way the greats play the game out on that field every day — the footwork, the presence, the demeanor, the reads.
I probably watched every single snap A-Rod ever took, but the biggest lesson I learned from him is how consistent you have to be — day in and day out. No excuses. No off days. Just consistency, period.
It’s funny, when I finally took over for him in 2023, I knew the score. You can’t block out the noise these days. Even my mom was like, “Big shoes to fill. You going to be alright? You gotta play good, or they’ll get another quarterback.”
Hahahah. I’m like, Yeah, thanks, Mom. I got you.
It’s funny, for years, it felt like all anybody ever asked me about was draft night. I felt like nobody really cared about my actual story, because I was so tied to the whole meme of that night.
Look, I’ll be real with you — I was just as shocked as anybody that I ended up here.
I was sitting on that couch on draft night, watching the end of Round 1, thinking there was no way that anybody left on the board was taking a QB.
Then out of the blue, my phone rings. I look down, and I see “Green Bay, Wisconsin” on the caller ID.
“Hi Jordan. Green Bay Packers.”
What???
“Just letting you know we’re going to be moving up to take you here.”
I think I basically blacked out for 24 hours. The main thing I can remember is my whole family going crazy, and this euphoria of like…. Damn, we actually did it.
I don’t think it really set in for me until I started doing interviews, and every question was basically, “What about Aaron?”
In my mind, I was like, “What do you mean? He’s one of the best to ever do it. I’m about to learn everything I can from this dude.”
But before me and Aaron could even talk, the narrative was rolling. And it’s so crazy to me, because from the jump, Aaron was great with me. He laid out how he was in my same situation, and that he wanted to make sure there was no hostility. I told him I just wanted to learn and soak it all in.
I mean, I’d been a QB2 for a lot of my life. For me, it was nothing new. It was perfect, actually. Think about it: you’re coming into this league at 21 years old. It’s a different world. I’m not even talking about just football. You have to be able to command a room and know how to talk to different guys, how to motivate them — what to say, what not to say. I got to watch Aaron and how he handled those situations, and that was invaluable.
To call myself a late bloomer doesn’t do it justice. I remember I was in study hall my freshman year, and I was sitting with Ray Lewis’ son — Rayshad. We’re just talking, and he’s like, “Yo, would you ever think about leaving early?”
And I said, “Leaving early? Bro, I think we’d get in trouble.”
He said, “No, bro. I’m talking about the league. Would you ever leave early?”
And I just looked at him like he was crazy.
“Bro, I’m the backup quarterback at Utah State. What are you talking about? I’m just here for the free education. I’m hoping to get a few snaps before I get up out of here with this degree.”
And he was looking at me like I was crazy. He’s gassing me up.
“Man, you gotta believe in yourself. Come on, bro. You can be a monster.”
He was Ray Lewis’ son. So I get it. He had that ambition in his DNA. But in my mind, I was just a dude. And it’s interesting, looking back on my life, just how many random people believed in me and would make these little comments that I’d store away in the back of my mind.
I didn’t start really building that true confidence until my sophomore year, when I took over as the starter. I don’t want to say it happened overnight, but it almost felt that way. We went 11–2 that season, and it was like I was just playing. Flowing. Not overthinking anything. Everything slowed down. I really, truly fell in love with the game that season.
Without that brotherhood of football, I never would have made it. That camaraderie of football took me out of a really dark and lonely place. Through everything, the one thing that I could always count on was my friends and family. There’s just no way I’d be here without them. No way I’d have made it out of Bakersfield. No way in hell that I’d be the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.
Logan, Utah. Let’s goooo. It was a culture shock, but I didn’t care. I was a backup FBS quarterback. I made it. They redshirted me, but I made it!
The craziest part was that my mom was still flying out every weekend.
I was telling her, “Mom, you don’t have to do this. I’m literally not even playing. Like, I’m not even holding the clipboard. I’m just there.”
She said, “Well, then I’m going to be there too.”
“Mom…..”
“No. I’m good. See you Saturday.”
I’d see her during the warmups, down by the railing, super early. Waving.
“Yo, is that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, you not playing.”
“Yeah.”
“Bro, we’re in Ida-ho.”
“Yep.”
Just waving.
She was always there. Just like my dad. She never thought in a million years that her son would be an NFL quarterback. She just wanted to know that I was OK.
Everybody reacts to tragedy differently. There’s no normal way. But for me, it was like a little gift every time one of my friends cracked a joke with me, like nothing had happened.
When football started that fall, I wanted to quit. It wasn’t even that big of a deal. I was a nobody. I was the smallest kid on the field — literally. My freshman year, I was 5'6", 136 pounds. Maybe 5'7" with my Vans on. I didn’t even make JV. I was the backup QB on the freshman team. Just some dude.
Going into that sophomore year, my mom was driving me to practice, and when we got there, I didn’t want to get out of the car. I told her, “I don’t want to do this anymore. Maybe I’ll quit and focus on basketball.”
And it’s funny because it’s never like the movies, you know? My mom was not doing movie dialogue. It was just mom dialogue.
“That doesn’t make any logical sense to me, Jordan.”
“Why? I’m the backup. Who cares?”
“No, this doesn’t make sense. You love football.”
“Mom, I don’t play.”
She saw right through me. She saw how much I was hurting. I just wasn’t in my right mind. So she made a deal with me.
She said, “Just give it one more year. If you don’t love it at the end of this year, and you want to stop, then we’ll stop.”
I couldn’t say no to my mom. I gave in. Got out the car….. Went to practice. Kept going. And I wish that I could say “The rest is history.” But it wasn’t history. Like I said, I was a regular-ass dude. I made the JV squad, and I had a lot of fun with my friends. When I was on the field, I could kind of forget about everything for a few hours. That was a win.
My junior year, I hit a growth spurt, and I made varsity, but I was still the QB2. My peers were putting on hats on ESPN, committing to LSU or ’Bama or whatever, and I was holding a clipboard at Liberty High.
But I’ll never forget, one of my coaches, Bryan Nixon, he was always giving me encouragement. He’d pull me aside and be like, “Man, you’re going to grow even more. Just stay patient. Keep working.”
The third game of the season, I finally got my chance to start. I did OK, but I didn’t think I was much, to be honest. I really have to give it to my teammates, because they were the ones telling me, “Nah J, when you’re in there, it just feels different. The ball comes out different. You got this.”
I remember getting my first recruiting letter at the end of that season, and it wasn’t even really a letter. It was just one of those mass emails from Eastern Washington that was like, “Hey [Name], you’re on our radar.”
They weren’t even FBS, but I was over the moon.
It’s so funny, because even my teammates now on the Packers are always being like, “Yo, J, you from Utah, right?”
And I have to tell them, “No, bro, I’m from Cali.”
“Cali??? Then why’d you go to Utah State?”
“Bro, because that was my biggest offer.”
It was the summer after my freshman year of high school. I was at a basketball game. Regular day. My dad was at home. My mom was in the crowd. And I remember it was so weird, because I saw her get up and leave in the middle of the game. It gave me this strange feeling, because it was so unlike her. Then, at the end of the game, my aunt came up to me and my little sister and told us that she was going to drive us home. But she wouldn’t say where my mom went.
I’m asking a million questions, and she was like, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take you to our house for a minute.”
We pull into my aunt’s driveway, and you know how when something serious happens, and your family has to tell you something, you’re just kind of sitting in the car, and the radio’s not on, and nobody is unlocking the doors? My aunt is trying to pull herself together, and it’s totally silent.
I’m like, “What? What? Tell us.”
“...........Your dad passed away.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He passed away. I’m so sorry.”
All I can remember is getting out of the car and laying in the grass, crying.
But it still didn’t feel real. I felt like my mom was the key to the whole thing. If I could just talk to my mom, then she’d tell us that it was all just a nightmare or a miscommunication. My dad was just at the hospital or something. It couldn’t actually be real.
It felt like we were at my aunt’s house for 10 hours. Finally, my mom walked in the front door, and that’s when I knew. When I saw the look on her face, I just knew.
My dad was actually gone.
I didn’t find out until later on, but he had taken his own life. It still hurts me to say those words to this day, but I think there’s a lot of power in sharing our story.
Everyone always says that cliché, “He was the last person you ever would have thought…..”
But my dad……. Yeah, he was really the last person.
He hadn’t been his normal self for a while. He was hiding all that stuff from us kids, but the medication that he was taking for his blood pressure had really changed him. They couldn’t figure out what was going on, and he was really suffering. My mom called it a “medical demon,” and that’s the only way you could ever explain it. My dad was such a happy, positive, giving dude….. The light in every room.
Then the light went out.
That void in my life was just so big. Especially at 14.
When I was at home in the cocoon of my family, I could kind of deal with it, because we all had each other. But when school started in the fall, and I had to be around my friends again, it was so hard. Everyone knew what had happened. No one knew what to say to me. All I wanted was for people to act normal with me, as crazy as that sounds. People looking at me different and feeling pity for me actually made it worse. Everybody meant well, but even people putting their hands on my shoulder, and saying “I’m sorry, bro, you good?” ….. it was like a trigger. All of a sudden, I’m reliving everything.
That was my partner, man.
I can honestly say before July 13, 2013, I had pretty much the perfect upbringing. But that’s the crazy thing about life. You think you got all the time in the world. You think nothing is ever going to change.
And then it changes.
My dad’s motto was, “Try everything.”
He just had this relentless positivity about him. In his mind, me and my sisters could really do anything.
Him and my mom were both police officers. My dad was a sergeant for the Bakersfield Police Department and my mom was California Highway Patrol, but they couldn’t have been more different personalities. The smile never left my dad’s face. My mom, she was the yin to his yang. She was all business. She had an aura, you know? And that aura said, “Did you do your homework?”
Me and my friends would be out in the yard playing capture the flag or whatever, and she’d come home from work rocking those police aviators, and all my boys would be shook.
“Don’t you boys have a pop quiz tomorrow?”
“Yo, how’s she even know about that???”
One of those moms. You know the type.
My dad, he was my road dog. He used to pick me up after working a double shift and we’d pull up straight to the Little League field in his police cruiser. He’d be in the outfield helping coach with his full BPD uniform on, beeper in the belt buckle and everything. Everybody in town knew “Big O.” Everybody loved him.
He was literally always just there.
To me, there’s no higher praise for a dad. In almost every memory I have. He was there.
There’s this photo that I love of him and me, from when I was really little. He’s passed out on the edge of the bed in the middle of the day, taking a nap, probably after we were playing around outside for hours, and I’m laying on his chest, completely passed out right with him.
My dad actually wanted to name me Michael Jordan. That’s real. Michael Jordan Love. My mom vetoed it, thank God.
When I say my dad taught me everything, I really mean everything. We’d be out in the yard from the time I could walk — no, really from the time I could stand. Football, basketball, every sport imaginable. There’s a picture of me from when I was a baby and my dad is putting me up on a race horse. I’m like one, in my diaper, and I’m chilling up on some Secretariat-looking dude.
Rocking her shades. Hands between her legs. Not saying a word. Just praying I don’t get hurt.
Same as it’s always been, since I was 14 years old.
That was the year that I lost my best friend in the world — my dad.
My world was turned upside down. I wanted to quit football. Honestly, I kind of wanted to give up on everything. I was just a lost kid. So my mom made this deal with me.
“If you keep playing football, you know I’ll always be there for you.”
Simple as that.
“No matter what. Even if you’re just holding a clipboard. You’ll always know that somebody is in the stands cheering for you.”
So I ran out there for the second half at Arrowhead with 75,000 people booing the hell out of me, and one person way up there saying to herself, “Come on, Jordan. You need to play better. I love you, but you really need to play better.”
I know he would’ve wanted it that way.
I’m not even talking about “Welcome to the NFL.”
I’m talking about that first real ohhhhhhh s***.
Mine was November 7, 2021.
When you’re the backup, they always say, “Prepare like you’re going to be the starter, every week.” And you really believe you’re doing it, that’s the funny thing. But there’s levels to this game. Aaron got ruled out with COVID mid-week, and my job was to step up and make sure that the standard didn’t drop.
Against the Chiefs. At Arrowhead. Chris Jones. Frank Clark. Honey Badger. Plus, I think Pat might’ve been a 99 in Madden that year.
It’s all good when you’re kicked back in the film room. You’re the smartest dude in the world when it’s all on a screen. Then you’re out there for real, breaking the huddle at Arrowhead, and you got Honey Badger lurking around the secondary, mixing up the looks, and they’re running Cover 0 every play until you prove to them that you can figure it out. You’re doing the earmuffs, trying to get the plays from the sideline, and the crowd is going crazy, and you got 10 guys looking you dead in the eyes like, “Alright, what’s the plan?”
Man, I was swimming, I can’t lie. I remember the first drive, I’m at the line trying to call out checks at the top of my lungs, and I realize it’s so loud that I can’t even hear myself screaming. Play clock is running down. Honey Badger is edging up to the line, then he’s bailing, then he’s running up again. Devious.
I’m thinking, Yo, this is not preseason.
I got punched in the mouth that whole first half. It was humbling. But I’ll never forget, we ran out for the second half, I knew there was one thing I could count on for sure. I knew that way up there at the top of the stadium, in the very last row – literally the last row – one person was cheering me on. Even if the whole stadium was against me, I still had somebody up there who had my back.
My mom. Always.
I think every quarterback has that oh s*** moment.
Green Bay Packers
July 2025
JORDAN LOVE