Rod Martin Didn’t Just Win a Super Bowl

He showed me what winning actually looks like.

Lombardi said, “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.”

Even though losing doesn’t make you a loser, it still isn’t the outcome we want. So you do everything you can to stay hopeful… and carry yourself with a winner’s mindset.

But here’s where the rubber meets the road for me:

What happens when you’re a gigantic sports fan…

you’ve never played…

and your team loses?

We suit up anyway.

Because being a fan is a role.

It’s a responsibility.

It’s loyalty without conditions.

I have amnesia when people are inconsiderate to me in real life. But when it comes to my teams?

I’ll admit it.

I hold a grudge.

I like to believe that’s part of the fan currency: big passion means big grudges.

And I held one… for decades.

I love all live sports, and on January 21, 2017, I took my kids and a few of their friends to the NFLPA Collegiate Bowl in Los Angeles.

Any game. Any time. Anywhere.

I’m in.

We walked into a packed food area carrying heaping plates of mac and cheese and vegetables dripping in ranch dressing—the kind of meal that absolutely requires a table.

As we scanned the room, juggling plates and cups like a wide receiver going up for a game-winning catch, a kind man stood up and offered my kids and me his table.

As I thanked him, I noticed what he was wearing.

Silver. Black. Raiders.

And then it hit me.

That feeling clammy, dizzy, like the air just left your body?

That was me.

I went from red carpet–ready… to a full-blown collapse.

The ranch dressing in my hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Adios, superstar receiver.

I dropped the plate ranch flying everywhere and just like that, I was face to face with the man I had “hated” for 36 years and four days.

Almost to the day.

Suddenly, I wasn’t a spectator anymore.

I was in it.

My own personal Super Bowl.

A super-fan grudge match I had replayed in my mind for decades.

Only… he had no idea who I was.

This man—the one I had been ready to tell off for nearly 40 years was standing right in front of me.

Still in uniform, in my mind.

Silver and black.

And the worst part?

He was kind.

So kind to me.

So kind to my kids.

What do you do with that?

 Do I say nothing?

Do I pretend I don’t know who he is?

Do I act like my life is great and he didn’t shatter the dreams of an entire city?

My city. My family’s team.

(My grandfather, Leonard Tose, owned the Philadelphia Eagles from 1969 to 1985.)

Most people would let it go.

But I’m not most people.

I’m an Eagles fan.

And then I saw it.

The ring.

Bright. Massive. Impossible to ignore.

And just like that

Super Bowl XV came rushing back.

Three interceptions. 27–10.

A city heartbroken.

That was it.

I grabbed my ginger ale, took a breath, wiped my hands, and said:

“Okay, Rod Martin… I’ve had this speech ready for you since January 25, 1981. And it’s kickoff.”

I let it all out.

Every ounce of disappointment.

Every replayed moment.

Every fan who carried that loss.

For years, I had practiced that speech like a prayer, like a mantra. Before bed, in the shower, in quiet moments no one knew about.

Because that game wasn’t just a loss.

It was the loss.

The first time we thought we were bringing the Lombardi home.

And Rod?

He just sat there.

Calm. Patient. Present.

He let me go.

Every word. Every emotion.

Until I was done.

And then…

We both started laughing.

The kind of laughter that breaks something open.

The kind that releases years you didn’t even realize you were still carrying.

And in that moment, my personal “boogie man”…

the man in silver and black…

put his arm around me.

And comforted me.

Thirty-six years of emotion.

Gone.

Just like that.

When I finally caught my breath, he said something I will carry with me forever:

“Wear your grandfather’s NFC Championship ring with pride. That’s not a loser’s ring—it’s a winner’s ring. When you get to those games, it can go either way. And fans like you? You’re part of it. You’re winners too.”

Then he smiled and said,

“If anyone tells you otherwise… give them my number.”

That was Rod Martin.

Yes—the man with three interceptions in Super Bowl XV.

But more importantly?

A man of grace.

A man of humility.

A man who understood the weight of the moment… for everyone.

He taught me something I didn’t expect to learn that day:

Players don’t just remember their wins.

They remember the losses.

The moments that could have gone the other way.

The thin line between heartbreak and history.

And fans?

We matter more than we think.

We show up.

We believe.

We carry the story forward.

When the Eagles finally won it all in 2018…

Rod was one of the first people to congratulate me.

Think about that.

So today, hearing of his passing…

I’m not thinking about the interceptions.

I’m thinking about the man who stood up and gave my kids his table.

The man who listened.

The man who turned a decades-long grudge into a moment of grace.

Rod Martin didn’t just win a Super Bowl.

He showed me what winning actually looks like.

And I will carry that with me…

 Always.