A Love Letter to Detroit and the Detroit Lions
I’ve been a Lions fan for as long as I can remember. Long enough to know heartbreak and frustration. I’ve watched players and coaches come and go and seasons begin in hope and end in heartbreak—far too many of them to count.
But the current makeup of the Detroit Lions is different. Dan Campbell (DC) and Brad Holmes are building something that goes beyond football. It’s not just about winning, it’s about how they win. With humility and infamous grit. With love for each other and for a city (and state) that has never stopped believing, even when believing hurt.
I wrote this piece because for the first time in over forty years, I feel it in my bones and I experience it every week during season play: this is the Lions we’ve been waiting for. The ones who show us that strength isn’t silence, and that real men—the ones who lead, who fight, who lift each other—they cry, unapologetically. And when they do, the whole city stands a little taller.
We’ve all seen the emotional end of season locker room interviews, especially the one with Taylor Decker, after the final game of this season against the Bears, and our former Offensive Coordinator, Ben Johnson. Our 9-8 Lions ended the season with a win against the Bears, but without a seat in the playoffs. To outsiders and the anything but true fans, it may seem like the “same old Lions.” Nothing could be further from the truth.
Every Sunday (or off scheduled day), we watched these men collide, rise, and reach for something bigger than themselves. Football may look like chaos, but what’s underneath is art made of precision, trust, and heart. There is no arguing that it is a tough, brutal game. It asks everything from the body and even more from the mind. Decker tearily stated as much in his season ending interview. Maybe even the last season of an amazing ten-year run. But as Decker also displayed: that’s what makes the game so beautiful. The courage. The discipline. The love. Showing up for the man playing next to you.
Yes, there’s money in it—plenty of it. But the money isn’t what keeps these men coming back. You can’t fake this kind of devotion. You can’t buy the way a player fights for the man next to him, or how a coach pours everything he has into his team week after week. Take away the checks, the endorsements, the cameras—most of us would still love this game. We’d still show up, and so would they.
Because football isn’t just a job. It’s a calling. A brotherhood. A shared heartbeat between player, coach, and fan. And nobody embodies that heartbeat better than Dan Campbell and Brad Holmes, who have built something rare—a culture where toughness and tenderness coexist. Where strength has a soul and real men cry.
This era in Detroit didn’t happen by accident. We didn’t just get lucky. Sheila changed our fate when she took over the family reins. And with the help of advisors, including Lion’s legend Chris Spielman, she hired DC and Holmes due to their shared vision—unbeknownst to them at the time. It’s been said that they were “finishing each other’s sentences” in early meetings despite not previously knowing each other, and are “cut from the same cloth.”
Together, they are in the midst of building something that is inherently Detroit: a team with human heart in every play and steel running through its veins. The goal isn’t perfection because, let’s be honest, machines never are. It’s symmetry. It’s strength sharpened by acute self-awareness. It’s swagger tempered by hard work and humility. And that infamous grit? It shows up in every snap with a vow to protect the man playing next to you. It’s a culture that roars and holds two truths at once: your talent matters, but your character matters more.
If you’ve ever watched DC at a post-game presser after a loss, then you’ve seen it. There is a tear in his eye and a crack in his voice. He’s a man who leads by example. One who takes responsibility when things fall short and never hides behind excuses. And when they win, he always praises his players—individually and collectively. “I love these guys, man.” He never takes credit for himself. He hands it off every time. That humility is the heartbeat of this team. And when the game balls are handed out, listen to what’s said. It’s always each other they praise, each other they thank. That’s the difference. That’s what real men look like: humble, kind, accountable, and proud in a way that doesn’t have to roar. But do they ever roar.
People outside Detroit love to reduce us to tropes. We are either the doomed franchise or the overnight sensation with a short shelf life. Both takes miss the point. What changed here wasn’t luck. What changed was trust. Trust in the coaches. Trust in the front office. Trust in Sheila (Oh, Shiela!). Trust in the fans who kept showing up through decades when hope was all we had. That trust turned into a brotherhood you can feel from the stands and through the TV. These men fight for each other, for their coaches, for the owner who let football people build a football team, and for the city and fans who never once forgot how to hope.
When we talk about our quarterback, this is where the story shifts. Matthew Stafford gave us ten solid years. He’s beloved in Detroit for a reason. He’s tough, he’s gifted, and he brought a Lombardi to L.A. the year after he was traded for Goff, and he might do it again this year. Good for him.
But Jared Goff is the perfect fit for who we are now. Not because Stafford wasn’t great, because culture matters. Because this system, this staff, this roster, needed Goff’s exact blend of calm, command, and self-described “chip-on-the-shoulder” purpose. Stafford would have bent against the culture DC and Holmes are building. But Goff, he opened the door for a new legacy and we embraced him. Just listen to the chants, literally everywhere you go.
And he finished our 9-8 season among league leaders. He was second in passing yards with 4,564. He was second in touch downs with 34. He came in 17th in the league in interceptions and QBR rating. His completion rate was 68% and total EPA was 92.04, 7th in the league.
But it’s not just Goff that shifts the story. It’s Amon-Ra, who syncs with him like rhythm and melody (but no more jinx dances in the end zone, hey?). It’s Jahmyr and Monty—Sonic and Knuckles—thundering through defenses with speed and power that feels mythical. It’s Hutch, relentless and hungry. It’s LaPorta, who we so often find wide open, like he’s slipping between worlds. It’s our rookie, TeSLAA, pulling off those magic one-handed catches that make you question gravity itself. It’s Anzalone, the heart in the middle who always shows up. It’s Penei, the man whose leadership sets the tone. Whose work ethic dares everyone else to dig deeper, push harder, play faster—for each other. “I’m a firm believer it starts with me up front. I believe that I’m gonna set the tone. I’m gonna make plays that typically, o-linemen don’t make…” It’s all of them.
And just when you think you’ve got them figured out, here comes the trickery. Those bold, creative plays that have become part of the roar itself. The fake punts, the reverses, the gutsy calls that make you jump out of your seat before the camera even catches up. Oh, and those fourth downs—we can’t forget those. In Detroit, going for it isn’t the exception anymore. It’s the rule. That’s Lions football now: fearless, unpredictable, and joyful.
And off the field, nothing changes. They show up for community. They don’t bend to pressure or intimidation, and they don’t compromise on what they stand for. These are men to be admired. Men to mirror your own actions off of, for the most part. In an era where red-pill culture tries to tell us that men who lead with love are weak, this team stands tall and proves them wrong every damn week.
Early in the season, when Davenport was taken out and Muhammad had to step in against the Ravens, we were nervous. Was he ready? Shame on us for ever questioning it. Muhammad showed up—and he showed up hard. In the locker room afterward, when he was handed a game ball for his performance—4 tackles, 2.5 sacks, 2 QB hits, a forced fumble, and relentless pressure—his teammates erupted. We all did. His pride was raw, visible, and earned. “A year ago, I was at home sitting on the couch,” he said. “Today, I took my opportunity.” Damn if that isn’t what this team is all about.
They are poetry in motion, a beautiful sight to behold. They never allow one game to define them. On their worst days, it’s a lesson. On their best days, it’s still a lesson. They evolve. They adapt. They rise. We love them all—individually and together—because they remind us what family looks like when it’s forged in sweat, trust, and belief. To us fans, they are our brothers. There isn’t one of them that we wouldn’t invite to sit at our table.
I’ve waited over 40 years for this. Almost five decades of Sundays, of almosts, of one-day and some-day. Through a 0-16 season. So many seasons of wanting. What’s happening now is pure joy. And after the long wait, I get to watch this metamorphosis with my son, which multiplies everything. We’ve sat in Ford Field, Soldier Field, at Harry’s in Detroit, and home on the sofa and witnessed over and over the greatest Lions team of our lifetimes. We bond over trick plays, juking, and Monty carrying six men on his back to push for an extra 10 yards. It’s not just joyful entertainment, it’s memory-making. It’s Detroit. It’s proof that patience can pay off and that building the right way matters more than winning the wrong way. It’s One Pride.
I carry another memory from the ‘90s when the Lions held camp at Saginaw Valley State University. I was much younger then and my son wasn’t here yet. Back then I took my little brother to games at the Silverdome, and that season, to watch practice. We met Barry Sanders. If you know, you know. The way he moved. The way he treats people. Quiet. Electric. Kind.
There are legends who loom large because they talk big. Barry didn’t need to. He let the grass and his infamous juking do the talking. The “human joystick.” He’s known as the most elusive running back ever. To me, he’ll always be the greatest regardless of all who come after. And yes, I have a wish that will never happen: when we get to the Super Bowl—and I do mean when—Barry suits up and takes one handoff from Goff and jukes his way into the end zone, leaving his defenders grasping for air. Just one play. One impossible cutback down the sideline into the end zone, because Barry deserves it. Tell me Detroit wouldn’t crack open from the roar.
But even without that fantasy, he’s still here—part of the family, part of the DNA, celebrating what DC and Holmes have grown. That continuity matters. It roots this moment in something deeper than anyone on the outside can understand. It tells the world: this is who we are. We honor our past. We build our future. And we do it together. That is Detroit grit.
To the folks who clutch pearls about football’s “barbarism,” I hear you. We should care about safety. We should keep pushing for better helmets, smarter rules, and honest conversations about health after the lights go down. Awareness isn’t the enemy of toughness; it’s the spine of it. Owning the risk makes courage real. That’s what this team embodies: strength with eyes wide open. Men who can lift a city and still stand tall when their throat tightens. Real men cry. They cry from relief, from pride, from the gut-punch of doing something bigger than themselves.
This is Detroit. We don’t apologize for loving hard. We don’t apologize for being loud. We don’t apologize for believing in a team that believes in each other and in us. If you don’t get it, fine. Send me an email and I’ll mail you a binky so you can sit in the corner and have your moment. We’ll be here, standing, chanting, and watching the machine that Detroit built do its work.
And do not mistaken what this is because this is bigger than any one season. It’s a standard. It’s a culture. It’s the proof that when strength, grit, courage, and resilience find the right room, they don’t clash—they click. And when they click, the city heals a little. A family gathers. A mother and her son look at each other and know, finally, what it feels like when the clock hits zero and Detroit is still standing tall.
Real men cry. Detroit roars. And the best part? We’re just getting started.
And to our Detroit fam: what up doe!
P.S. To Sheila, Chris, Dan, Brad, and all the guys: Thank you. Thank you for bringing us such joy over the past few years. We know that you’ve got what it takes. And we know, you’ll take us all there. We love you. See you all in late summer. GO LIONS!
