In 2004, I had been married to Karen for 16 years. My sons were 12, 10 and 6. That year, two new things entered my life.
First, I got a new car, a sporty white Toyota Matrix with 6-disc cd changer and glowing red dashboard. Not one for nicknames, I called her “The Matrix.” We went everywhere together.
Second, the Steelers got a new quarterback, a towering, rifle-armed kid from Miami University in Ohio. He already had a nickname – Big Ben. We spent every Sunday together.
The Matrix exceeded my expectations, putting in 270,000 miles going back and forth to youth group, my kids’ sporting events, and family visits via the Pennsylvania Turnpike. She survived two accidents—getting backed into by an Expedition while parked in a driveway, and being sideswiped at an intersection. The first required a new door; the second the re-attaching of the bumper with wire. In addition to the accidents, the Matrix survived hundreds of dusty cleats, messy students, and in-car meals. She never complained about my atrocious karaoke. She was a good friend. I remember stopping somewhere between Somerset and Bedford to take a picture of the odometer crossing the 200K mark. I thanked the old girl for being such a faithful companion.
She died a quiet death not too long ago.
Last night, Ben Roethlisberger played his last home game at Heinz Field. Eighteen seasons, the most ever played by a QB for one franchise. He beat Cleveland for the umpteenth time (His career record vs them is 26-3-1). He threw his 417th touchdown pass and celebrated his final victory formation. The fans came early and stayed late to show their appreciation. Watching him walk down the tunnel with his family was enough to make a grown man cry, which I may or may not have done. Thanks for the memories, big guy.
This isn’t just an ode to Big Ben. He’s an all-time great, for sure. He has been the face of my team for 18 years. He has never had a losing season. He played in only two games in which the Steelers were not in playoff contention. He made the greatest tackle in team history (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvA5p2GJEQE&ab_channel=CollinTelesz) and threw the greatest pass in NFL history (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mWHZKYFD9A&ab_channel=NFLArchive) to win what any self-respecting football fan must consider the greatest game in NFL history.
Big Ben will finish his career 5th in victories, 5th in passing yards, 5th in passing attempts, and 8th in touchdown passes. He engineered 52 fourth quarter comebacks. And most importantly, he won two Super Bowls.
All this while playing the Ravens twice a year and being sacked a record 551 times. Who will ever forget this moment? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10Vdf7qFlmg&ab_channel=kudzooInc
Like that nose, Ben was never pretty. He was never uglier than early in his career when his ego and immaturity made him a cad of the worst sort. But he seemed to have turned things around. By all accounts he has become a good husband, father, and teammate. He is loyal to his team, his city, his fans, and the Rooney family.
Which led to last night, the emotional culmination of 18 years of love between football fans and their football star.(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smB77M0ROFI&ab_channel=HighlightHeaven)
As I reflect on this afterwards, this is what I’ve come to understand. Ben’s departure isn’t so much about Ben himself as what he represents. Eighteen years of relationship. Eighteen years of joy and sorrow. Eighteen years of tense moments, thrown pillows, screams of agony, and celebratory dances around our basement sofa. Eighteen years of easy conversations about what went wrong last year, and what will go right next year. Eighteen years of life lived with the people I love most in the world, through ups and downs, wins and losses, smashed noses and broken bumpers. For 18 years, my quarterback and my car were the givens—the constants—while life played out on the field under my feet.
Some say sports are just a game, but that’s not true. They are much more than that. They are memories. Identities. Cautionary tales. Victory laps. Bookends. Sports inhabit our stories like recurring characters in campfire tales.
For most of my kids’ lives, the only car they knew was the Matrix. For most of their lives, the only quarterback they knew was Ben Roethlisberger. It’s hard to say goodbye to something so familiar that you cannot remember life without it.
After the game, as he was being interviewed by the post-game host, I noticed that Ben did not take off his helmet. His speech was altered by his chin strap, and I wondered why he didn’t remove it so he could speak clearly. He kept his helmet on as he walked around the stadium giving high fives, as he sat on the bench for a final moment of reflection, and even as he walked down the tunnel holding his kids’ hands.
I thought it odd until I realized why. He was trying to hide his tears. He knew what he’d had for these past 18 years.
I needed a helmet, too.