It's time for an audible: A farewell to NFL coverage, and what I'm taking away from the game

They say all good things must come to an end, but what if you're not sure the thing was good in the first place? I've spent the better part of the last nine years writing for CBS Sports, primarily covering the NFL, and I can say without a doubt that the strongest audience feedback I've ever received included merciless calls for me to be fired.

No, I am not joking. It turns out people really care about Quarterback Power Rankings.

You put Josh Allen where?! And Brock Purdy there?! Nothing will top the middle-aged man who took the time to find me on LinkedIn and issue me a direct message, insisting I let "someone who follows the NFL" do the rankings next time. He included his business email and phone number at the bottom. I looked him up later and realized he's a self-proclaimed "change agent and disruptor" for various consulting services. So he was just doing his job.

The noise is part of the job

I suppose I should've never been surprised. This is a cold business, the NFL. You learn that quickly as a fan, when your favorite team ships off your favorite player as soon as fresher (and cheaper) talent emerges. I think a tiny sliver of my heart is still damaged from the Philadelphia Eagles trading Donovan McNabb in 2009 -- on Easter Sunday, a supposedly sacred space, of all days.

Speaking of the Eagles, those first experiences in the non-PG confines of Lincoln Financial Field should've prepped me, too. I was the sensitive child, the little boy who couldn't understand why we were hurling boos and insults upon our quarterback when what he really needed was a good pick-me-up.

Now? Years later? I suppose I've learned to be more like Donovan, my one-time idol, smiling in the face of the mob. People bark and clamor because, well, they're often overly indulged adult children, but also because they just want to win.

And you know what? I should thank them for that. I should thank you. Even you, Mr. LinkedIn. Not only did your engagement allow me to do something I once pretended to do, an introverted teen who spent more time updating his Eagles blog than was necessary for a "normal social life." But it allowed me to gain added respect for the many average folks who still tune into this game for the sake of community.

Fantasy and gambling may be the increasingly individualistic future of sports fandom -- how can I profit from this? -- but there is nothing inherently profitable about, say, rooting for the Cleveland Browns or New York Giants.

What fandom taught me first

Which is all the more reason I think with adoration upon friends, family and coworkers who still latch themselves to broken franchises. I think of David Welker, from Ohio, a great friend who tried desperately to will the Browns to relevance in his Baker Mayfield jersey. I think of Kevin Steimle, our impassioned NFL editor here at CBS Sports, who swears once a year he is done with the G-Men -- this time for good, forever -- only to voice it again a few months later.

These people are everywhere. I know because, in many ways, I'm still one of them. I've walked the walk with the Eagles since the 2000s, when Super Bowls were the pipe dream, not the expectation. When Sundays were more about suffering together than nitpicking close wins. Even into adulthood and parenthood and real-life responsibilities, it's hard to fully disbelieve that I'm not also responsible for the way the 11 freakish athletes wearing green are -- or aren't -- functioning on the field at a given time.

It can seem silly sometimes, buying the gear, wearing the jerseys, letting these teams over which we have no control steer our emotions. But I'm also a man of faith. And it's not hard to see the parallels: I believe we're built to come together, to overlook our differences, to put our heart and trust in a greater story, which is both beyond our control and demanding of our investment.

In other words, we can't help it. Especially when the script is rarely predictable. This is hardly a novel thought, but I've also learned, in covering this game, to never, ever, ever say never.

I vividly recall sitting in a conference room at CBS Sports' Fort Lauderdale offices back in December 2017. The Eagles were on a tear, enjoying their most magical season in years, but they'd just lost Carson Wentz, the breakout star of the show, to a devastating knee injury. One of the higher-ups running our NFL staff meeting, who was a fan of a rival team, laughed off the possibility of backup Nick Foles saving the Birds' playoff hopes. They were done, he insisted, as many other reasonable minds did. And all of them were wrong. All of them had to watch Foles outduel Tom Brady in Super Bowl LII as the Eagles miraculously dethroned the New England Patriots dynasty.

I'm not quite saying the Browns or Giants are next, but maybe I am. That's the beauty of sports. We hope.

Why we keep coming back

On that note, I do have a personal hope for this industry moving forward: I hope we, as fans and media, can realize that sometimes less is more. This doesn't fly in a culture of excess and instant gratification, but you know what made the Eagles' first Super Bowl win so sweet? The steady slog to get there. There was a time, probably before social media and the 24/7 red-alert coverage of the NFL, when we'd all live and die with our teams on an annual basis. It's October and our team stinks? Oh well; at least we're trudging through the winter with our brethren and saddling him up again next fall.

That's not to say failure is fun. But if you're only in it for the wins, screaming for a fire sale at every misstep, well, you kind of lose the reward when the tides finally turn. Patience is hard. So is moderation. But there's a happy medium, I think, between loyalty and detachment, where we love our NFL teams enough to endure their troubles but not so much that they consume our every waking moment, morphing us into rabid micromanagers of someone else's billion-dollar entity.

In other words, let's have fun again. It's one thing I do look forward to as I step back from covering the NFL professionally: turning a game on with my family just for the sake of doing it together.

The people behind the game

Which brings me to the "why" behind my transition. No doubt many of you couldn't care less about why Cody Benjamin -- who, you ask? -- is hanging up the cleats as a CBS Sports writer. But I have this space one last time, so I'd be remiss if I didn't use it.

The humanity of this work is undeniably the thing that gets my gears turning. There may not be an abundance of it in the fun but fleeting pieces you may have read from me: head coach rankings, trade proposals, comparing NFL teams to Halloween movies. But I've always had a special affinity for the opportunities to speak directly -- person to person -- with the men and women who make up this behemoth of an industry. That includes the superstars who grace our TVs and gridirons but who are also, like you and I, people.

When I stood next to Sam Bradford in 2017, one of my first years at Minnesota Vikings training camp, I technically spent 10 minutes of uninterrupted time with a Heisman Trophy winner, a No. 1 draft pick, one of the wealthiest quarterbacks of his time. But I really encountered a mild-mannered gentleman whose greatest comfort in the heat of summer practices was the sight of his mother, Martha: "It's kind of nice to know that someone who doesn't care about football is out here watching practice," he said. "She just wants to know how I'm doing, how the dorms are, how the food is -- all the mom things."

Five years later, when I somehow managed a one-on-one with Justin Jefferson, still the face of the Vikings, I wondered if I might get the short-answer treatment sometimes deployed by overworked and, frankly, upper-class icons of the game. Instead, I was treated like a peer. An equal. A friend. I may as well have been Jim Nantz, an all-time sportscaster. Because Justin, despite his blinding diamond earrings and brighter nationwide celebrity, didn't view the interaction as anything but a chance to be himself -- infectiously positive. Before we wrapped, he was teaching me the Griddy. I'm sure I looked like a clown, but he permitted it.

Jalen Hurts, the Eagles' Super Bowl MVP, took my phone call days before his breakout 2022 season, insisting his greatest satisfaction came from hearing kids wanted to be like him when they grew up: "I know you can't see me right now, but that put a smile on my face," he said. Brock Purdy, the San Francisco 49ers quarterback, cited Psalm 23 with a calmness well beyond his age when I asked him about his composure going into Super Bowl LVIII in Las Vegas. These memories register in part because of the grandiosity of the names attached, but more so because they allowed me a chance to be in the thick of real peoples' stories.

What comes next

This is where I'm headed next. To tell more stories about real people, just in a different setting. The NFL will press on. And we'll all go along for the ride. I certainly don't think I can shake being "the NFL guy" in whichever circles I cross; this thing's in my blood, so you can bet I'll be itching to crank out 1,000 words when some underdog stuns the world in the playoffs.

In the meantime, however, I look forward to diving deeper into my own community, connecting with the "average" but actually important men and women who make it run, and hopefully doing a little bit of service by letting their stories be heard.

All good things must come to an end. So was it good, really? Yeah, I think we can say that. And you know what? We should all be happy anyway. Especially those of you who wanted me canned for the quarterback rankings. You got your wish. You won your Super Bowl. This one's for you!