I’m Still In Love With My Ex-Quarterback

I’m going through a really rough time, thanks for asking (nobody asks). It’s true—I was in a serious relationship with someone for close to 15 years, and we recently decided it was best if we went our separate ways. Well, that’s a lie. Selfishly, I would have never let this perfectly imperfect union crumble. But sometimes love is unfair. And if Philip Rivers needs to move all the way to Indianapolis for a shot at happiness, then who am I to stop him?

The cracks started appearing when we went long-distance. It wasn’t my choice. It wasn’t even his choice. After 11 years of a blissful life together in relaxed, picturesque San Diego, Philip’s work took him North to Los Angeles. We put on brave faces, said the right things, even continued to support one another from afar—but we knew in our heart of hearts, this was the beginning of the end.

For the next 3 years, as we continued to ignore the inevitable, the patented numbness of a dead relationship started to wash over us. He just wasn’t around like he used to be. There was the two-hour daily commute to LA, the nine children he had to tuck in each night, and the “home” games that packed thousands of opposing drunks into his new office. A tale as old as time, it became sad and toxic by the end.

Then — after 224 consecutive starts, 397 touchdown passes, 59,271 yards passing, 8 Pro Bowls, and zero curse words — we split up for good. We survived a lot together, but no relationship is built to endure something as haunting and inevitable as Dean Spanos. And while there is certainty in the sadness, the road leading up to it was paved with excitement, controversy, and a consensus from the general public that we were not meant to be.

“You’ve gotta drop his ass,” My friends would consistently lament, for over a decade. “He always lets you down,” They’d shout while spinning their barstool toward their own bland, loveless relationships (Andy Dalton, Matthew Stafford, Derek Carr, etc). “He throws like a fucking weirdo,” They’d admit to me after too many Bud Lights.

Sure, it was turbulent at times. But there’s no passion without turbulence. I’m embarrassed to mention the 65 games we lost by 7 points or less since 2006—which is less a statistical anomaly, and more a cosmic joke from someone above (not from God, Phil is really tight with God). I wasn’t thrilled with the Sundays I’d watch him spend an entire half handing out interceptions, only to lose the game by the exact results of those interceptions. Until now, I’ve completely repressed that horrible afternoon in 2011 when instead of taking a knee to set up a division clinching field goal, he said “no easy wins” and fumbled the snap.

I know it’s bad to keep score in a relationship, but dwelling on the past is a rite of passage for those of us dealing with heartbreak. Plus, his 20 interceptions last year felt like he was trying to get out. Even more self-destructive were the 23 dispassionate touchdowns he paired with them, his smallest number since 2007. No matter how you slice it, he had to move on—for both of us.

But when you’re lying awake at night, spooning a throw pillow while staring blankly at the wall, you don’t think about the sour end. You think about what could have been. If Marlon McCree never got stripped by Troy Brown after his “game-clinching” interception in the 2006 divisional playoffs, maybe we’d still be together. If Nate Kaeding, 2009’s most accurate kicker, didn’t botch three field goals (3!) against the Jets to end the 2009 season, maybe we’d still be together. If we spent more than a single first round pick on an offensive lineman over the last twenty years to help protect a quarterback who literally only needs a few seconds of breathing room to surgically decimate opposing secondaries, I don’t know, maybe we’d still be together.

Such is life, I suppose. I can’t change the past. But what I can (and will) do is obsessively reflect on it. Because the good times? God they were good. 

Nobody took a deep shot like Phil. Just ask Vincent Jackson, who learned he didn’t need to beat his man to be open down the sideline. Antonio Gates made a very nice, living boxing out inferior linebackers for modest gains, but he wouldn’t have snatched half of his touchdowns without a gunslinger firing footballs with dangerous anticipation. Keenan Allen would probably be running pristine routes on a practice squad, Danny Woodhead would be convincing some bartender that he was once a New England Patriot, and if I had to guess, Malcolm Floyd would be somewhere replacing gutters without a ladder—but Phil pulled something special out of all of us.

With all of the vitriol and blind hatred aimed at our relationship, it was easy to feel special. The negative feedback served as validation that we were connected on a level that made people angry and jealous. And for better or worse, they were the most electric years of my life. It was me and Phil against the world, and dammit—I’ve never felt more alive.

It was probably born, more or less, on a Monday night in 2007. With a 23-3 win shored up against the Denver Broncos, a certain temptation filled Qualcomm Stadium. You see, the Bronco offense was led by one of the more annoying personalities in the NFL, a personality that belonged to Jay Cutler. And as Jay failed to convert on a 4th down, ostensibly ending the game, Phil (and two ride-or-die teammates) marched helmetless toward midfield to talk mountains of shit to him. It was a primal moment, born from an unbridled love of football, competition, and beating the most annoying kid on the playground. Was it petty, unprofessional, and mildly embarrassing? Totally. But the satisfaction was undeniable, and it signified the point of no return. I fell in love with my QB that night.

A season later, we got off to an inauspicious 4-8 start. Our stock had never been lower. Local sports radio lambasted us, national media laughed at us, ESPN forgot we were even a team. With our backs against the wall, Phil continued to double and triple and quadruple down on the strength of our relationship. “Our love can conquer all,” He practically sang as we ripped off 4 straight wins and took an 8-8 team to the playoffs out of sheer spite. The disgusting, come-from-behind upset we pulled off against Peyton Manning’s Colts in the subsequent Wildcard Game? A headrush that I’m still coming down from.

One Sunday in 2009, Phil left San Diego in a passionate rage after hearing about a certain fling that caused us pain early in life. Where did he go? All the way to Eli Manning’s home in New York to punch him in the face with a game winning touchdown with less than 30 seconds left. And when Eli came back for more, Phil had no choice but to kick his ass again (twice). He was vengeful like that. Nobody disrespects his baby.

There was the Thursday night stunner against NFL’s darling Chiefs in 2018, where Rivers snuck a game winning, playoff clinching 2-point conversion to Mike Williams in the back of the endzone while the world was busy drooling over Patrick Mahomes.

For a decade and a half we’ve been on this ride together. We were up, we were down, we were praised, we were harassed, we were counted out, we were counted back in, we were treated with about as much respect as a portapotty at a music festival—but we were in it together. There were QB scrambles that looked like slow motion, TD celebrations that made us laugh, throws that made us cry, and a bolo tie that kind of...got us going? When you’re with Phil, the impossible (no matter how ludicrous) always feels within reach. It was the kind of pure, untainted optimism that made the wild ride worth it, blurring the line between fantasy and reality. But I guess reality always wins in the end.

And that’s why it hurts so bad. What we had was layered, complicated, dynamic, and painfully real. Time will heal the pain, but I’ll never forget. Let me rephrase that—I don’t want to forget.  Phil Rivers will always be a part of me. It was a love that ran its course, and that’s okay. I really do wish him the best.

But I have to ask, do you think he still thinks about me too? Nevermind, don’t answer that.