I would prefer not to be reminded of my age when I watch professional football games, but as the current NFL season wends its way into its second month, I am finding it increasingly difficult to think of much else.
The leaves are still on the trees, but this short season has already seen several veteran quarterbacks—a gracious way to describe aging quarterbacks—struggle to such an extent that they have been benched (Russell Wilson of the New York Giants) or seem likely to be benched (Geno Smith of the Las Vegas Raiders).
The latest such casualty is Cleveland Browns quarterback Joe Flacco, who, when I first became aware of him as a Browns fan who regarded with feelings of dread and apprehension the twice-yearly games against the Baltimore Ravens, was a scarily intimidating opponent. The Ravens added Flacco to their roster in the 2008 draft, and in the 11 seasons he played for the team, the impassive-looking signal-caller seemed less a man, capable of being sacked or intercepted, than a touchdown machine: I am sure it was not this way in reality, but in my recollection, every Flacco-authored throw went deep and every Flacco-led drive resulted in a score—at least when he was playing the Browns.
After being cut loose from the Ravens in 2018, Flacco reemerged as an itinerant sometime-starter with the Denver Broncos, New York Jets, and, for a significant portion of the 2023 season, the Browns. (In that playoff-bound but injury-riddled season, the team was in need of passable play from a quarterback, so they summoned Flacco.) The Browns declined his services in 2024, when he played intermittently with the Indianapolis Colts, but, like the girlfriend who unwisely jilts her beau until realizing the field is limited, the club came crawling back this season.
This time, though, Father Time was waiting for Flacco at Huntington Bank Field on the banks of Lake Erie: The quarterback is no longer the fearsome force he was in his 20s and early 30s. In fact, Flacco is now 40, and while age may or may not have conferred wisdom on him, it has clearly taken from him an ability to distinguish receivers from defenders: Flacco has thrown two touchdowns and six interceptions this season—his contributions to a woebegone 1–3 record.
On Sunday morning, playing the Minnesota Vikings in London, the Browns will start backup quarterback Dillon Gabriel, a third-round pick whose skills at the professional level are unknown but who, it must be admitted, at least looks to possess more vim and vigor than Flacco, who, in his dotage, has adopted a gray-speckled beard that more readily suggests a member of the PTA than a top-flight athlete.
Yet, each time I am tempted to joke about Flacco’s advancing age and atrophying abilities, I stop myself: I am nearly two years older than Flacco. In the past, when the Browns have leaned on past-their-prime quarterbacks, I had the luxury of freely opining about their skills (or lack thereof) from the vantage point of my relative youth: Trent Dilfer, Jake Delhomme, Josh McCown—these guys were all older than me. By contrast, Flacco is a contemporary, and in calling him that, I am being generous to myself.
Evidently, I have reached the age when most quarterbacks are widely considered to be in irretrievable decline. (Don’t mention 41-year-old Aaron Rodgers’s present success with the Pittsburgh Steelers—we don’t talk about that team in this home.)
To state the obvious, I am not a quarterback, and I have never played organized football at any level. I know my limitations; to invoke a more successful quarterback than any who has played with the Browns since the Clinton administration, I am not Josh Allen. Yet I have followed the game for much of my life, and in the back of my mind, I suppose I like to think that, if athletic ability, height, and speed were not essential for the position, I could have played—at least in my backyard or among friends. I would rather be told that I could not play due to lack of talent than due to age.
Now I face the reality that even if I possessed the gifts and track record of Joe Flacco—the MVP of Super Bowl XLVII and the longtime irritant of Browns defenses—I would likely be headed for the bench. This is sobering: I am now at the age at which some dreams, even fantastical ones, can no longer even be considered dreams. In fact, I should be so lucky as to be Flacco’s 40 rather than my 42.
I have no idea how Gabriel will fare at the helm of the Browns’ purported offense. But even if Gabriel follows in the footsteps of fellow rookie quarterback Jaxson Dart—who, upon being elevated over the newly-benched Russell Wilson, conjured a win for the Giants—I would suggest that he humble himself by looking at his colleague Flacco. Take it from him—and from me: Time will catch up with you, too.
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