Backup QB, high school coach, neighborhood hero: Teddy Bridgewater embraces all of his roles

New York Times

29-01-2025

The scar runs about 10 inches, to the left of his kneecap from his thigh to his shin. It crosses through a tattoo of intersecting signs that read 'Bunche Park' and 'Liberty City.'
It's a reminder of what many would assume was the worst day of Teddy Bridgewater's life. Bridgewater was 23, emerging as the Minnesota Vikings' franchise quarterback as the 2016 season approached. He'd led the Vikings to an 11-5 record, an NFC North title and had been chosen for the Pro Bowl the previous season.
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Then, during a practice two weeks before the season opener, without contact, his knee dislocated. The surgeon who reconstructed the ACL, repaired five lateral ligaments and transplanted a hamstring tendon on the side of his knee told ESPN it was a 'horribly grotesque injury' and compared it to a war wound.
Could he play again? The better question at the time: Could he walk again? The injury was severe enough that amputation was a possibility.
Fifteen months later, however, he took the last five snaps of a blowout victory.
Now, eight-and-a-half years, six NFL teams, 37 starts and two sons later, Bridgewater is approaching the twilight of one career and the dawn of another.
In December 2023, Bridgewater announced he'd retire from the NFL at the end of that season. He returned to the high school he attended, Miami Northwestern, as head football coach. A little more than a month ago, the day after Christmas, he came out of retirement and signed with the Lions.
Bridgewater looks down at the scar. It doesn't bring flashbacks of pain or trauma. He feels no self-pity, doesn't dwell on opportunities lost.
'I'm thankful it happened,' he says, with doe eyes and a little boy smile. 'It made me take a step back and allowed God to build me the way he wanted to. Being injured taught me patience and gave me understanding.'
Dan Campbell, who was an assistant in New Orleans when Bridgewater played there, had to have him in Detroit. 'He doesn't accept excuses or impossibilities,' Campbell said. 'For him, there's always a better way. You make the most of any opportunity. He's lived it. He's been told he'd never play again. He's been cast aside and told he wasn't good enough, yet through it all, he's still standing tall.'
Scars can reveal a lot about people.
The Florida Dairy Farmer's Coach of the Year held up a black jacket with leather sleeves. On the back of the coat, a yellow patch with blue letters read 'STATE CHAMPIONS.'
Miami Northwestern finished 4-6 the year before Bridgewater took over. In 2024, they started 2-2, then won their last 10 games and the 3A state championship.
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Bridgewater, meeting with his team in the school auditorium, needed players to determine what sizes they wanted.
'If you are a young guy and you fit into a medium jacket, you might want to get a large,' he said in front of the group. 'You are going to grow.'
Their growth. It's the reason he is here.
Their Liberty City neighborhood was his neighborhood — it still is. Everyone there knows who he is, as you might expect. But he knows who everyone else is. Then, and now, he orders lunch from Miracle Fry Conchfritters, the walk-up restaurant in the middle of a parking lot that passes the taste test, if not the eye. He still hangs at his grandad's place, which is not far away. Granddad is gone, but the memories live.
'It's a special place,' Bridgewater says. 'I sit on the porch with my uncles and cousins and we laugh at the same old stories. It's a place I could always go and have a good time even if you were kicked out of the house or were late on rent and got evicted.'
He was always different from his three older siblings, who took paths that did not please their single mother, Rose.
At the age of 8, Bridgewater learned to take a 40-minute bus ride by himself from Liberty City to Bunche Park to play football. When he was 15 and Rose was diagnosed with breast cancer, he tried to quit football to take care of her. She wouldn't let him. On the field, the thought of giving her a better life inspired him; he became the sixth-highest-ranked dual-threat quarterback in the country, according to Rivals. Off of it, he mowed lawns and washed cars to contribute to bills, and moved to the bedroom closest to hers so he could help her during the night.
Bridgewater never had designs on coaching. He only started to think about it during the later stages of his playing career. For him, coaching wasn't about staying connected to the game as much as staying connected to a place.
Before this season, he drew interest as a backup QB from six NFL teams. He could have been making significant money — instead, he chose to spend it.
Miami Northwestern pays the head football coach a $5,000 stipend, but Bridgewater agreed to give the stipend to a math teacher. He paid out of pocket to provide luxuries his players never experienced, including a cold tub, sauna and massages. He brought in barbers and a chef who cooked healthy pregame meals.
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Bridgewater began the season with an old-school NFL-style training camp. For five nights, the kids stayed at the school, isolated from the temptations of their worlds. They slept in sleeping bags on the gym floor while he slept on a small cot. He paid for three squares and a snack daily for more than 70 players (at a cost of $3,500 per day).
With all the together time, he learned who they were, asking about their families and homes, competing against them in 'EA Sports College Football 25' and 'Madden,' joining their dodgeball and basketball games.
It wasn't all giggles, though. There were 6 a.m. lifts and demanding practices. And there were consequences. The first night, horseplay ended with hot sauce in one kid's eye. When Bridgewater was told at 2:30 a.m., he woke everyone and had them run stairs and do elbow and toe crawls on a wet field.
'Coach Teddy was not going to play,' says Keith Brown, his defensive coordinator.
That was evident in their practices. There was no music. His players went 11-on-11 with pads and tackling every day through the playoffs.
He expanded the coaching staff from seven to 24.
'So now, the kids who usually stand on the sideline and kick rocks, play with each other's helmets and throw water on each other are getting attention from coaches,' Bridgewater says.
He installed an offense unlike any being run at a Florida high school, influenced by Bridgewater's time with NFL coaches Campbell, Ben Johnson, Sean Payton, Joe Brady, Norv Turner and others.
He wanted to be more than a coach — he wanted to be an example. Bridgewater was first in and last out. He carried a notebook and pencil everywhere and made sure each player did the same.
When he took over the Bulls, Bridgewater saw so much athleticism and speed on his team. But he also saw desperation and hopelessness. A good coach, he knew, could change that.
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'These players think, 'He made it out of Miami Northwestern, and so can I,'' says Brown, who played youth football with Bridgewater and left a rival high school to work on his staff.
Bridgewater's coaching style, centered around encouragement, resonated with players like defensive end Deangelo Thompson Jr., who transferred to Miami Northwestern last summer shortly after losing both of his parents.
'Mentally, I was not good,' Thompson says. 'I was ready to stop playing football. Coach Teddy took me in and showed me genuine love. Those were dark times and he showed me light. He made me a part of his family and changed my life. I'll love Coach Teddy forever.'
Thompson had 14 sacks last season and earned a scholarship to Syracuse.
Bridgewater, who believes his athletic ability is the same as before his knee injury, played scout-team quarterback every practice. 'That helped the defense a lot because he's making throws high school quarterbacks can't make and seeing reads much faster,' Brown says.
Having Bridgewater play quarterback in practice was also beneficial to Leon Strawder. It was Strawder's first year as the starting quarterback and before spring practices, 'nobody believed he could get the job done,' according to receivers coach Craig Wilkins.
Bridgewater made Strawder his project, working at Bunche Park, where the football field was named Bridgewater Field in 2023. Wilkins says by the end of the season, Strawder was making reads and throws much faster. The proof was in his 41 passing touchdowns.
'It was a blessing to have Coach Teddy as my coach,' says Strawder, a junior. 'He saw something in me and wanted to bring it out.'
In the Lions' playoff loss to the Commanders, Bridgewater played three snaps, completing a pass and handing off on a reverse that went for a 61-yard touchdown. He signed with Detroit with the hope of doing something no one ever has done — win a championship in high school and the NFL in the same season.
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Getting knocked out of the playoffs in the divisional round was disappointing, but Bridgewater, better than most, keeps perspective. He said the best part about being back with the Lions was helping young teammates.
While Bridgewater was coaching, he and Lions wide receiver Jameson Williams talked on the phone frequently, reviewing their games. After Bridgewater joined the team, they sat next to one another in offensive and team meetings.
'His vibe and personality takes not just me but everybody to another level,' Williams says. 'Everyone sees how he has been in certain situations, how he's always come out of everything and always has kept his head up high.'
Bridgewater doesn't need much sleep — he said two or three hours a night will do — so during offseasons, he sometimes worked out while many in the neighborhood were still hanging out. When Maurice Alexander was a teenager, he was willing to catch Bridgewater's 4 a.m. passes at Bunche Park.
In 2023, Alexander and Bridgewater were teammates on the Lions. After Alexander was cut at the end of training camp last August, Bridgewater invited him back to Bunche Park so Alexander could be ready for his next opportunity. The Lions called him back in November.
Alexander, like Williams, considers Bridgewater a big brother.
'He helped me in every way possible, with advice, emotionally, physically and financially,' Alexander says. 'He's someone I look up to and love dearly. He's just a good soul to be around, and he rubs off on everybody.'
The Lions designated Bridgewater a backup quarterback, but really, he was a life coach. Some of his Lions teammates called him 'Coach Teddy,' just like his players at Miami Northwestern. His locker wasn't with the other quarterbacks' — it was with the defensive backs.
After one game, he told cornerback Amik Robertson his presnap stance was inviting the quarterback to attack him with a fade route. Bridgewater suggested an alteration that would limit a quarterback's options.
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Bridgewater, playing quarterback on the scout team, helped the defense as much as he helped the offense.
'He tears up the defense and makes sure it's getting better,' Williams says. 'He's not tripping about throwing 300 yards in a game. He focused on winning.'
That includes at the locker room card table. As he played games with the Bulls, he played games with the Lions — usually Tonk. And he raised the level of competition.
Bridgewater the coach and Bridgewater the quarterback aren't very different.
'Teddy is the type of person who uplifts everyone around him,' Campbell says. 'He elevates the human being, player and coach in all of us.'
'I was placed here to serve,' he says. 'Serve God, but also be a humble servant to others. I have a giving spirit and always want to pour into people.'
Bridgewater's time with the Lions is over — for now. He plans to coach Miami Northwestern in the fall. But he says he will not announce his retirement from the NFL, as he did a year ago. He's keeping open the possibility of playing again.
Bridgewater loves to dance.
He was known for busting moves in locker rooms after big wins. Before he became Miami Northwestern's coach, he attended one of their games and joined a routine with the cheerleaders.
'When you dance and smile, you give off vibrations and energy and can brighten someone's day,' he says. 'That's just me.'
His mother, now 62 and healthy, always gave him hope. He wants to pass it on.
'There's so much negativity, sadness, depression, so many things that keep a person down,' said Bridgewater, who has 'Neighborhood Hope Dealer' in his Instagram bio. 'So for me, it's just like, how can we bring a breath of fresh air to people I encounter on a daily basis?'
Since he became a father to Theo, 3, and Ace, 1, Bridgewater says he hasn't had a bad day. It could be argued that he's never had one. Some players who have had his playing career would be bitter.
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'You start out with these aspirations,' he says. 'Like, I want to be the best ever. I want to go to the Hall of Fame. I want to win Super Bowls. Then you go from having those aspirations to asking, How can I make an impact that's everlasting? I've had a great impact on my teammates, different organizations and different cities that I've played in. That's all I could ask for.'
After the Bulls beat Raines High School 41-0 for the state championship, they arrived back at their school at about 12:30 a.m. For the next couple of hours, players, fans, parents and alumni — thousands — partied on 71st Street.
As the deejay's turntables spun and the thumping bass was felt as much as it was heard, Bridgewater climbed a pillar about eight feet high. Still sticky from being doused with Gatorade, he stood on the small platform and looked out at the jubilant crowd.
The song '25' by Rod Wave played and Bridgewater led them in a dance from TikTok.
He danced like it was his last. Knowing him, though, he'll be dancing again soon.
(Illustration: Demetrius Robinson / The Athletic; Photo: Ryan Kang / Getty Images)