There are many ways to tackle someone, but knowing which type of tackle is best in a fast-paced, dynamic situation is difficult. In order to circumvent some of the decision making in real-time, you can proactively decide which approach will be most effective for each ball carrier, eliminating any hesitation on game day.

The Titans star running back Derrick Henry was, and continues to be, known for his unique combination of speed, size and physicality. His signature stiff arm has routinely sent defenders flying through the air.

My plan was:

• Approach: I needed to avoid the obvious hurdle, the stiff arm. I would do this by baiting him to throw it, immediately ducking under it. This would allow me to avoid the stiff arm while simultaneously getting my center of gravity below his.

• Wrap: Once I had access to his waist and legs, I would need to wrap them up and squeeze tightly with both arms.

• Finish: Hold on long enough to drag him to the ground or for my teammates to help.

With that plan I practiced my approach all week. I saw it in my mind as I watched the film.

Then, like clockwork, late in overtime, the scenario I had rehearsed presented itself. They pitched the ball to Henry on a sweep play, leaving only myself to make the tackle or give up major yardage. There was no hesitation. No thinking. I went straight to my tackling plan.

Approach.
Wrap.
Finish.

And just like that I got one of the most feared runners in the game to the ground without much resistance.

It’s been a few years since I’ve made a tackle, but I still make tackle plans. Me and the core members of my team took a trip, for the first time, to Martha’s Vineyard to participate in the annual summer respite and networking that happens in the latter part of August. Before the trip, we held a meeting to discuss all of the events we were attending, who we wanted to meet at those events, what part of our business they’d likely care about, and who on our team should be the point person to actually build those relationships.

By the time we landed in the Vineyard, we weren’t reacting. We already had our plan for every person who mattered to us in that room. Stepping into a room with billionaires, institutional heads, entrepreneurs, and other highly talented people carrying information that we need to win, you must have a plan. From approach to finish, the plan was executed and we left as a team having secured 4-5 key relationships. Not quite Derrick Henry, but it felt just as good.

I’m learning that sometimes the work is learning to recognize what you’re actually developing while you’re developing it. I didn’t always see sports as a ground for preparing me for a life outside the lines.

Until I started asking myself :

What did I learn here that can live somewhere else?

What relationships did I build that will outlive my title?

What practices have shaped my development?

The season you’re in is preparing you for more than your next game. Some of the skills you’re developing today may become the tools you rely on to build your tomorrow.

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That hit me because transition can make even familiar pressure feel different.

Magness describes research involving soldiers, officers, and radio operators serving in Vietnam. They were in the same environment and exposed to the same danger, but they occupied very different roles. The soldiers had been trained for the action in front of them. The officers had to make decisions without being able to control every outcome. The radio operators were responsible for passing information while having the least direct influence over what happened next.

Their stress responses reflected those differences. The people who felt most prepared to act experienced the challenge differently from those who had to make decisions or wait on outcomes beyond their control. For the people with the least agency, the stress remained even after the immediate conflict had passed.

The environment mattered. But their relationship to the environment mattered too.

That distinction helped me understand something about life after football.

When the player becomes the coach

People often assume that playing professional football is the stressful part. In many ways, it is. The stakes are high. The work is physical. Your performance is public, and the consequences of a mistake can be immediate.

But as a player, I was also highly trained for the moment. A coach made the call. Another coach translated that call into my assignment. I studied the film, practiced the situation, and knew what was expected of me. When the ball was snapped, my job was to execute.

That kind of pressure is intense, but it comes with clarity.

The stress changed when I stepped off the field.

In business, leadership, and life after the game, there is no playbook that guarantees the outcome. I have to make the call. I have to build the team. I have to communicate the vision and trust other people to carry it. I have to make decisions with incomplete information and accept that effort does not always produce the result I want.

You go from being the player in the action to thinking like the coach, the general manager, and the owner at the same time.

That shift can create a new level of stress. Not because you are unprepared or incapable, but because the nature of control has changed.

I think that is important for athletes to understand in transition. Stress is not always evidence that something is wrong. Sometimes it is the natural response to carrying a different kind of responsibility.

Rebuilding a sense of agency

The answer is not to pretend we can control everything. We can’t.

We cannot control every person on the team, every decision made around us, every market condition, or every outcome. Trying to control all of it only creates more tension.

What we can do is reclaim agency in small, practical ways.

For me, it is my schedule.

Every Sunday, I block out my upcoming two weeks. Every minute of the day, every meeting, workout, commitment, as well as moments for family, learning and rest. That rhythm comes from football, where time was structured and every part of the day and week had a purpose.

I keep the practice now because it helps me focus. It shows me where I need to be, but more importantly, it helps me protect the time that belongs to the things I value most. My schedule does not give me control over every outcome, but it gives me a sense of direction. It reminds me that I can still decide where my attention goes.

That small act creates stability for me.

Control what you can

Transition asks us to live with more uncertainty. We have to rely on people. We have to make calls without knowing exactly how they will turn out. We have to learn new roles before they feel natural.

Of course that brings stress.

The goal is not to eliminate that response, the response is human and drives performance. Rather, the goal is to recognize it, understand what may be driving it, and return to what is still in our hands.

Control your schedule. Control your preparation. Control how you communicate. Control what you do with the next hour. Then give yourself enough time to ride the wave—to let the stress rise, level out, and come back down.

A sound mind does not come from controlling everything around you. It comes from knowing what belongs to you, acting on it with intention, and releasing what does not.

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Football is probably one of the clearest finite games you can find. There is a clock. A score. A schedule. Somebody wins. Somebody loses.

Playing under Jim Schwartz’s defense, my job was to set the front, read the offense, and use everything the system gave me to put my teammates in the best position to succeed — even when that meant taking on the hard, dirty jobs myself so someone else could make the play. I loved it. I loved studying the game closely enough to see the best arrangement before the snap.

What that taught me was how to see a system clearly enough to put people in position — and how doing the unglamorous work is often what makes everyone else’s success possible.

At the time, I thought I was learning how to become a better football player. Then my football career ended.

I was on a new team. A team that I built under the banner of Malcolm Inc.

There was no coach calling the play and no scoreboard telling me whether I was winning.

But I recognized something through the work.

It felt like play.

I was using the same ability to read the field and put people in positions to make plays, that I had practiced for years, to build a team where the right people are in the right spots, doing the work they do best.

There is no final whistle for what my discipline can become, what my relationships can make possible, what my platform can build, or how the leadership I reinforced in a locker room can be applied somewhere else.

That is what I understand Carse to mean by continuing the play.

And I intend to play forever.

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Then suddenly, one of the coaches, who routinely stood on guard to make sure no kid was left behind, said in a chuckled tone, “The Arbor Bus is here”.

All of our heads sprung up to see, and confirm if this was indeed our bus. Then my dad’s pewter Yukon Denali would turn into the parking lot. The coaches coined my dads truck “The Arbor Bus” because of the amount of kids that would pile into his non-commercial SUV. Pads, cleats, mud and all.

What my dad was doing was doing more than giving us a ride. He had basically signed up every boy in the neighborhood to play football and made himself and a few other fathers the transportation. No one missed a practice.

But, more importantly, was what it gave the parents of the neighborhood. That 4 - 7pm stretch when people are trying to get home from work and manage multiple kids with multiple schedules is one of the hardest logistical windows in a family’s day. My dad took that burden off of a whole neighborhood’s plate.

He wasn’t doing anything heroic, he’s one of many adults I knew with a tribe-first mindset. His motive was not simple generosity, but communal engineering. Creating or, in this case, driving the vehicle that connects the kids to the opportunity.

That’s what the Malcolm Jenkins Foundation’s annual Get Ready Fest® is built to do.

We show up at the exact moments families are already stretched thin, back to school, weather turning, and we try to be that same vehicle.

One of the immediate missions as we approach the event is making sure every child we serve gets a new winter coat and a fully stocked book bag. Our goal is to bring as many resources and partners as we can, to one community for a one-stop shop.

If you're an organization serving people in North Philadelphia, someone looking to volunteer, or anyone looking to support the mission, you can find everything you need at themalcolmjenkinsfoundation.org/grf.

The Arbor Bus might’ve been late, but it never failed.

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March 17, 1926.

At the height of the Great Migration, Columbus, Ohio—like many other northern cities— was changing quickly. Between 1910 and 1930, the city’s Black population nearly tripled from 12,379 residents to more than 32,000. Many of those new residents came from Kentucky, West Virginia, Virginia, and Alabama, drawn north by the promise of industrial work and the hope of escaping the rigid dehumanization of Jim Crow.

But arrival did not mean freedom.

Black families in Columbus still faced housing segregation, social exclusion, and political marginalization. There were limits placed on where they could live, where they could gather, where they could eat, and how much influence they could have in the civic life of the city.

So Black people did what Black people have always done when faced with exclusion.

They built.

They built their own institutions—churches, theaters, businesses, newspapers, and fraternal organizations. They created networks of support and spaces of belonging. They built structures that could carry the weight of a community determined to survive and grow.

As a Black middle class slowly emerged in Columbus, enrollment of Black students at The Ohio State University also began to grow. Though still a small minority on campus, those students became something important: a bridge between the university and the Black community that surrounded it.

And in that environment—at the intersection of campus life and a rapidly expanding Black community—the Iota Psi Chapter of Omega Psi Phi was born.

Chartered on March 17, 1926, Iota Psi represented more than just another fraternity chapter on a college campus. It was an extension of a broader institutional network already taking shape in Columbus and across the country. Omega Psi Phi’s membership almost doubled—rising from 966 in 1925 to 1,702 in 1926. Through the fraternity’s program, a network developed, dedicated to developing young Black men into leaders prepared to serve both the university and the community beyond it.

In many ways, it was about preparation.

Preparation for responsibility.

Preparation for leadership.

Preparation for service.

I didn’t know much about the Omegas when I arrived at Ohio State. Greek letter organizations weren’t something that had really been discussed in my family until my grandmother revealed she was a member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority and though I should pledge. Like many students stepping onto campus for the first time, I was discovering the culture as I went.

Omega has a rich history starting with it’s founding in 1911, the legacy of its members, the impact the fraternity has had across education, public service, the arts, sports, and civic life.

But the truth is, a fraternity’s real meaning isn’t experienced in the abstract.

It’s lived.

In my case, that experience has always been about my chapter.

The men of Iota Psi.

The men I watched grow from students navigating campus life into men taking on the world. Men who have become fathers. Teachers. Authors. Filmmakers. Developers. Creatives. Coaches. Executives. Servicemen.

Men building lives of purpose.

Men who’s friendship has shaped my life.

Since 1911 Omega Psi Phi Fraternity has offered something powerful: access to like-minded individuals who believe that friendship is not just a social bond, but a foundation for service.

A belief that the power of friendship can fuel something larger than any one person.

A brotherhood that carries responsibility.

That responsibility has been passed down through generations of men who carried the letters before us.

And for one hundred years, the Iota Psi Chapter has been part of that chain.

One hundred years of building men.

One hundred years of preparing leaders.

One hundred years of service through friendship.

So today, we raise a toast to the “Icy” Iota Psi Chapter of Omega Psi Phi at The Ohio State University.

To a century of brotherhood.

To a century of impact.

To a century of service.

And to one hundred more.

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The air is cooler today.

I notice the chill as I duck into the Uber headed for the airport. Yesterday the air was warmed by people, bright lights, and excitement. Today the streets are dead. They feel almost staged. Like a movie set after filming wraps. Corners that pulsed with life have returned to their natural rhythm.

San Francisco was the host of this year’s Super Bowl.

For a week, it was spectacle.

Now, almost overnight, it feels like a ghost town.

I used to be sensitive to that drastic shift in energy. It would smack me in the face like cold water—but in reverse. That sharp descent from crescendo to quiet.

But that is how it always goes.

You build for months—sometimes years—toward a single moment. The closer you get, the tighter the energy coils. Pressure rises and the stakes climb. Then finally you reach the final “boss”. You empty the tank to defeat it.

And then you do.

Or maybe you don’t.

Either way, the game is over.

The credits roll.

The lights shut off.

Everyone goes home.

Life goes on.

The champions? They’ll get their rings, banners, and parades—all things we create so we don’t forget who won. But even parades end. Confetti gets swept away. Energy dissipates.

The losers? They’ll experience the loss of mountains of devotion, in an instant collapse into silence.

But win or lose… life goes on.

Over the years, I’ve learned to anticipate the fall off and take it as an opportunity to reset. In football, it’s always necessary to reset. From play to play. Game to game. Season to season. The ability to reset and adjust within those intervals directly impacts the ability to survive the competition.

You watch the film.

You detach your pride.

You evaluate.

You begin again.

But on this side—post professional sports—it’s a bit different.

I’m not playing the same game.

The Game of Art

For the past year, I’ve been building toward this week. Not for the game on Sunday, but for what would happen around it.

The Game of Art.

If you’ve been following this Substack from the beginning, you know that last year I had one of the best weekends of my life. It started with a question. A hunch. A belief.

Something special happens when you intentionally bring together the worlds of sport, business, and contemporary art.

Last year, we proved it.

This year, we doubled down.

Artists like Derrick Adams, Murjoni Merriweather, and Alteronce Gumby joined us for a truly unique week of events. Partners like UBS and UOVO helped ensure that patrons of the event had the opportunity to meet the artists and experience their work in person. We executed a private dinner at Pabu Izakaya, followed by a museum activation at MoAD—both of which featured dynamic panel discussions that dropped more gems than a barbershop debate.

When I talk about the power of artists and athletes working together, it might be hard to visualize—especially if you only think about the transactional relationship of athletes buying art. But the concept isn’t as abstract as it may seem. In fact, most of us are very familiar with what it looks like to have black artists and black athletes working in tandem.

Giving this example to the audience was my favorite moment of the weekend because it was the exact moment that I saw the concept land.

I point your attention to the great Muhammad Ali and Gordon Parks. Both titans in their own right—but what they did together would inspire generations to come.

When Parks photographed Ali, he did more than take his picture. He reframed him. Through his own lens, Parks was able to shift the narrative around Ali from braggadocious heavyweight to intellectual man of the people. Not only did the collaboration create iconic images—it fortified their legacies. It expanded meaning and dug deeper into the wells of the lexicon for black men. It amplified impact far beyond the ring or the camera frame.

That’s why I am curating these events.

There is an opportunity to expand the narrative of who we are and what is possible.

We cannot afford to waste any opportunities. And there lies my driving force. A quiet fear.

I know that just because something is impressive doesn’t make it meaningful.

And just because something is successful doesn’t mean it serves.

I’m not afraid of losing.

I’m afraid of getting everything I asked for and no one being better for it.

If this platform doesn’t elevate artists…

If it doesn’t connect capital with culture…

If it doesn’t move something forward…

Then what are we really doing?

No Scoreboard

In football, there’s always a scoreboard.

Clear feedback. Clear results.

Now there isn’t.

There’s only my own standard and the feedback of people watching. The former I can never fully meet, and the latter I don’t fully trust.

But I’ve been told that I’m breaking the mold of what former athletes can and can’t do. Many people tell me that it’s inspiring to watch. That raises the stakes. Because I don’t fully know where this road leads. I’m learning in real time in the view of the public.

But this is the part the public never sees or talks about—the right after.

The first few weeks after something major always feel strange.

Part reviewing footage and images.

Part sitting in silence.

Part following up with partners.

Part already planning the next version.

Do I rest?

Do I build?

Do I celebrate?

Do I dissect?

The in-between is uncomfortable, at best.

But I know what to do.

Watch the film.

Detach ego from outcome.

Keep what builds. Discard what doesn’t.

Because the fall off isn’t the end of the story, it’s the beginning of a new journey.

The Offseason

Next year isn’t about bigger rooms for the sake of bigger rooms.

It’s about scale through collaboration.

I don’t want the Game of Art to grow because of my name.

I want it to grow because of community.

I want it to become a platform where business leaders, athletes, collectors, and artists sit under the same roof—not just to celebrate culture, but to build solutions. To fund futures. To expand narratives. To support one another intentionally.

This isn’t about crossing over.

It’s about weaving together.

And that takes time, relationships, and trust.

As my Uber scales the hilly path toward the airport, J. Cole’s voice projects from my ear buds. Sounds from his much anticipated album, The Fall-Off.

Fitting.

The album isn’t really about decline. It’s about transition. About identity and who you are when the spotlight dims and only the work remains.

That’s where I am.

I’ve seen many chase the spectacle.

I know few who’ve mastered the silence after it.

Winning a championship and being a champion are two different things.

While championship rings are nice to have, they do an insufficient job of defining who you are.

Instead, it’s what you build when no one is watching—and the impact you aim to make—that makes you a champion long before anyone sees it.

Acknowledgments

The Game of Art is the result of a true team effort.

A massive thank you to our incredible brand partners — UOVO, UBS, MoAD, Arternal, Cooley LLP, ArtMatic Art Advisory, Lewis Cellars, JUSTIN Vineyards & Winery, and Kinsey Whiskey — for your support and belief in this project.

To our artists — Alteronce Gumby, Derrick Adams, Hank Willis Thomas, Jerrell Gibbs, and Murjoni Merriweather — thank you for your presence, your vision, and for contributing your work in support of The Malcolm Jenkins Foundation.

To my friend Cari Champion, thank you for moderating an entertaining discussion filled with rich dialogue and insight.

To all the athletes, collectors, supporters, and patrons who showed up and brought this event to life — thank you for your time and your enthusiasm.

And lastly, to the people no one usually sees — my team.

To everyone at Listen Up Media and Malcolm Inc., thank you. We have been grinding for months to execute this vision, and we did it.

Richelle — thank you for your leadership and for holding this thing together all the way through the finish line.

Kristi, John, Tyler, Trent, Lindsay, and Jillian — thank you for your meticulous attention to detail and unwavering commitment to execution. The many compliments and praises I received from this event, I pass directly on to you.

Job well f***ing done.

And finally, to my dear friend Christina — thank you for your creative vision and impeccable taste. You continue to impress not only me, but everyone who steps into the spaces you create.

I look forward to continuing to build with all of you.

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Today I turn 38.

For many people, the approach to 40 comes with anxiety. A quiet panic about time passing. A sense that, barring some miracle, you’ve crossed an invisible midpoint and everything from here on out is a countdown to the end.

For me, this era of my life feels exciting. I’m moving closer and closer to my most authentic self. A self that is formless, adaptable, and ever expanding.

As I approach the end of 2025, I feel extremely grateful. I’ve watched seeds I planted years ago bear fruit. I’ve had new people enter my life and impact it in meaningful ways. I’ve seen ideas conjured in conversation manifest in perfect alignment, like a well-shuffled deck of cards. And I’m not a great shuffler– which means I know the abundance I felt this year wasn’t the result of my efforts alone. I am blessed because I’m part of something bigger than myself.

There has, however, been one significant change this year: my focus.

I’ve come to believe that the quality of one’s life is determined by the quality of their focus. And when I say focus, I don’t mean productivity hacks or fighting distractions. I mean the far more difficult choice of deciding what deserves your attention.

Most of our suffering comes from where we place our attention, on stress, comparison, imagined failures, or old versions of ourselves we’ve already outgrown. That’s why the trope of “unhappy success” persists.

Social media is filled with ‘gurus’ who seem so certain about what they’re doing, where they’re going, and their ten-step plan to get there. If you don’t have everything figured out or don’t know where you’re headed next, it becomes easy to slip into a fearful mindset, especially if you believe time is running out.

This year, I stopped chasing certainty.

I surrendered to the unknown and stopped trying to solve every problem on my own. That required me to seek out and rely on others. When I finally made space for forces outside of myself to intervene, I watched the universe conspire on my behalf.

Doubt didn’t disappear. It never does. But it quieted down. And when it showed up, I learned to greet it differently: with deep breaths, with trust, and with curiosity. I began replacing the angst of doubt with the excitement of exploration.

While exploring my unknown spaces, I learned that there are two things to look for in the people and projects I encounter: energy and alignment.

No matter how talented or successful someone is, there’s a question I can no longer ignore:

Do they value collaboration over individual success?

People who are overly individualistic drain my energy, abuse my generosity, and disrupt alignment the moment a situation stops serving them. That doesn’t make them bad people, it simply means they are not community builders.

I am not a lone wolf. I believe in the power of community and understand that it requires people who are community-minded.

That realization shaped many of my decisions this year.

The intentional shift toward community and alignment is what led me to start this Substack. I needed a way to keep my focus on the people, situations, and experiences that are reshaping me for the better. Writing every week forced me into a rhythm I recognized. It felt familiar. Like the weekly grind of a football season.

I had to show up whether I felt inspired or not. I had to become process-oriented instead of outcome-obsessed. And in doing so, I created space to turn my experiences into something meaningful — for myself first, and hopefully for others too.

In a strange way, writing made me feel more like an athlete than a writer.

I’ve learned that happiness, at least for me, doesn’t live in success or certainty. It lives in stillness. In humility. In surrendering the ego long enough to see what’s already around you.

What I do is not who I am.

I am.

Nothing more, nothing less.

That’s why I’ve continued to decline prescribed paths for former athletes, and instead make room for the people and pursuits I love most. When I’m doing what I love there is no uncertainty, no failure, no loss. It’s no longer about the score, the money, or the praise, it’s about the journey. I want to remain present at every step along the way, because that is where life is — in the present moment.

As I look toward the coming year, my goal is simple: Be where your feet are.

With so much happening all at once it’s easy to lock in on the future or the past, but life if happening right NOW.

Thank you for being here with me through all of it.

I hope witnessing my path brings you a little closer to yours.

Thank You!

Sharing my story with you all has been surprisingly rewarding. When I started this Substack, I didn’t know what to expect, and there was no way I could’ve predicted the amount of growth I would experience this year. If you’ve been with me on this journey from the beginning, I want to extend my most sincere gratitude. You spent your time reading my posts when you could have been doing anything else and that is extremely humbling. If you’ve joined along the way or are new to my page, below are my favorite pieces from this year.

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Art Week in Miami felt different this year.
Not because the fairs were bigger, or the parties were louder, or the traffic was any less disrespectful. It felt different because, for the first time, I wasn’t walking around in search of art, but in search of information.

Most years, Basel is a scavenger hunt. You start the day optimistic, morning breeze in your face, sunlight bouncing off the Biscayne Bay. You tell yourself you’ll finally “see everything,” and then suddenly by 1 p.m. you’re sitting in a car that hasn’t moved in 22 minutes. A lot of hurrying to wait. A lot of people chasing connections, rare artworks, or the events with the most exclusive guest lists.

This year, I wasn’t concerned with any of that.
I was preparing for panel discussions. Memorizing names. Trying to think of better questions instead of pretending to know answers. I wasn’t chasing art; I was in search of information, relationships, clarity.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like the newcomer.

Part of that came from being on stage at the first-ever Art Basel Awards, presenting Emerging Artist of the Year to Saudi Arabian artist Mohammad Alfaraj. Even though Swizz Beatz introduced me as “Michael Jenkins” (which no one seemed to notice and happens more often than you’d think) it still felt like a significant moment in my art journey.

It was the moment I realized that my worlds — football, business, community work, art — were slowly weaving into something others could finally recognize.

I Came With One Question

Although Art Basel alone showcases over 280 premier galleries, I tend to see more people than art. Many of the top collectors, curators, and institutions fly in to browse the fair. I had a shortlist of collectors I needed to speak with, but I also carried one question with me that I asked everyone I met.

“What’s the best way to support an artist?”

I wasn’t asking from the perspective of a buyer or a collector.
I was asking from the perspective of someone who wants to be useful even when I’m not writing a check. A true patron of the arts.

Most people never enter the art world because they think participation requires you to spend money.

But what surfaced for me was this:

Talent doesn’t survive on transactions — it survives on ecosystems.

And ecosystems need people, not just wallets.

One of the most educational moments of the trip was a panel discussion I led at the UBS sponsored Beyond the Canvas event. I’m usually the one answering questions, not asking them, but I knew the opportunity in front of me. Onstage with me were art historian and author Dr. Cheryl Finley, abstract artist and friend Alteronce Gumby, and collector/curator Mashonda Tifrere. If I was looking for information about how to navigate the art world effectively, there couldn’t have been a better room.

Dr. Finley zoomed all the way out and reminded us that being a patron isn’t a flex; it’s a responsibility. Supporting creators means helping shape the next frontier while preserving the legacy of the past.

Alteronce reminded me that artists often face the same pressures that athletes and entrepreneurs do. Not about art itself but about navigating new access to wealth, expectations, and legacy. Sometimes the best support you can offer is simply conversation.

Mashonda taught me by presence alone. Her aura tells you that whatever she has to say about art comes from sheer love and firsthand experience. She speaks like the big sister keeping watch. She’s a model of how to stand beside artists both in the shadows and under the gallery lights without making the moment about herself.

By the end of the panel, it was clear we weren’t talking about collecting objects, we were talking about building support systems.

“It’s a Marathon.”

The moment that brought everything into focus didn’t happen onstage or at the fair. It happened when I finally ran into one of the collectors on my short list: Elliot Perry — the NBA legend and champion of the arts. He and his wife have used their power, influence, and resources to build one of the most important contemporary art collections in the country. More than that, they’ve ushered in a new wave of athletes and entertainers into the world of collecting.

He’s the reason I was there.

He gave me all the time I needed as I rattled off questions and praises about what he’s built and how he’s built it. And throughout our conversation, between my questions, he kept repeating one phrase like a prayer:

“It’s a marathon… it’s a marathon… it’s a marathon.”

He wasn’t talking about buying art slowly. He wasn’t even talking about art at all. What he collects are stories. He collects relationships. The art is just a by-product of prioritizing connection with the artist. And relationships take time.

A collection.
A family legacy.
A community.
An identity.

They all take time and require intentional steps along an endless road of possibilities.

That’s exactly how I feel about collecting art: like I’m standing at the starting line of a long race.

My Worlds Are Colliding in the Best Way

Remember when we were kids, before the world separated us into categories? Before they sent the athletes outside, the artists behind doors, and the “smart kids” to run the class? Back when we were everything at once: smart, creative, athletic, mind and body and soul.

That feeling returned during a fireside chat with my friend, artist Tavares Strachan, and writer/curator Kimberly Drew. During the fair there are a series of discussions between prominent voices from various cross sections of the art world. This year, Art Basel had a special focus on the intersections of art, sport, and culture. Our panel, “The Game of Art”, kicked off the fair.

Tavares and I spoke freely and easily about our friendship as an example of what happens when art and sport meet. Kimberly skipped the obvious “bro moment” and got to something deeper at play. She pointed out that this level of friendship requires vulnerability, and asked how we navigate that as two highly accomplished men.

The answer is simple: respect.

We see the greatness in each other. We’re equally as fascinated by each other’s worlds. There is no need to compete. We get to return to that childlike state, now as men, and talk about love, art, business, sports, community, history, politics, or whatever new thing we want to explore.

The powerful and the creative have always been partners. One feeds the other.

My Biggest Accomplishment

I’m always preaching the value of art beyond the transaction. It’s personal, cultural, educational, historical, political, and wellness values all matter when we talk about what something is “worth”.

Ralonda is our group’s financial gatekeeper and resident penny-pincher. For the last few years she’s seen every invoice for the artworks I’ve acquired. She’s been…let’s call it, “concerned”.

On our last night in Miami, the team sat at dinner exhausted, but still riding the week’s high. Ralonda cleared her throat and said, “Well I must say Musa…”
I froze, waiting to hear the scolding she was surely about to deliver to Musa, my art advisor.

“You know… at first I thought I was gonna have to put hands on you when I saw all those invoices. But after this week? I see what you’re doing. I can see the value.”, she said with a smile.

Getting someone to see that art is bigger than what hangs on the wall, that its value comes from the people the work is connected to, that’s the whole point.

One person at a time.

Lets Talk

If you’re curious about the art world, let your first step be simple.
Pick up an art book. Attend a talk. Share an artist’s work. Ask a question.

You don’t need money to join the race, just the willingness to start.

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Seats in the Stands

In 2014, during my first season with the Philadelphia Eagles, I found myself unsure of where my career was headed. I had just signed a new contract, joined a new locker room, and stepped into a city with a reputation for loving hard and punching harder.

Amid that uncertainty, I made a choice: to be where my feet were.
It was my mantra, one that kept me rooted in presence, awareness and gratitude.

That decision lead me to create a ritual.

Just before every game, during the national anthem, I would scan the crowd and find three empty seats somewhere in the stands. Then I’d picture my grandparents who had passed sitting there. Still watching me. Still proud.

My grandmother Barbra L. Jenkins, my two grandfathers Willie Lee Jenkins Sr. and Henry S. Hardwick met in that space before every game. Quietly. Intentionally.

Growing up, they had come to all of my games. I knew how much joy they took from watching me compete, grow, and chase what I loved. And though they were no longer physically present, the idea that they were still in the stands grounded me. I used that moment as a meditation. A thank-you. A final inhale before going to battle.

There were moments when I felt them especially strong. Like the first time I raised my fist in protest during the national anthem. Through all the tension of that moment, my mind stayed on them. Any anxiety I felt was benched when I felt the calm, clarity, and pride of my grandparents.

Even as recently as my induction into the Philadelphia Eagles Hall of Fame, I searched for those empty seats from the field and hoped they were watching.

As soon as that thought crossed my mind, I heard my grandmother’s voice: “I’m so proud of you.”
In the tone I remembered from childhood — warm, sure, and unmistakable.

That ritual reminded me that everything I was about to do had meaning, and that someone who mattered deeply to me was watching. And proud.

The Altar

When I left the NFL, that ritual faded. No more anthem. No more crowd. No more searching for empty seats.

My time with my ancestors became quick flashes of memory throughout busy days, until something shifted.

For my birthday last year, I received what might be the most meaningful artwork in my collection: a painting by Cynthia Vaughn titled Resting Proud. Taking reference from a family photo, It’s a portrait of both of my grandfathers sitting in the stands watching me play as a boy.

I’ve been collecting art for a few years, acquiring pieces from heavy hitters like Derek Fordjour, Ernie Barnes, Tavares Strachan, and Lauren Halsey. But this piece… this one speaks to me. It sits in what I call the “Shadow Room” — the space in my home where I stretch, meditate, write, and think.

Every time I enter that room, I’m brought into conversation with my grandfathers. Forced to acknowledge them the way I did as a kid walking into a room with elders present.

The placement of the figures high in the bleachers creates a familiar vantage point. It’s the image I tried to recreate in those quiet moments before kickoff. But now there’s no game to play, only life, and they’re still watching, still resting proud.

That painting became a new kind of altar. It gave me a new ritual, a daily one. A space to check in on the wellbeing of our family legacy and to hold myself accountable to its progress.

The Gaze

The gaze of my paternal grandfather, Willie Lee Jenkins Sr., confronts me every time I step into that room.

He doesn’t look away. His eyes are steady. Penetrating.

When I was a kid, he gave me a piece of advice that stayed with me my entire life.
He didn’t say, “Be tough.”
He didn’t say, “Don’t be scared.”
He said: “If he’s bigger than you, get lower.”

It was simple, but it changed everything. I couldn’t control the size of my problems or my opponents, but I could control how I approached them. I could adapt. I could survive. And eventually, I could thrive.

Now, I’m older. A father. A leader. A man who makes decisions that will shape my family for generations.

When I look into the eyes of that painting I don’t see pride alone. I see expectations.

Earlier this year, I wrote about the homes my grandfathers worked to build and secure for their families and how those spaces shaped me. Now I face decisions about what to do with those properties. Their investments. Their sacrifices.

I had plans, practical ones. Smart ones. But when I sat with the painting, something shifted.

The gaze got me. This time asking sternly: “You’re going to make a decision about something we built, without consulting us?”

It made me pause, listen and reconsider.

In that space, new ideas came. Better ones. Ones rooted in family, not just business. Ones that honored the foundation while preparing for the future.

The painting didn’t just hold me accountable, it recalibrated me.

What it Means

When I sit in front of that painting it becomes more than just a moment of reflection. It becomes a council meeting.

I’m no longer the kid on the field, waving up to the stands.

I’m the one being asked: What will you do with what we gave you? How will this decision benefit the whole?

I stand on their sacrifices. Their decisions still shape me. And now, mine will shape those who come after me.

This painting is not meaningful to me because of grief or nostalgia, or even inspiration. It’s meaningful because it reminds me about stewardship, presence and responsibility.

If you’re reading this, I hope you have something like this in your life — a space, a ritual, a painting, or a practice — to keep you in communion with those who came before you.

Because they’re still watching.
Still guiding.
Still resting proud.

Lets Talk

What objects or rituals keep you in communion with your ancestors? How has it changed over time?

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Philly, we’re back together again. And this time, it’s forever.

When I left the Eagles in 2020, I said it felt like a breakup. I meant that. You don’t just walk away from something that shaped you, challenged you, and held you accountable without feeling like a piece of you was left behind. What I didn’t know then was that love doesn’t always require proximity. If it’s real, it will find its way back. Today, being inducted into the Eagles Hall of Fame feels like finding my way home.

I’ve always believed my legacy matters more than anything. And when I say legacy, I’m not talking about money or attention. I mean what I leave behind when I’m no longer here. Legacy is like planting a tree that bears fruit long after the planter is gone. To be honored like this, in my first year of eligibility, as the first player from our Super Bowl team to join the Eagles Hall of Fame, is one of the most humbling moments of my life. The seeds I planted long ago are still bearing fruit. I look at the names of Eagles defenders already in the Hall–Brian Dawkins, Reggie White, Eric Allen—men I grew up watching, admiring, and learning from. To sit among them now, no longer as a fan, but as a peer, is a tremendous honor.

When Mr. Lurie brought me into his office and told me I was being inducted into the Eagles’ growing list of legends, I didn’t know what to say. Individual awards have always made me uneasy. We love to talk about individual greatness, even though we all know, no one becomes great alone. There’s no such thing as self-made. I immediately thought about teammates like Chris Maragos, who changed how I saw myself by reminding me before every game that I was “the best in the business”. I thought about the coaches, like Jim Schwartz, who saw me clearly and built around my strengths. I thought about Troy, a custodian at the practice facility, whose attitude and positive energy modeled consistency every single day. I thought about Michelle, my massage therapist, who made sure I never missed a game in my six seasons as an Eagle. And I thought about the fans, who cemented my resolve by never sparing me from critique but always showed me love. If I could, I’d etch all of them into the Hall of Fame right next to me.

I only know one approach to life: in every endeavor, give it your all. And to my delight, every ounce of effort I poured into the team and the city came back to me tenfold in love and respect.

It’s one thing to lead a defense. It’s another to be considered a leader in a city like Philadelphia. We all know Philadelphians aren’t quiet about their opinions. You hold leaders accountable for their effort, their vision, their decision making, and even their silence. I was no exception. You made it clear that if I was going to be considered great in this city, I had to earn it every single day. Playing here taught me that leaders don’t duck the hard questions or shy away from the challenges that arise. Champions stand up when things get loud, messy, or complicated.

This was the standard I tried to hold throughout my years here. Not just on the field, but in the community. I know what this city stands for, and I believe Eagles players should embody those principles: grit, passion, justice, family. This isn’t the place where the flashy survive. This is the land of fighters. And I knew that if I fought for you, you’d fight for me. That’s what I love about this place and what so many people don’t understand. It’s this code of honor that defines the City of Brotherly Love.

Back in 2020, when my time as an active Eagle came to an end, I wrote a farewell letter.

Today, that day has come.

But the view from here is different than I imagined.

I’ve had time to reflect on what my legacy in Philadelphia really means. The strength of a legacy isn’t tied to whether you are remembered. In fact, my legacy has very little to do with me. Legacy is determined by the people who experience it. It’s not about the work you put in or even the results. It’s about what that effort means to others. When we see a tree, no one thinks about who planted it; we just appreciate its fruit, its shade, its beauty. I’m proud to know that many of the things I contributed to the culture of this organization and this city are still alive. My legacy continues in the players who’ve come behind me and the next generation of leaders in Philadelphia. That’s why this moment matters, not because I’m being lifted up, but because we can celebrate our shared experience.

To stand on this field again, without pads, or a helmet, and still hear the cheers reminds me that the work meant something. That it still means something.

To the many loyal fans: thank you, for challenging me, for embracing me, for making me one of your own.

To this amazing city: thank you, for shaping me, sharpening my voice, and showing me how to lead with love, and unwavering grit.

To my former teammates, coaches, and staff who walked this journey with me: this honor is ours.

And to the next generation, whether you’re in the locker room, in the stands, or in the streets—know this:

The seasons pass and records are broken, but the champions are never forgotten.

Go Birds!

Malcolm Jenkins

As we approach my induction into the Philadelphia Eagles Hall of Fame, I’ve been going down memory lane and taking inventory of the moments that shaped me the most. In my memoir, What Winners Won’t Tell You, I share a story about Kobe Bryant, specifically how his visit to the Eagles team during the 2017 season gave us the mindset that carried us to Philadelphia’s first ever Super Bowl. After losing our star quarterback, Carson Wentz, against the Rams, I gave a postgame speech drawing directly from Kobe’s message to us just days earlier. I won’t retell that story here. But even eight years later, I’m still learning from what he shared.

It turned out to be the last time I’d ever meet Kobe Bryant, and I’m deeply grateful for that one opportunity.

Kobe spoke to us about one of the core principles in his life: curiosity. Always be curious. But not in the soft, whimsically inspirational way the word usually gets thrown around, he meant curiosity as discipline. He said champions don’t analyze results; they study what caused them. They keep digging, questioning, experimenting. They stay in a constant feedback loop of learning and applying. They don’t chase outcomes — they chase understanding.

That’s how the greats like Kobe, LeBron, and Jordan (in no particular order) stay ahead of the game and never let it catch them. They’re always evolving just a step before everything else.

Back then, I heard him.
Now, I feel him.

Leaving sports has a way of humbling even the most accomplished athlete. You go from mastery to inexperienced overnight. And that battle isn’t just external, it’s internal. It’s the war with self: ego, fear, uncertainty, all without the comforts of what you used to know.

What Kobe taught me, long after he walked out of that room, is that curiosity shouldn’t end when your career does. It simply has to find new terrain.

When I left football, I felt pulled toward things I didn’t fully understand — art, photography, history, ownership, storytelling. The more I leaned into the unknown, the more I learned about myself. If I find myself thinking, “I like this painting”, I feel compelled to go deeper. I want to articulate why I like it, to understand what moves me. This process helps uncover the secret sauce of my taste and gives me the framework to better train my decision making. The end result is never as important as understanding how it came to be.

For the first time since I was a rookie in the NFL, I felt that old anxiety again. Being unsure is uncomfortable. But when I decided to meet my new reality with curiosity, that anxiety turned into excitement. There’s a certain thrill that comes when I put my ego aside and embrace being a beginner. There is beauty in not knowing and expansion that comes simply from trying.

That’s Kobe.
The model of a curious lifestyle.

Curiosity is what allows you to reinvent.
Curiosity is what keeps the pressure from collapsing you.
Curiosity is what keeps you ahead of the game and ahead of life.

As I take inventory of my time with the Philadelphia Eagles and connect the dots between where I’ve been and where I’m headed, this lesson stands out.

Legacies aren’t built solely by what you did.
Legacies are built through what you continue to learn and who you continue to become.

Kobe was one of the greatest competitors we’ve ever seen, but toward the end of his life, he was becoming something even more compelling: a world-class learner. A builder. A storyteller. A man at war with the limits of his own imagination.

That’s the mentality I’m carrying with me into this next chapter.

Stay curious.
Stay evolving.

I only met Kobe once.
But he’s been coaching me ever since.

Lets Talk

What’s one area in your life that you’re choosing to stay curious about right now?

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On a September day in 2014, just minutes before my first regular-season game as a Philadelphia Eagle, I sat in silence at my locker. With a towel over my head and my eyes fixed on the floor, I took slow breaths as I focused my mind on the game I was about to play.

Then, a baseline, as familiar as my own heartbeat, filled the room and snapped my attention to my surroundings.

The unmistakable bounce of George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog” — the De facto anthem of the famous Ques.

I looked up, and Jason Peters (JP), the All-Pro left tackle and self-appointed locker room DJ, was already staring at me with a grin.

“We gotta see it, Jenk.”

He was referring to the legendary hops of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Inc., of which I’m a proud member. Play Atomic Dog around an Omega and see what happens— stand back unless you want to get caught by the various spins, stomps, punches and high kicks that are sure to follow.

JP knew this. A few weeks earlier, before our first preseason game, he had played the same song. I answered the cue with a quick hop, a crisp 720 spin, a few dramatic punches, and a few barks for flavor. The locker room erupted.

Now, JP wanted an encore.

At the time, I barely knew most of my teammates. I had just come over from the New Orleans Saints, where loud music was forbidden in the locker room before games under head coach Sean Payton. The idea was not to distract the delicate pregame rituals and superstitions many players hold. Stepping was most certainly NOT part of my pregame routine. There were plenty of other ways I could’ve used that time and energy.

Yet, I couldn’t deny the effects it had on the locker room. It was a cue -– not a Que, kinda— a signal that it was time to turn up. And the energy was contagious.

So I stood up, made my way to the center of the locker room and put on a show. Full step. Full bark. Full face.

The guys lost their minds. The energy rose. And just like that, a new ritual was born.

Witnessing the Ques

Members of Omega Psi Phi have a reputation for being an enthusiastic brand of men. We understand the gravitational powers of energy and showmanship. Our enthusiasm is often mistaken for our pride in Omega or love for our brothers. But enthusiasm is not a feeling. It is a decision—an option, free to everyone.

There were days when I wasn’t feeling it. Days I was tired, distracted, and anxious. But enthusiasm doesn’t demand that you “feel it”. Enthusiasm is chosen. And when the room needed a spark, I chose to be that spark—even when I had to fake it.

False enthusiasm works too. It doesn’t matter where it starts, what matters is that it spreads.

We have a short poem:

It’s not about being hyped for hype’s sake. It’s about presence. Intention. Pride.

Whether in the audacity of our coordinated steps, the volume of our chanted mantras, or in the spirit of our community service, everything must be done with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm can transform a space, a team or room, not just for the performer, but for everyone witnessing it.

It was enthusiasm that drew me to the fraternity. Not knowing much about Greek life, I attended an Omega Psi Phi probate (a ceremonial presentation of new members) on campus during my sophomore year at The Ohio State University. The Omegas commanded our attention with their voices and heightened our senses with every orchestrated stomping of their gold boots. I was so hype watching it that I stood to my feet. To possess that kind of power was something I wanted, and my journey to Omega began that night.

A City Fueled By Passion

If there’s one city that embodies an unapologetic enthusiasm, it’s Philadelphia.

Philly doesn’t just watch football. Philly lives football.

Faithful fans who give everything for their team don’t want players who coast. They want players who care as deeply as they do, at the very minimum.

I think immediately of Eagles legend Brian Dawkins, a.k.a. Weapon X, who literally played the game as if he were Wolverine from Marvel Comics. Or a Jason Kelce, whose heart-thumping speech in full Mummers regalia closed out the Super Bowl parade.

Sometimes the passion behind your pursuit leaves a greater impression than the pursuit itself. Every legendary leader has/had a passion and enthusiasm that fueled the hearts of those who followed.

Keep That Energy

It was easy to be enthusiastic before NFL games. Now, I don’t have 70,000 people roaring for me on Sundays. There’s no Jason Peters cueing “Atomic Dog” before my meetings.

And yet, I still need to show up on fire for the mission, whatever the mission is.

Enthusiasm can’t be reserved for game day. It must be applied to

• Your kid’s practice

• Your Monday morning huddle

• Your weekly laundry

• Your side hustle that no one sees but you
  

Enthusiasm is the secret sauce leaders use to get through tough times and the flame used to motivate the masses. In everything you do, be enthusiastic.

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Who is an enthusiastic person in your life and what happens when they come around?

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Today the members of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity Inc. celebrate the fraternities founding. What started with three undergraduate students on an HBCU campus, is now a quarter million men strong with chapters in multiple countries leaving a growing legacy of service and vision.

Happy Founders Day Ques!

The Challenge

On a cold Christmas Eve at Lincoln Financial Field, my Eagles were in a tie game with the Raiders 10-10 in the fourth quarter. A win and we would secure the #1 seed heading into the playoffs.

Raiders running back Jalen Richard gets the handoff, punches through the line, cut left, and crashes right into me with both hands wrapped tightly around the football. Appropriate for the high stakes moment, he used the most secure grip there is.

Weighing my options of approach, I recalled a philosophy my former teammate Walter Thurmond had taught me two years earlier. Even the most secure grips have their weaknesses.

The Lesson

Walter Thurmond and I played only one season together as the Eagles’ safety tandem in 2015. In that short time, he cemented a spot into my personal Hall of Fame of teammates.

At 5’11”, 185-pounds, Walt was a corner/safety hybrid who came to Philadelphia from the Seattle Seahawks’ Legion of Boom era.

Not a household name— He was undersized and underestimated, but an absolute problem on the field.

In practice, Walt had a knack for stripping the football from the grasps of every ball carrier. Every. Single. Day. No matter how many times they were yelled at, or how tightly they held on, the ball came out. Even veterans like Darren Sproles would find themselves victims of the inevitable takeaway.

Eventually, our defensive coaches pulled him to the front of the room and said, “Teach us.”

Walt broke down his philosophy for causing fumbles and the techniques behind his success—including the “Peanut Punch” made famous by Chicago Bears legend Charles Peanut Tillman. Walt demonstrated the pressure points, and weak spots of the grips most commonly used by the best ball carriers. He detailed where and when to pull and punch at the ball.

His methodology was simple, specific, and repeatable.

I took meticulous notes on everything he shared. I peppered him questions constantly as we exchanged theories on techniques, disguises and coverage schemes. We’d game-plan together, finding ways to trick quarterbacks and manipulate defenses. In just a few months, I learned new ways to impact the game, which led to a career defining season for me, and my first Pro Bowl selection in 2015.

The Application

Fast forward to that Christmas Eve game in 2017. Holding the ball with two hands the ball carrier lowered his head and shoulders, ramming into me as I absorbed the collision. Following Walt’s teachings, I reached up under his hands and felt for the exposed point of the football—the weakest part of his grip. Concentrating on the point I yanked upwards, using his falling body as a counter weight, and watched as the ball bounce off of the turf and into my open hands.

That play stopped their drive and sealed our 19-10 win—clinching the #1 seed on our path to the first Super Bowl victory in Philadelphia Eagles history.

That play doesn’t happen without Walt. No exaggeration. I played thirteen full seasons at the highest level of football, and Walter Thurmond was the only person, player or coach, who ever taught that technique.

The Takeaway

If you believe that knowledge is power, you know that excellence is not tethered to fame.

Value relationships for their expertise. The people who can teach you something new are essential in preparing for life’s most pivotal moments. Approach every relationship believing that everyone has something to teach you, until proven otherwise.

The veteran who earned their stripes long before you arrived? They know things you don’t.

The rookie who just arrived? They hold a perspective you may be missing.

The practice squad guy? His daily hustle might change your game.

When you’re chasing grand ideas and dreams, you can’t afford to be selective about who you learn from.

Life will usually provide you with everything you need. It’s on you to find it and apply it.

Lets Talk:

Who is your “Walter Thurmond”, that person who gave you the key you didn’t know you’d need?

Most of us have a Walter Thurmond in our lives. Find them and take notes.

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Check Your Ego at the Door

I think a lot about the ingredients that make up a winning culture. It’s not just about the talent or the people you have on the team, its about how well the individuals congeal into one effort. The rules, habits, and principles that are the bonding agents for the team are what we call team culture.

The teammates who had the most impact on my career were the ones who found ways to teach me without humiliating me. They took the development of my game as an extension of their own.

These days, my team looks a lot different than it did during my NFL career. It’s not made up of linebackers and Quarterbacks. (I guess Ralonda is kinda quarterbacking this thing) —it’s my mother, my closest friends Rolanda and Joe, and a network of peers working together as a collective. It’s the team we’ve built at the Disrupt Company, at the Malcolm Jenkins Foundation, and Malcolm Inc. A team that’s been together for the last decade building a foundation.

There is one thing that stands out about us— we’ve done it without a shred of competition between us.

That was never the case in football. From day one, we were told “iron sharpens iron.” Competition wasn’t just part of the culture, it was the culture. Creating a highly competitive environment has its value, especially in hyper-competitive fields. But in this chapter of my life, I’ve leaned into something more effective.

As powerful as competition can be in the right context, I believe it to be counterproductive to collaboration. In group environments like a team, family, or business the ultimate goals are always bigger than what one person can achieve alone. Collaboration becomes the most important aspect of the operation. The goal has to be centered around building with the people next to you, not to compete against them.

Frenemies in the Huddle

Early in my career with the Saints, we signed tight end Jimmy Graham, a hyper-competitive athlete with phenomenal talent and a great personality. I love Jimmy. He and I were often pitted against each other in practice—tight end vs. safety, iron sharpens iron, right? And while that may have made us better on paper, what it really bred—at least in me—was ego, resentment, and an unhealthy obsession with “winning” practice.

I wasn’t trying to make Jimmy better. I was trying to beat him.

We would talk trash, keep score, and often try to embarrass each other in practice. I noticed that when I didn’t come out on top of the exchange, I didn’t feel sharper. I felt defeated and ashamed. It was slowly eroding my confidence.

One day, Jimmy left an autographed glove in my locker. On it, he wrote: “Drop ‘Em, Jenkins.” I had dropped a few interceptions that season and it was a glaring weakness in my game. I’m sure he meant it as a joke, but it hit differently. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It wasn’t just anger. It was something more damaging. It created doubt in whether my teammates believed in me.

That’s the risk of unchecked competition: it quietly kills trust.

We still spoke the language of teammates, but our dynamic was more frenemy than family. And that’s not a knock on Jimmy. We were both playing by the rules of the environment we were in.

If you’ve seen Guardians of the Galaxy you’ve seen this at play. Gamora and Nebula grew up being forced to fight each other, in the name of competitive “training”. Gamora always won, and naturally, Nebula became overwhelmed by rage and jealousy. When the real enemy, Thanos, rose to power, they were too damaged and too divided to fight him effectively.

That’s what happens when we compete with our own people, we do the work of the opposition before they ever show up.

Sharpening Without a Cut

A few years later, with the Eagles, we drafted a young wideout from the University of Vanderbilt named Jordan Matthews. Jordan was talented, humble, and extremely hungry. Just like Jimmy, we were frequently matched up in practice. But the energy was different. Instead of trying to one-up each other, we challenged each other with respect. There was no scoreboard. No ego. Just two players trying to prepare each other to win on Sunday.

We stayed after practice, ran extra reps, and pushed each other harder than the game required. But if I beat him, I gave him tips to beat me next time. And when he beat me, I studied what he did. Every time we helped each other level up, we both got better.

That’s when I realized something important:

Iron sharpens iron, but it doesn’t have to cut.

That mindset shaped some of my most meaningful relationships. Teammates like Darren Sproles, Zach Ertz, Nelson Agholor and C.J. Gardner-Johnson were guys who trained with everything they had, but never let competition get in the way of connection.

The goal wasn’t to outdo each other. It was to build a team where excellence was expected, and support was standard.

Save That Energy for the Enemy

Let me be clear: competition isn’t inherently bad. It just has a time and a place. I save my competitive energy for opponents—the people or systems that stand in direct opposition to my values, my mission, or my community. But if you’re aligned with me, we don’t compete.

We collaborate.

I’ve come to understand that not everyone sees it that way. I’ve had teammates in life and business who couldn’t celebrate someone else’s win. Instead of collaborating, they’d silo off to build something “just as big.” They saw someone else’s success as a threat to their own and it stunted our growth.

Now I screen for that energy. I pay attention to how people talk about their goals. Is it all about “me,” or do they speak in terms of “we”? Do they want for others what they want for themselves? Can they celebrate a teammate’s win with no jealousy, no side-eye, no scoreboard?

Those qualities are rare, but they’re non-negotiable on my team.

Because if we don’t unlearn the need to compete with those closest to us, we’ll be too divided to meet the real moment. We’ll do the job of our opposition for them. Divide and conquer is the oldest trick in the book.

If collaboration is the goal, competition has no place in the huddle.

In my younger years, I thought winning was everything. Now I know: there’s a time to win, and a time to learn. A time to push, and a time to teach.

And if there’s one thing I’d tell my younger self, it’s this:

Competition is best saved for the enemy.

Let’s Talk

What’s your experience with competition within your family, team , or organization? Has it helped or hurt efforts to collaborate?

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“If hurt people hurt people, healed men must become our strongest defenders.”

In the Fall of 2022, while on my book tour for What Winners Won’t Tell You, I sat down with Charlamagne Tha God and DJ Envy on the critically acclaimed radio show, The Breakfast Club. About halfway through the interview, DJ Envy asked, hypothetically, if I would let my son play football if I had one. In other words, would I allow my kids to play a game centered around violence and physicality, in which 100% of it’s players will get injured? This question I’d heard before, but this time, it landed differently.

I had just finished a 13 year career in the NFL, not missing a single game or practice for the final 8 seasons. Starting during the 2017 season till 2020 I played a mind blowing 2,651 consecutive snaps. As a result, I was often referred to as the Iron Man.

It’s true. Those stats are wild even to me. For eight years straight, I was available for every competition. But what surprised the radio show hosts, and maybe even me, was my answer:

“When I stopped trying to hurt people, I stopped hurting myself.”

Violence Is the Language of the Underdog

Being a defender in football, one of the most violent team sports on Earth, requires you to embrace the philosophy of violence. The offense has every advantage: star players, favorable rules, quarterbacks with surveillance vision, and real-time intel streaming through their headsets.

As a defender, you’re the disruptor. You’re always reacting and anticipating as you contend with the constant advances of the opposition. Physicality becomes your equalizer. Violence becomes your identity.

I came into the NFL during the “Jacked Up” era — a segment on Monday Night Football where they spotlighted the most vicious and brutal hits of the week. Getting featured made you a star. Coaches replayed it in team meetings. Opponents feared it. Fans loved it.

For the first four years of my career, I played with one intention: Punish. I launched my body like a missile on every tackle. I wasn’t just trying to make the tackle. I wanted to send a message.

I wanted them to remember me the next time they touched the ball.

And they did.

But so did I. Because while the crowd cheered, I was the one absorbing the pain.

The Toll No One Talks About

By year five, my body was breaking down. I had already endured a dislocated kneecap, multiple neck injuries that left my scapula paralyzed for two weeks, and chronic stingers from a pinched nerve between my C4 and C5 vertebrae.

I would lay awake at night, unable to sleep in constant discomfort. Every hit would leave my entire left arm temporarily immobile, with a burning pain from my neck down to my fingertips. I couldn’t practice at full speed. And worst of all, I had real concerns about whether I could finish the season.

No one prepared me for that part.

No one warned me that in the process of trying to destroy my opponent, I might destroy myself.

What’s the Goal?

Eventually, I had to ask myself: What’s the goal?

The goal is to win.

To win, you have to be available to play the game.

To win consistently you must show up at your best, week after week.

You don’t win by trying to annihilate your opponent with reckless force. That’s not a strategy. That’s an ego operating from desperation.

I had to make a conscious decision: prioritize efficiency over devastation. I stopped looking for kill shots on every play and saved my aggression for moments when I had the advantage.

I chose to protect myself.

That shift changed everything. I became known as one of the most efficient tacklers in the National Football League — and, more importantly, I never suffered another major injury for the remaining eight seasons of my career.

The impact of that decision was greater than what it did for me alone. My teammates began to take notice of my new level of endurance. They began to copy my routines. They mimicked the way I prepare my mind, body, and soul for each competition and eventually adopted my philosophy.

Toughness was redefined — not because I hit harder, but because I endured.

Momma Said Knock You Out

Don’t confuse self-preservation with weakness. This new philosophy didn’t make me soft.

I was still capable of enacting violence.

Still capable of delivering a hit that could change the outcome of the game.

Still capable of striking fear into anyone who advanced into my territory.

Only this time, I was calculated and disciplined.

Which meant I could hurt you without hurting myself.

If you destroy your body, wreck your mind, or burn down your spirit just to punish your enemy… What have you really won?

Again, that is not a winning strategy but simply suicide on a delay. Don’t let pride make you stupid.

Let it make you wiser.

Let it make you sharper.

Let it make you a version of yourself that’s too disciplined to waste energy on destruction that doesn’t move you forward.

Healed Men Hit Harder

We often say, “hurt people hurt people.” I believe that to be true. But let’s not stop there.

Healed people heal people.

The healed man, especially a Black man, is not passive. He’s not docile nor weak.

He is discerning, and that’s what makes him dangerous. He knows when to fight — and more importantly, when not to. He defends with more than fists. He protects what is his with consistent clarity and presence.

He stays healthy and available not just for himself, but for the people depending on him.

He becomes the anchor. The one you know will always be there, at full strength, when the pressure hits.

And that’s what we need more of in our families.

In our communities.

In our world.

To Endure Is to Win

“You can’t lead if you’re not there, nor mount any effective defense if you yourself are broken.”

Longevity is a warrior’s greatest flex. It means you’re still in it. Still serving. Still showing up. Still effective.

Toughness isn’t about how much pain or damage you can deal out.

It’s about how much purpose you can carry through the chaos.

How much clarity you can hold in the storm.

How many games, seasons, chapters of your life you can walk through without losing your core.

That’s what being an Iron Man really means.

Let’s Talk

We’re all in the game.

The goal isn’t just to fight.

It’s to last long enough to win.

Drop a comment or share this with the fighters and Iron Men in your life.

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This story, and so many others like it, live in my book What Winners Won’t Tell You. If you haven’t grabbed a copy yet, now’s the time.

In case you missed it…

Get Ready Fest

This past Saturday, I stood in front of about 40 volunteers—mic in hand, feet tingling, voice catching in my throat. I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Not since I last stood before teammates on an NFL field, moments before kick-off. But this wasn’t a game. It was something far more meaningful: our annual Get Ready Fest®, the Malcolm Jenkins Foundation’s flagship community impact event.

In that moment, looking out across the parking lot of Simon Gratz High School in North Philadelphia, I was overwhelmed with pride. Eleven years ago, in 2014, we launched our very first Get Ready Fest® right here in Philly serving 800 families—shortly after I signed with the Eagles. And here we were again, still standing. Still serving. Still showing up. Ready to serve 800 families.

What began as a seasonal giveback has grown into an annual robust community experience. This year, we united more than 40 nonprofit partners, local businesses, and corporate sponsors to provide critical resources and services to families across the city:

• 60lbs of nutritious groceries
  

• Winter coats and cold weather gear
  

• Health and wellness services
  

• Job placement services
  

• Haircuts, hygiene products, and more
  

We don’t do it alone. This is a collaborative model built on years of trust and long-standing relationships with local organizations that have been serving communities long before us—often with limited resources, small teams, and razor-thin budgets. They are the heartbeat of this effort. The Foundation’s role is to orchestrate: convening partners, identifying urgent needs, and ensuring we address them collectively.

One thing athletes do well is bring people together. Every Sunday, stadiums fill with tens of thousands of people showing up just to witness what we can do when we work as one. That same energy is what fuels Get Ready Fest®.

The event is composed of a constellation of volunteers, nonprofits, sponsors, and neighbors. Each person brings something valuable to the circle. Whether it’s staffing a table, distributing food, or simply offering a kind word, every gesture is part of something larger than ourselves.

In many ways, it’s not much different from what I did on the field: orchestrating defenses, identifying threats, coordinating teammates, and making sure we were all working toward the same goal.

Meeting People Where They Are

As the day unfolded, hundreds of families had walked through our doors. One woman pulled me aside and shared that she had only expected a food box but instead she was going home with a new job. I watched a young boy stretch his arms to the sky, testing the sleeve length of his brand-new winter coat. I watched people walk taller after receiving a fresh haircut. Sometimes, what’s needed is the restoration of one’s dignity. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing you’re not alone.

We’re intentional about creating a space where people can receive support without losing agency or pride. They choose what they want, decline what they don’t, and leave feeling seen, and respected, having been treated with humanity and love. These values were passed down to me by my family, which makes executing this program alongside both of my parents deeply meaningful.

Beyond 2025: The Vision Ahead

This year, we’re celebrating 15 years of the Malcolm Jenkins Foundation. In that time, we’ve touched tens of thousands of lives—but our vision is even bolder. By 2040, our goal is to have positively impacted the lives of 1 million youth and young adults. It’s ambitious, but with programs like Get Ready Fest® and with people like you, it’s possible.

We know the need doesn’t end after one event. As we head into the winter months—when holidays, inflation, and economic uncertainty weigh heavily on families—we need all hands on deck.

Join the Movement

There are many ways to support:

• Volunteer: Contribute you time and skills to support our events and initiatives.
  

• Donate: Provide financial support to sustain and expand our impact.
  

• Partner: Collaborate with the foundation to enhance impact.
  

• Share: Spread the story and invite others into the fold.
  
  

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We’re proud to bridge the gaps through Get Ready Fest®, and we hope you’ll build with us for what comes next.

The Test

On the first day of Eagles training camp in 2014, the whistle blew, and I launched forward from my sprinter’s stance into the first of twenty 50-yard sprints. It was the annual conditioning test—a pass/fail litmus test of who had put in work over the summer.

The pace wasn’t brutal. I crossed the 50-yard line ahead of most teammates without strain. It wasn’t a race, but finishing early meant more rest. Every 45 seconds, the whistle blew again. Sprint. Recover. Sprint again.

By NFL standards, it was light work.

That wasn’t always the case. In New Orleans, under Coach Sean Payton, the conditioning test was something you trained for in addition to the season. It didn’t just test your body; it tested your will. Even if you were in peak “football shape,” those tests could leave you heaving, cramping, or embarrassing yourself in front of teammates and coaches. It was meant to break you down and weed out the weak.

So when I hit the halfway mark of Chip Kelly’s test barely breaking a sweat, I assumed this was some kind of warm-up.

Then came the surprise: a 3-minute rest period before the final ten sprints.

Three minutes is an eternity in training. Most coaches don’t give you that much between sets. But what I didn’t realize then, and would only learn later, was that this test wasn’t about grit.

It was about recovery.

Real-Time Recovery Is a Skill

Before the test the coaches had us all wear heart rate monitors and instructed us to keep them on for the duration of the conditioning test. The staff was looking to learn about more than effort. They were measuring efficiency. They wanted to see how hard our bodies had to work to sustain the effort, and more importantly, how quickly we could bounce back between reps.

That was the key.

Chip wasn’t trying to see how much pain we could muscle through. He was looking at how well we could breathe under stress. He was testing whether we could stay present, composed, and prepared for the next sprint and not just if we survived this one.

It completely reframed how I viewed rest and recovery. It shifted from viewing rest as soft, lazy, or passive, to understanding rest as an active part of high performance.

Earn Back Your Time

One of the biggest lessons from that test: if you ran faster, you got more rest. If you coasted, your recovery window shrunk.

Effort buys time.

That’s a principle I’ve carried into life after football. When you get your work done early, you earn the time to fully rest later. If you procrastinate or half-commit, that rest becomes cluttered with unfinished business, and that’s not recovery. That’s stress in disguise.

Burnout is not a symptom of effort alone, it comes from never fully disengaging.

Recovery Requires Focus

Between each sprint, I brought my focus back to my breath. That wasn’t the time for jokes or small talk. It was time to bring the heart rate down, gather myself, and prepare to fire again.

In life, we often confuse distraction with recovery. But recovery takes presence.

Recovery doesn’t mean escaping your burdens completely. Recovery is about preparing yourself to carry them more efficiently. It’s the calm between waves, not the end of the storm.

If you want to finish strong, your recovery must be intentional.

Rest Sets Up the Finish

That 3-minute rest in the middle of the test felt like a reward, but in actuality it was a diagnostic. The question was never how fast can you run. The real question was, How close, 45 seconds after sprinting, is your heart rate to resting?

The same is true in life.

Your long-term resilience doesn’t come from short term effort. Long term resilience comes from intentional recovery habits that are baked into your muscle memory. It is measured in how quickly you can reset after stress and by how consistent you are, not just how intense.

As we enter the final quarter of the year, and the pressure ramps up from holidays, family, deadlines, and expectations, remember this:

You don’t need to sprint through the finish line on fumes.

You just need to hold your form, breathe deep, and take one challenge at a time.

Let’s Talk

Where do you get active recovery when life is testing yout?
Which do you value more, the ability to give it all you got, or the ability to be consistent ?

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One of the defining traits that makes humans the dominant species on this planet, is our ability to communicate across generations through reading and writing. No single lifetime allows us to learn everything about the universe, how it works or the world around us. We rely on books, notes, published studies, and oral history to pass crucial knowledge along, giving the next generation a stronger foundation. This is why reading is so essential.

Yet roughly 45% of American adults do not read a single book in a year.

At the same time politicians across the country are banning books, defunding museums, and restricting the teaching of certain parts of history—particularly the Blackest parts of it. Whenever governments begin to dictate what citizens can and cannot read, especially texts critical to their own history, it has historically signaled dark times to come. There was a reason slaveholders forbade literacy among the enslaved: knowledge and the ability to read and write would reveal the lie of white supremacy and empower claims to humanity.

Marcus Garvey said, “knowledge is power”, which is why supporting local bookstores and literacy advocates, people like DJ Johnson in New Orleans, and the team at Baldwin & Company bookstores, is so crucial to raising literacy in our communities.

Be Curious

My father constantly reminded me, you don’t know what you don’t know. As a youth I dismissed it a simple clichè and didn’t quite understand its application. But as I gained experiences, traveled, and learned new things I realized its practical meaning. It meant to always ask why. To leave room for learning and to feverishly pursue understanding.

In the age of artificial intelligence, where tools like ChatGPT can reinforce narrow perspectives, where deep fakes abound, and where billionaire-owned media dominates, we can’t take anything at face value. We must demand sources and evidence. We must continuously ask why.

Even well-meaning “truth tellers” can’t resist packaging their messages in clickbait, which rarely promotes critical thinking or further research. Most often, we go straight to the comment sections for entertainment, jokes, and the most visceral comments, not dialog, learning, or understanding.

Our world needs critical thinkers who search for solutions to our collective problems.

Did you know that the greatest predictor of a child’s future academic success, outweighing other factors, such as neighborhood and family income, is the mother’s reading skills.

Studies by the University of Michigan and the University of California, analyzing data from over 3000 families, show that a mother who reads competently can change the trajectory of her family. While it’s not a complete solution, literacy is a cost effective and powerful intervention compared to poverty, incarceration, and developmental stagnation.

The Rise of Anti-intellectualism.

There is a one-sided war being waged over your mind. It is becoming common practice to reject the opinions of experts and academics who have spent entire careers researching particular aspects of our society, facing peer review and other critiques.

As a Black man aware of American and global history, I can understand being skeptical of traditional institutions and so-called experts. Black people know the dangers of ill intentioned “experts” who have tried too many times to obscure, hide, or flat out erase our history and humanity.

Instead of meeting this moment in history with a more watchful eye, we have replaced experts with celebrities and influencers. These individuals, often unstudied and motivated by views, engagement, clicks and the money it generates. People who will post anything, no matter how fake or disingenuous, just to go viral.

54% of American adults have a literacy below 6th grade level.

Politicians are strategically targeting the least literate populations to manipulate opinion and garner support. People who will reject truth, even when evidence is right in front of them. Poor, U.S.-born white adults are the largest demographic targeted.

Two thirds of the US adults with low literacy skills are US born. White and Hispanic adults represent the largest segments of those with low literacy skills at 35% and 34% respectively.

They are weaponizing ignorance, stirring hate and fear with a constant flow of inflammatory propaganda. To combat this we must, before it is too late, secure the literature that will help ground us from the sea of bullshit. One book at a time, build your own library with physical books that you can read, reference and pass on.

I saw a video recently of Erica Badu talking about a philosophy that groups mankind into three types of people. She said that 85% of people are followers. 10% are leaders or creators that produce the goods and ideas that the 85% follow. The final 5% are the observers. The observer sees the truth and understands how things work. The observers sound the societal alarms and in doing so are often discredited, ostracized, and assassinated.

Never find yourself in the blind 85% who follow and don’t ask questions. Who follow without interrogation. History is littered with atrocities carried out ignorantly on behalf of the enlightened.

I know it may be hard to imagine this now, but at one point a book was the most valuable thing one possessed. As someone who possesses many things, my library may be the most important thing I pass down to my kids.

Start Here:

I’ve put together a quick list of recommendations that should absolutely be in your personal library, that may help you understand the world we are currently in. Remember to get the physical copies.

Lets Talk:

What’s a book you think everyone should read, today?

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The Reincarnation

On a beautiful day in the Spring of 2024 I was leaving the James Cohan Gallery in New York, on my way to my next stop, when something on the floor caught my eye.

It wasn’t yet hung, just leaning there quietly, as the gallery prepared for a new show.

A canvas within a canvas. A man in a blue jacket, head bowed, focused on his music and the turntables in front of him.

Layered over that, a child—like a mirror reflecting the future—mimicking his posture, working a cassette player with the same intensity.

The symmetry between these two separate subjects struck me. The power of the father’s influence was so present. It was as if he had been reborn into his son, reincarnation carrying old muscle memory in a new body.

I bought the painting on the spot.

The Watcher

This image feels deeply familiar. The warmth of the colors, the backdrop of records, the blue in the father’s jacket and the son’s onesie. It all grounds me in the intimacy of the moment. A reminder that influence moves quietly.

It’s not always what is said that is passed down, but what is seen. It doesn’t miss me that both father and son are wearing headphones, unable to hear each other or share the same music. The father’s eyes are fixed on his craft, while the son’s eyes are fixed on his father. Our actions as fathers speak louder than our words, and our children are always watching.

I see myself in both the father and the son.

I see my kids closely watching me. I see them picking up my habits, my cadence, my silences, and even my anxieties. I notice how much they absorb even when I’m not teaching, and how much I have unknowingly inherited from my own father. I’m constantly weighing what I’ve kept, what I should let go, and what I feel responsible for carrying forward.

This image of Black fatherhood is closer to my experience than the national narrative surrounding black fathers. This painting represents my reality. It reminds me to keep my ears covered, my mind focused, and my craft alive. Through my passions, I can leave behind a legacy of knowledge, culture, and love.

The Inheritance

The painting is rooted in music and the way they’re bound together. Music activates multiple regions of the brain, especially those tied to memory and emotion, like the hippocampus and the prefrontal cortex. Studies have shown that “music doesn’t just help us retrieve stored memories, it also helps us create new ones. Meaning the music we listen to and pass on will likely be the mental markers for our most cherished memories.

My parents were intentional about exposing my two younger brothers and I to music beyond what we heard in the streets or on the charts. They refused to let us be boxed into a single lane of Black expression. And because of that, most of the rap I love today features heavy samples from before my time— music my parents listened to.

Now, my wall of records is stacked with treasures: albums I’ve bought in dusty shops, rescued from garage sales, and “borrowed” or “stolen” (depending on who you ask) from relatives too careless to guard their dormant vinyl collections. Jazz, Rock, R&B, Rap, Reggae, Soul, Funk, Disco, even famous recorded speeches from African American heroes, have all found their way onto my turntable, connecting me to the collective memories of past generations.

Like the depiction of Jerrell Gibbs’ father in this painting, I plan to pass this collection of music and memories on to my children. Hopefully they, too, will appreciate the significance of this type of inheritance.

On View at the Brandywine Museum

Starting this weekend, Like Father, Like Son is on public display as part of Jerrell Gibbs’ first solo museum exhibition. This is a big moment for Jerrell and his practice, but it’s just the beginning.

He beautifully paints what many of us feel but rarely articulate: the spaces between fathers and sons, the rituals of Black family life, the small moments that shape us forever.

So, please support this brother and his work. Visit the show and check out his exhibition, open through January.

Jerrell Gibbs: Infinite Reach

📍Brandywine Museum of Art

📅 September 27, 2025 – January 12, 2026

🔗 brandywine.org/museum

Lets Talk

What comes to mind when you see Like father, Like Son ?

Better yet, go experience it for yourself at the Brandywine, and then let me know in the comments what you felt.

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