Pro football is like nuclear warfare. There are no winners, only

In the chronicles of the modern age, when men clashed not with spears and shields but with helmets and padded armor, there arose a saying as grim as it was wise. Frank Gifford, who had walked both the battlefield of the gridiron and the shadows of its aftermath, spoke thus: “Pro football is like nuclear warfare. There are no winners, only survivors.” These words, carved not in stone but in memory, reveal the hidden cost of glory. They remind us that some contests do not crown victors but only leave behind those strong—or fortunate—enough to endure.

For what is pro football in Gifford’s eyes? It is not merely a game of touchdowns and cheers, but a brutal theater where bodies collide with the force of storms, and bones, muscles, and wills are shattered. The warriors of the field rise to fame, yet many descend into suffering once the roars fade. Like the specter of nuclear warfare, the damage does not end when the contest is finished; it lingers, silent and invisible, in broken joints, clouded minds, and shortened years. Thus, Gifford calls us to see beyond the spectacle and glimpse the toll that greatness demands.

Consider the fate of the soldiers of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, who survived the flash of nuclear fire but bore its mark forever. The cities rose again, the world moved forward, yet those who lived through the blast carried wounds unseen—cancers, griefs, scars of the soul. They were not victors; they were survivors. So too with the athletes of the great game: the crowd hails their triumph, yet when the lights go dark, they wrestle with pain, memory, and the long shadow of what they endured.

And yet, within this somber truth lies a deeper lesson about the nature of struggle itself. Not every battle is meant to yield winners. Some battles test only endurance. In war, in hardship, in the arena of life, the measure of man is not always in conquering but in remaining standing when the storm has passed. To be a survivor is itself a kind of victory, though it is paid in silence, in scars, and in the wisdom of having endured what others could not.

Let us not mistake Gifford’s lament for despair. His words are not the cry of hopelessness but a sober call to awareness. He asks us to honor those who stand in these trials, not merely for the fleeting triumph of a scoreboard, but for the cost they bear. He compels us to see that in every endeavor, the brilliance of achievement is shadowed by the weight of sacrifice. True wisdom is to respect both—the glory and the suffering—and to walk with humility through our own battles.

What then shall the listener take from this ancient echo? Do not rush into life’s contests without understanding their cost. If you choose a path of greatness, know that it will leave its mark upon you, as fire leaves its mark upon iron. Train your body, yes, but also fortify your spirit, for endurance is the crown of survivors. And in your own trials, when the world seems to offer no victory but only survival, remember that survival itself is triumph—for it means you live to fight, to love, to hope again.

So let the teaching of Gifford be written upon your heart: in life, as in pro football, as in nuclear war, there are times when triumph is not found in conquest but in survival. If you endure, you have already overcome. Carry this truth as a shield, and walk your path with both courage and caution, knowing that survival is not the absence of victory, but its most enduring form.