We’ve all seen this movie before, and we never like how it ends. It’s Michael Jordan in a Wizards uniform—still proud, still competitive, but no longer airborne, no longer inevitable. Joe Namath limping around as a Ram, the swagger intact while the body had already waved the white flag. Also Willie Mays finishing as a Met, the greatest five-tool player ever reduced to a farewell tour nobody asked for.
We see it in music, too. Rock singers who can’t hit the high notes anymore but can’t resist the energy of the crowd. The applause still hits like oxygen and the stage still feels like home. When you’ve spent your entire life being that guy, you don’t always know who you are when the mic goes silent.
This isn’t about greed or ego. It’s identity. Al Davis, who couldn’t give up control of the Raiders. Walking away from football would have meant walking away from himself. For better and worse, the Raiders were Al Davis. Take that away, and what’s left? That’s the question legends fear most. Which brings me to the sentence I never wanted to write: The greatest play-by-play announcer in the history of American sports, Al Michaels, needs to shut off his mic. It’s time.
Michaels is calling this weekend’s Packers-Bears playoff game on Prime Video. Earlier this week, on Christopher Russo’s SiriusXM show, he was asked whether he hopes to be back next season. His answer was revealing:
“I love what I do, I work with great people, the Amazon thing has worked out extremely well. We did 21 million people on Christmas night—who knows what we’re gonna do this week? It’s gonna be a big, big number.” He continued to say, “I always felt I’ll go as long as I can or I’m wanted, but I have to be able to know that I can do the game at the level that satisfies me. If I feel not what I have been, or the way I perceive myself to have been, that’ll be time to step away. I don’t feel that way right now.”
Michaels still loves it. He still feels wanted. The ratings are huge and the platform is massive. Most importantly—he still perceives himself as performing at the level that satisfies him.
That’s the danger zone.
When the magic starts to fade, everyone seems to know it but you. The audience hears it. Your partner feels it. Producers see it. The industry whispers it and the only person who doesn’t… is the living legend himself.
That’s not arrogance. That’s human nature.
I understand Al. You don’t walk away from what you love and walk away from what you’re best at. It’s simple. You don’t walk away from the thing you’ve built your entire identity around.
If you’re not Al Michaels and you’ve got a game to call… who are you? You’re still Al Michaels.
He’s the greatest play-by-play voice of all time, whether he calls another snap or not. “Do you believe in miracles?” doesn’t disappear when the headset comes off. Olympics. Super Bowls. World Series. Those moments are permanent.
What we’re hearing now, though, isn’t the Al Michaels who created them. Competing against your former self is the toughest competition of all. He doesn’t elevate the moment anymore and doesn’t meet chaos with urgency. He misses plays and doesn’t punch the call when the game is begging for it.
And the most telling sign of all? He’s being carried.
Kirk Herbstreit is doing the emotional lifting now—the energy, the feel, the urgency. That dynamic should be unthinkable. Prime Al Michaels would never have allowed himself to become the passenger in his own broadcast.
It’s the standard Al Michaels himself set—and is no longer meeting.
The moment it crystallized for me came during Rams at Seahawks, a game-of-the-year-type chaos fest screaming for voice and gravity. Al couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t meet the moment, and that’s just not Al Michaels.
This column isn’t cruel. It’s protective.
Al Michaels is too important to be remembered by a generation of fans as bitter, detached, or diminished. He’s too good to let the ending erode any part of his story—especially when he still believes he has his 100-MPH fastball.
Some people fade out quietly. Legends don’t get that luxury.
Al, it’s okay to stop. It’s okay to walk away. It’s okay to choose the ending instead of letting the ending choose you. You’re the best of all time. That part is settled. That part is untouchable.
Because legends shouldn’t fade into the noise. They should leave us believing in miracles.
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With decades of experience behind the mic, John Lund is more than a sports commentator and weekly columnist for Barrett Media—he’s a storyteller, humorist, and true fan. He’s hosted shows in mid sized markets like Pittsburgh and Salt Lake City to larger cities like San Francisco, Detroit and Dallas. John has even hosted nationally on ESPN Radio. Known for his sharp wit and deep sports knowledge, John welcomes your feedback. Reach him on X @JohnLundRadio or by email at John@JohnLundRadio.com.
