“Sports are the only entertainment where, no matter how many times you go back, you never know the ending.”
Neil Simon
Athletes are a special kind of hero—the kind that somehow feel both larger-than-life and like regular visitors in your living room every weekend. As a kid, they were my superheroes, leaping tall buildings in a single bound (or, at the very least, making a three-pointer look effortless). And as an adult, they’ve become my weekend companions—the ones I cheer for, yell at, and occasionally whisper to through the TV, as if my advice will somehow improve their performance.
These are the athletes who shaped my childhood dreams and continue to make my weekends just a little more exciting. Whether they were hitting home runs, sinking impossible shots, or just being ridiculously cool, they earned their place in my personal hall of fame.
So, without further ado, here’s my lineup of my favorite athletes of all time—the ones who’ve made me believe in the power of a well-timed clutch play and the magic of sports.
Andre Agassi
Growing up playing tennis, I was surrounded by the legends of the sport. My dad and I would watch them all—Boris Becker, Steffi Graf, Stefan Edberg, Monica Seles, Pete Sampras, Gabriela Sabatini, Ivan Lendl. There was no shortage of personalities. Each of them had their own charm, their own skill set that made them stand out, but none of them lit up the court quite like Agassi.
Agassi wasn’t just a tennis player—he was a character, a walking neon sign that screamed, Look at me, world, I’m here to make tennis cool. And let’s be honest, with the mullet, the acid-wash shorts, and the fluorescent headbands, he had no trouble doing just that.
He wasn’t just flash, though. There was plenty of that with the wild hair and the outfits that looked like they belonged in an ’80s music video, but Agassi was substance, too. He played with a raw, unfiltered energy that made you sit up and pay attention. Andre Agassi wasn’t just a player—he was electricity personified.
On the court, he brought a rebellious energy that made tennis feel like something more than a game—it was a performance, a statement, a spectacle. Watching Agassi play felt like stepping into a rock concert where the main act also happened to have a wicked backhand. There was something magnetic about the way he moved, the way he handled the racquet like it was an extension of himself. And yes, he was a showman, but he was also a fighter—a scrapper who didn’t just rely on style. Beneath all that flash was someone who had grit, who evolved over time, shedding the flashy image to reveal a player of pure determination and heart.
He wasn’t boring—ever. You couldn’t take your eyes off him because Agassi made tennis unpredictable. He was thrilling to watch because you never quite knew what was going to happen next. Would he pull off a ridiculous return or engage in a fiery spat with the umpire? Either way, it was must-see TV.
Agassi wasn’t just part of the tennis landscape; he was the lightning bolt that electrified it, the jolt that kept the sport from becoming too refined, too predictable, too much like everyone else.
What made Agassi truly great wasn’t just his talent—it was his ability to evolve, to grow from the rebellious kid who hated the game into a man who came to embrace it. And that journey? That’s what made him unforgettable. Agassi didn’t just win tennis matches—he made you feel like you were a part of something bigger, something wild, unpredictable, and utterly thrilling.
Andre Dawson
“The Hawk”—it wasn’t just a nickname, it was a way of life. Andre Dawson played baseball like a bird of prey, sharp-eyed, focused, ready to swoop in and take out an unsuspecting fastball at a moment’s notice. Every time he stepped into the batter’s box, it felt like something was about to happen—something big. You could almost see the pitcher’s knees start to buckle just a little as Dawson narrowed his eyes and took his stance, ready to send the ball into orbit.
Growing up, summers were defined by watching the Cubs on WGN, and Dawson was the reason I’d sit glued to the screen, half-eaten sandwich in hand, as if I didn’t dare blink. There was a reverence to his at-bats, like the universe paused, holding its breath, waiting to see if this would be the moment he’d launch another ball into the stratosphere. And when he did, it wasn’t just a home run—it was a Hawk home run, the kind of shot that made you wonder if the ball would land in a neighboring state.
One summer, in what can only be described as peak fandom (or mild insanity), I took it upon myself to record every single one of his at-bats on VHS. Every. Single. One. While other kids were outside, basking in the sun and enjoying their summers, I was fast-forwarding through Cubs games to capture every swing, as if I were archiving history. Absurd? Maybe. But if anyone was worth the tape, it was Dawson. And as I sat there, surrounded by stacks of recorded games, I couldn’t help but feel like I was curating my own personal Hall of Fame.
He wasn’t just a player—he was a legend in pinstripes, the kind of guy who played with a quiet intensity that made you believe he could carry the entire team on his back. And sometimes, it felt like he did. The crack of the bat, the way he rounded the bases—it was pure poetry in motion, even if his knees were less cooperative than they used to be.
For a kid like me, Dawson wasn’t just a favorite player—he was a hero, the kind of athlete who made baseball feel magical, even if the Cubs didn’t always live up to the hype. And years later, I still think about those summers spent watching the Hawk, those grainy VHS tapes serving as a reminder that sometimes, in the middle of a long, hot summer, you just need a hero who can hit one out of the park.
Bo Jackson
Bo Jackson wasn’t just an athlete—he was a myth in real-time, the kind of guy who made you question whether the rest of us were even playing the same species of sport. Watching him, you had to wonder if maybe he came from another planet, where kids grow up playing both baseball and football at a level that makes even professional athletes look like they’re trying out for the JV team.
Bo wasn’t just a two-sport athlete—he was the two-sport athlete, a guy who could hit home runs in one breath and flatten linebackers in the next without so much as breaking a sweat.
As a kid, Bo Jackson was basically a superhero with shoulder pads and a baseball bat. The “Bo Knows” commercials turned him into a pop culture icon, and for good reason—he was the kind of athlete who seemed like he could do anything, probably without even needing to try.
One minute he’s running 90 yards down the field like gravity’s optional, and the next he’s snapping a bat over his knee like it’s made of toothpicks. Watching him was like watching someone cheat at life—he just had an unfair advantage over the rest of humanity.
But here’s the thing about Bo—he never acted like it was a big deal. He had this quiet humility that made the whole thing even more ridiculous. He didn’t bask in the spotlight or throw around ego. He just showed up, defied the laws of physics, and left the rest of us wondering how a single human could be that good at, well, everything. It was as if he knew something the rest of us didn’t, but was too polite to say it.
Bo’s career may have been cut short, but the legend of Bo Jackson never stopped growing. Even now, when I think of athletes who seemed too good to be real, Bo’s at the top of the list. He’s proof that, every once in a while, someone shows up who can do it all—and makes the rest of us look like we’re just trying to keep up.
Dante Hall
Dante Hall wasn’t just fast—he was so fast it made you question whether the rest of us were living in slow motion. During his time at Texas A&M, watching him was like witnessing someone cheat physics in real-time. The moment he touched the ball, it felt like the entire field became a playground, and Dante was the only one who knew how the game worked.
As an Aggie, seeing Hall weave through defenders was equal parts thrilling and unfair. He didn’t just outrun people—he outthought them, juking and cutting like his shoes had a mind of their own.
And then… at least for my wife and I… there was the helmet. We always joked that it looked two sizes too big, like it was designed for someone planning to block Dante, not be Dante. But here’s the thing: that oversized helmet (and our dumb jokes) didn’t slow him down one bit. In fact, it almost added to the magic, as if this guy with an ill-fitting helmet was about to outrun not just defenders, but logic itself. He’d cut, dart, and somehow make it all look effortless, even with the added real estate on top.
When Dante made the leap to the NFL with the Kansas City Chiefs, I couldn’t help but be delighted, even though he wasn’t suiting up for my team anymore. His kick returns were legendary. The nickname “The Human Joystick” wasn’t just catchy—it was an accurate description of how he moved. Every time he touched the ball, it was like watching someone play Madden on cheat mode. Blink, and he was halfway down the field, leaving defenders and common sense behind.
Dante Hall electrified Kyle Field in college. But in the NFL, he became something else—an entertainer, a player who didn’t just make plays, but made you want to stand up and shout. He was speed and style wrapped in a too-large helmet, and that’s exactly how I’ll always remember him: darting down the field, two steps ahead of everyone else, and making it all look fun.
David Beckham
Watching David Beckham at Real Madrid was like witnessing someone casually solve a Rubik’s Cube while riding a unicycle—effortless, precise, and a little bit maddening for the rest of us mere mortals. He bent free kicks like they were governed by some secret law of physics only he knew, and every pass felt like it had been scripted with laser-guided accuracy.
At Real, surrounded by the Galácticos, Beckham wasn’t just part of a star-studded cast—he was the one quietly stealing the show with every perfectly timed cross and inch-perfect set piece. The man didn’t just play soccer—he choreographed it.
And then came the move to LA.
The golden boy of world football left the glamour of Madrid for… well, the slightly different glamour of LA. His arrival at the Galaxy wasn’t exactly a Hollywood love story, though. Beckham’s time in LA started rocky, to say the least—especially when you throw in Landon Donovan, a guy who didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for the British superstar. For me, this added a layer of tension, because Landon wasn’t just another player—he’s my guy. My all-time favorite. Watching those two try to figure each other out was personal, and not in a calm, detached way.
Beckham’s early days with the Galaxy were messy. There was tension, and it wasn’t subtle. You could almost hear the unsaid “What are you even doing here?” in every sideways glance. The hype didn’t quite meet the reality at first, and for a while, it seemed like this pairing might go down as one of those awkward mismatches.
But here’s the thing—it’s not about how you start; it’s about how you finish. And what started off with frustration, skepticism, and a lot of side-eye turned into something far more meaningful. Beckham and Donovan may have been oil and water at first, but over time, they found their rhythm, and it was nothing short of magic.
For me, seeing Landon and Beckham come together was particularly special. It wasn’t just that Beckham could still curl a free kick into the top corner like nobody’s business—it was that he brought something more to the team. He made it feel like LA was the center of the soccer universe, if only for a little while. Watching them on the same field, going from uneasy standoff to a partnership that delivered something special, was like watching a buddy-cop movie where the two leads finally get on the same page and everything clicks.
By the end of his time in LA, Beckham had given us more than anyone could’ve predicted. He didn’t just bring star power—he brought heart. And when he finally lifted that MLS Cup, it felt like a story that had started with so much uncertainty had finished exactly the way it was meant to—on top.
Dirk Nowitzki
Dirk Nowitzki wasn’t just a basketball player—he was a seven-foot-tall enigma who somehow made the awkward look graceful. Watching Dirk play was like watching a giraffe learn ballet and nail it.
His signature one-legged fadeaway? It was a shot that seemed physically impossible, yet he made it so regularly you’d think it was part of some new rulebook only he had access to. To this day, I still shout “Diiiiirk” every time I toss a piece of paper into the trash, as if channeling his effortless magic will make me hit the shot.
And while everyone was scratching their heads trying to figure out how a lanky guy from Germany could dominate the NBA, Dirk was just out there—quietly draining threes, schooling defenders, and somehow managing to make post-game interviews endearing.
Dirk was never about flash. He wasn’t out there trying to make highlight reels with circus shots or jaw-dropping dunks. No, he was about consistency, about working harder than anyone else in the room until suddenly, one day, he wasn’t just good—he was unstoppable. That slow, deliberate way he’d back down a defender, that high-arcing jumper that made defenders look helpless—Dirk turned these small, methodical moments into basketball poetry.
And let’s not forget: this is Dallas we’re talking about. A city where winning seasons were often more myth than reality. Dirk didn’t just put the Mavericks on the map—he was the map. For years, Dirk was the heart and soul of that team, dragging them kicking and screaming to relevance, and eventually to a championship, through sheer willpower and a lot of German efficiency.
But what made Dirk truly special wasn’t just what he did on the court. It was the way he did it. There was no arrogance, no need for attention or accolades. Dirk played with the same level of joy and focus whether it was Game 7 of the NBA Finals or a Tuesday night in February. And when he finally hoisted that championship trophy in 2011, it felt like the entire basketball universe exhaled, knowing that the guy who had done things the right way, the unglamorous way, had finally gotten his due.
Dirk was the guy I couldn’t help but love, whether he was winning MVPs or just being his goofy, lovable self. And even now, years after he retired, there’s a hole in the game—a Dirk-shaped void that no one else has been able to fill, at least for me. Because players like Dirk don’t come around often. And when they do, they leave you with a highlight reel in your heart and the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, you peaked as a fan the day they retired.
DaMarcus Beasley
DaMarcus Beasley didn’t just run—he looked like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Watching him on the soccer field was like watching someone who had borrowed an extra gear, something the rest of us weren’t aware existed.
It wasn’t just his speed, though that alone could make you wonder if you’d accidentally hit fast-forward. It was his infectious joy, the kind of happiness you usually only see on lottery winners or golden retrievers discovering a backyard full of tennis balls. He didn’t just want to be there; he needed to be there, and you could feel it in the way he tore up and down the pitch.
What I loved about Beasley was that he wasn’t just a winger with speed to burn—he was a grinder, someone who was willing to do whatever it took for the team. He didn’t seem to care if he was playing forward, midfield, or even defense by the end of his career. If the coach asked him to do something, he did it, with that same burst of energy and that mischievous grin that made it clear he was having the time of his life. The guy played with a kind of freedom that’s rare in professional sports—a combination of fearlessness and fun, like a kid who never forgot why he fell in love with the game in the first place.
And then there was his longevity. Beasley’s career spanned over two decades, an eternity in a sport that chews players up and spits them out. He played in four World Cups for the U.S., which is practically unheard of. How did he do it? I have to believe it was that joy—that love for the game that kept him going, year after year, long after most players had hung up their cleats. Beasley’s engine never seemed to quit, and even when his legs might have slowed a step, his heart never did.
Watching Beasley was one of those rare treats in sports—the kind of player you couldn’t help but root for, not just because of his talent, but because he seemed to love the game more than anyone else on the field. I miss watching him play, because when Beasley was out there, it wasn’t just a soccer game—it was a joy ride, a reminder that sometimes, the best players aren’t the ones who score the most goals, but the ones who play with the most heart.
Johnny Manziel
Let’s be clear: when I say Johnny Manziel is one of my favorite athletes, I’m talking about college Johnny. The guy who lit up Kyle Field and made Saturdays feel like anything was possible. The NFL version of Johnny? Well, we don’t really talk about that. But when he was at Texas A&M, Johnny wasn’t just a quarterback—he was a force of nature.
The Aggies have always had this way of never quite being good enough, always coming up just short of greatness. But with Johnny, for a brief, glorious moment, it felt different. He didn’t just play football—he electrified it.
As an Aggie alum, watching Johnny was like finally getting the payoff for all the years of heartbreak, the years of “almost, but not quite.” He wasn’t the biggest or the most polished player on the field, but none of that mattered. Johnny had this magic about him—the kind of raw, chaotic energy that made every play feel like it could turn into something extraordinary. His scrambles, his impossible escapes from the pocket, the way he’d pull off a Hail Mary just when you thought the game was over—it was like watching a magician who didn’t even know what trick he was going to pull next.
Sure, Johnny remains a complicated figure. His personal life has been a revolving door of drama, but for those two seasons with the Aggies, he was pure football joy. He made you believe that, for once, the Aggies weren’t going to be the team that came up just short. With Johnny at the helm, it felt like Texas A&M could actually go toe-to-toe with anyone—and sometimes, they did.
Watching Johnny wasn’t just fun—it was exhilarating. Every game was an adventure, every snap was an opportunity for something completely ridiculous and completely brilliant. And for an Aggie, that was more than we ever expected. For a team that had always lived on the edge of greatness but never quite got there, Johnny’s time in College Station felt like a fever dream of what could be.
So, while the rest of Johnny’s story may be complicated, there’s no denying that when it came to college football, Johnny Football was the real deal. And for me, those Saturday afternoons watching him tear up the field in maroon and white? Absolutely priceless.
Kobe Bryant
Watching Kobe Bryant was like witnessing a magician perform a trick you never quite believed possible. The ball-handling, the impossible shots, the sheer will to win—it was all there, wrapped up in that classic “Mamba Mentality.”
As a kid, we all wanted to Be like Mike—but as an adult, I realized Kobe was something different. He wasn’t just playing basketball; he was waging a personal war against mediocrity, and we all got to watch the battle unfold. The thing is, you didn’t have to be a Lakers fan to be in awe of Kobe—you just had to love greatness.
When Kobe passed away, it was more than heartbreaking—it was surreal. The world seemed to stand still for a moment, as if we all needed a second to process what had just happened. The outpouring of love and respect for him was profound and, honestly, special. Whether you were a die-hard Lakers fan or someone who just appreciated greatness, it was impossible not to be touched by the legacy Kobe left behind.
Kobe wasn’t just about the wins or the stats—he was about chasing something elusive, something beyond the reach of ordinary mortals. He made us believe that perfection was possible, even though deep down we all knew it wasn’t. But that’s where Kobe thrived, in the impossible pursuit of the unattainable.
And that’s why Kobe still feels larger than life, even after his final buzzer. He didn’t just play basketball—he played like the world was watching, and sometimes, it felt like it really was.
Landon Donovan
If there’s one athlete who holds a permanent place in my heart, it’s Landon Donovan. He’s not just my favorite soccer player—he’s my number one, all-time favorite athlete, period. I’ve followed his career from when he was just a teenager with a world of potential, through all the ups and downs, to his eventual retirement.
He wasn’t perfect—there were stumbles, tough decisions, and games that didn’t go his way. But that’s what made him feel real. He didn’t have to be flawless to be my favorite. He always seemed like more than just a player—he was someone you could root for, not in spite of his imperfections, but because of them. In many ways, he became a part of my own personal sports journey.
Take the 2002 World Cup, when he scored that goal against Mexico in the Round of 16. It was the middle of the night here—3 a.m.—but that didn’t stop me from dragging a couple of friends over to watch the game live.
There we were, bleary-eyed and clutching mugs of bad coffee, just waiting for something to happen. And then it did. Donovan took a cross and buried it into the back of the net, and suddenly, we weren’t just watching soccer—we were living it. The way he celebrated, arms outstretched, sprinting toward the corner flag, made you feel like you were right there with him. I’ll never forget that moment—because it wasn’t just a goal, it was a statement. Landon wasn’t going to let anyone count him, or the U.S., out.
But of course, the greatest moment—the moment—was his goal against Algeria in 2010. That goal still holds a special place in my heart. It wasn’t just a game-winner; it was a career-defining, spine-tingling, pure joy explosion that brought the country to its feet. I’m not sure if I’ve ever screamed louder or jumped higher, and I wasn’t alone. In living rooms, bars, and stadiums across the country, people were on their feet, united in that brief, shining moment.
It wasn’t just a goal—it felt like vindication, like every underdog finally getting its due. For me, that goal didn’t just define Donovan’s career—it crystallized everything I love about sports: the unpredictability, the passion, and that rare moment when hope turns into reality.
In those few seconds, Donovan gave us all a moment of collective euphoria, the kind of moment that lingers long after the final whistle. For me, it was the kind of moment that reminds you why you love sports in the first place.
And then there was his time with the LA Galaxy, where he wasn’t just a star, but a constant presence. So many clutch performances, so many moments where it felt like he had ice in his veins, pulling off the impossible when the stakes were highest. His World Cup performances may have cemented his national icon status, but it was with the Galaxy that Landon really settled into his role as the steady, reliable heartbeat of American soccer.
But then, like a page out of my own personal storybook, Donovan ends up playing for my beloved Everton. I mean, what are the odds? He wasn’t just on loan—he was brilliant, playing as if he had been an Evertonian all his life. For a fan like me, it felt like the stars had aligned. Watching him wear that royal blue, even for just a couple of stints, was like watching your favorite book character come to life in your hometown.
Landon wasn’t just a player—he was complicated, in the best way. Open about his mental health challenges, he never shied away from prioritizing his family and personal life, even when it meant making decisions that didn’t align with what fans or pundits expected. Some never forgave him for not fully committing his career to Europe, thinking he underachieved by staying stateside. But for me, that only made him more admirable. He wasn’t playing by anyone else’s rules—just his own.
In the end, that’s why Landon still holds such a special place for me. He wasn’t just about titles or goals—though he had plenty of both. He was about heart, honesty, and a relentless commitment to what mattered most to him. He was human in a way that made me root for him even more.
And while his career may be over, the impact he had, both on and off the field, still lingers. I’ll always be a fan—and somehow, it feels like Landon Donovan will always be playing for my team.
Lewis Hamilton
My preoccupation with Lewis Hamilton is a more recent development, courtesy of my late-in-life discovery of F1 racing. But once I started watching, it was game over—I was hooked. I don’t know how it happened, but one minute I was vaguely aware of cars zipping around tracks in distant countries, and the next minute I was setting alarms for early Saturday mornings to catch qualifying rounds.
Lewis isn’t just a driver—he’s a symphony in motion, weaving through chicanes like it’s his own personal ballet. Watching him navigate a race at 200 miles per hour with the kind of calm most people reserve for picking out a cereal is nothing short of mesmerizing. He has this way of making impossible speed look effortless. The kind of focus it takes to not only keep control of the car but to outthink every other driver on the track while going full throttle? It’s beyond me. And with 7 (and let’s be real, it should be 8) world championships under his belt, Hamilton has more than earned his place as a racing legend.
But what really strikes me about Lewis is that it’s not just about the racing for him. Sure, he’s a master behind the wheel—probably the greatest we’ve ever seen—but he’s also a trailblazer for people of color in a sport that, to put it mildly, wasn’t exactly designed with diversity in mind. He’s the first Black driver in F1 history, and he carries that role with a grace that makes it look easy, even though you know it’s anything but. In a sport dominated by tradition, privilege, and a fair share of snobbery, Lewis doesn’t just race—he challenges the very fabric of what F1 thinks it’s supposed to be.
And off the track, he’s just as impressive. He’s not content to sit on his laurels and count his championships. No, Lewis uses his platform to advocate for issues that matter—social justice, the environment, equality. He’s out there, speaking up when it’s easier to stay quiet, standing tall when it would be simpler to blend in. And the best part? He does it with this quiet, unflappable confidence, a kind of effortless swagger that makes you root for him even harder.
Watching Hamilton isn’t just about watching races anymore. It’s about witnessing someone who refuses to settle, who pushes not just the limits of his sport but the boundaries of what athletes can be. And as much as I love seeing him dominate on the track, it’s knowing that he’s out there fighting for something bigger than racing that’s made me a lifelong fan.
Lewis is the whole package, and I’m not just on the bandwagon—I’ve reserved a permanent seat.
Magic Johnson
No athlete adorned my walls more than Magic. Growing up, I was a die-hard fan of the Showtime Lakers, and Magic was the heart of it all. Watching him play was like watching joy in its purest form, as if happiness itself could dribble.
He didn’t just play basketball—he turned it into a celebration. Every time he stepped onto the court, it was like he was inviting everyone—teammates, opponents, fans—to join him in the pure thrill of the game. And I was more than happy to accept the invitation.
He didn’t just pass the ball; he orchestrated it, like a maestro conducting an orchestra of basketballs and sneakers. When Magic sent a no-look pass across the court, it felt like he had eyes in the back of his head—or maybe some supernatural sixth sense for where his teammates were at any given moment. It was more art than basketball. No one made it look easier, or more fun.
When Magic retired, it felt like a piece of my basketball soul was ripped away—like he was one of my Horcruxes (a perfect Harry Potter reference, you’re welcome). In my house (#hufflepuff), it wasn’t just a day of mourning—it was the kind of sadness that hits when you realize something truly wonderful has come to an end. And while most athletes eventually fade into the background of your sports memories, Magic never did. I missed him immediately, and honestly, I still do. Because you don’t just get over Magic Johnson—you carry him with you, like a soundtrack that still makes you smile years later.
Magic wasn’t just the first athlete I ever saw as larger than life—he was the first to make me realize that sports could be more than winning and losing. He played with a kind of joy that made you smile just watching him. It was as if every layup, every assist, every ridiculous no-look pass came with a wink and a nod that said, “Isn’t this fun?” And it was. It really was. He took the weight of competition and lifted it, reminding us that sometimes, sports are at their best when they’re played like a game, not a battle.
He’ll always be the player who made me fall in love with the game—like a first love you never quite get over, no matter how many years or players pass by.
Nick Van Exel
Nick Van Exel isn’t a name that’s going to come up when people are debating the greatest basketball players of all time. He’s not in the Hall of Fame, and he’s not going to make it into those highlight reels that get played on loop during NBA history specials. But for me? Nick makes the cut—my cut. He had this undeniable hunger and fight that were contagious, the kind of grit you can’t teach, the kind that makes you root for someone even when the team they’re on doesn’t seem to have much of a shot.
Van Exel’s time with the Lakers and Mavericks in the 90s and early 2000s wasn’t exactly filled with championship glory, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Nick was clutch. And I’m not talking about “clutch” in the way that gets you trophies or MVP awards—I’m talking about the kind of clutch that shows up when everyone else has already counted you out. He hit big shots, game-winners, and buzzer-beaters, even when he was on some pretty mediocre teams. He wasn’t the guy leading a dynasty, but he was the guy you wanted with the ball in his hands when the clock was running down.
Watching Van Exel play was like watching someone with something to prove every single night. He played with a chip on his shoulder the size of a small planet, and that’s what made him so fun to watch. He had this swagger about him, this confidence that made you believe that even if everything else was falling apart, Nick was going to figure something out. And most of the time, he did.
He wasn’t the tallest or the strongest, but he had heart, and in those tight moments, that’s what made the difference. He made shots that didn’t make sense, and sometimes he made decisions that didn’t make sense, but that was part of the fun. He played with a kind of reckless abandon that made you feel like he was willing to take the risk, no matter how crazy it looked.
Nick Van Exel won’t be enshrined in the Hall of Fame, but in the Hall of Clutch? He’s got a permanent spot on the list. And that’s why he’s on mine.
Steve Nash
Steve Nash wasn’t just a point guard—he was a magician with a basketball, the kind of player who could turn a routine possession into a highlight reel in the blink of an eye. His years in Dallas, playing alongside Dirk Nowitzki, were some of the most fun I’ve ever had watching basketball.
The chemistry between Nash and Dirk was electric, like they were speaking a secret language that only they could understand. In fact, if I had to compare their partnership to anything, I’d say they were the JD and Turk of basketball. Just like JD and Turk had their inside jokes and “guy love,” Nash and Dirk had this effortless camaraderie, a bond that made every pick-and-roll, every no-look pass, feel like it was part of some grand, unspoken plan.
Every time they played together, it was like a perfectly choreographed dance. Nash would thread an impossible pass through traffic, and Dirk would be right where he needed to be, ready to knock down a three or roll to the basket for a dunk. It was like watching best friends at work, two guys who made each other better just by being on the same court. Nash’s court vision was otherworldly—he saw angles that no one else could see, and it always felt like Dirk was the one who could finish whatever Nash started. Together, they were magic.
Nash’s time in Dallas didn’t end with a championship, but with him, it was never just about the titles. He brought an infectious energy to the team, a style of play that made basketball feel fun and spontaneous. There was something joyful about watching Nash—he wasn’t just out there to win; he was out there to enjoy the game, to make the impossible happen, and to make it all look easy. And like JD and Turk, Nash and Dirk had a friendship that made you smile just watching it play out.
Nash’s years in Dallas may not have had the storybook ending, but the partnership between him and Dirk was something special. They were two best friends playing the game they loved, and for those of us lucky enough to watch them, it was a golden era of Mavericks basketball—one where you never quite knew what was coming next, but you knew it was going to be great.
Tiger Woods
There was a time when Tiger Woods was so dominant, so untouchable, that watching golf became appointment viewing—which, let’s be honest, is something I never thought I’d say. Before Tiger, golf was a pleasant background sport, the kind of thing you’d put on while folding laundry or sneaking a nap. But when Tiger hit his stride, suddenly I was glued to the screen, riveted by every putt, every drive, every fist-pump that followed another jaw-dropping shot.
At his peak, Tiger wasn’t just winning tournaments—he was redefining what it meant to be a champion. His laser focus, that almost unsettling intensity, the way he stalked a course like a hunter zeroing in on his prey—it was all electric. You didn’t have to know anything about golf to understand that you were watching greatness unfold. When Tiger stepped up to the tee, it felt less like a sports event and more like a performance, with everyone holding their breath to see what he’d pull off next.
And that’s the thing: Tiger made golf thrilling. He had this magnetic presence that drew you in, even if you’d never picked up a club in your life. Whether it was a flawless drive or an impossible recovery shot from the rough, watching Tiger at his best was like watching someone rewrite the rules of the game in real-time. You didn’t want to miss a second of it.
But beyond the sheer athleticism, there was something about Tiger’s confidence that made it all the more captivating. He didn’t just expect to win—he knew he was going to win. And that confidence, that undeniable swagger, transformed a quiet, methodical sport into something pulse-pounding. Tiger wasn’t just a golfer; he was a force of nature, someone who made you believe that no matter how far behind he was, he could still pull off the impossible.
For those years when Tiger was at his peak, golf was just different. And while his career has had its ups and downs, there’s no denying the impact he had on the sport. Tiger Woods made golf more than just a game—he made it a spectacle, something you had to see to believe. And for a brief, glorious time, it felt like the whole world was watching right along with him.
Tim Cahill
Tim Cahill wasn’t just a player at Everton—he was a firecracker in the box, the kind of guy who could turn a game on its head with one well-placed header. Watching Cahill play for Everton was like watching a man who didn’t believe in lost causes. If the ball was anywhere near the goal, you knew Tim was lurking, ready to leap higher than anyone around him and smash it into the net with a perfectly timed nod. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the tallest player on the pitch—when Cahill went up for a header, it felt like the laws of gravity bent just for him.
For me, Tim Cahill was the heart of those Everton teams. He played with a relentless energy, a gritty determination that mirrored the spirit of the club itself. There was no coasting through a game for Cahill—he was all in, every single time, whether it was a derby or a midweek match in the rain. He brought an edge to Everton that made every game feel like a battle, and he never shied away from the physicality of the Premier League. But beyond the grit and the grind, Cahill had a knack for popping up when it mattered most—scoring vital goals at crucial moments, and usually doing it in spectacular fashion.
And then there was the corner flag. Every time Tim scored, he’d run straight to that flag, punch it with the kind of joy that made you feel like you were right there with him, celebrating not just the goal but the sheer thrill of the game. It wasn’t just a celebration—it was a signature move, something that made every Cahill goal feel like an event.
Tim Cahill’s time at Everton wasn’t just about stats or goals—it was about the passion he brought to the club, the way he embodied the fight, the hunger, and the hope that Evertonians live for. He may have played in other leagues and for other teams, but at Goodison Park, Tim Cahill was, and always will be, a legend.
Tim Howard
Tim Howard wasn’t just a goalkeeper—he was a human wall, the kind of player who could make 16 saves in a single World Cup match and still somehow look like he could’ve kept going for hours. Watching him play, you got the sense that if you put him in front of a firing squad, he’d still find a way to block most of the shots. Howard didn’t just save goals; he performed miracles in real-time, and he did it with the kind of calm intensity that made it all look weirdly effortless.
For me, Tim Howard was the original reason I fell in love with Everton—a relationship for which, to this day, I’m not sure whether to thank him or resent him. But whether he was playing for his club or for his country, Tim always gave everything he had. His grit and passion were undeniable, and that’s what made me love him as a player. He wasn’t just a world-class keeper; he was the kind of player who made you believe that the battle wasn’t over until the very last second.
Usually, I live for the thrill of watching goals, but with Tim, it was all about the art of stopping them—he made denial look like the ultimate victory. There was something mesmerizing about the way he threw himself into every save, stretching, diving, and contorting his body in ways that made you wonder if he had bones at all. He wasn’t just stopping shots; he was taking on an entire team, sometimes single-handedly, with a kind of determination that made you believe the impossible was always possible.
And whether he was guarding the net for Everton or standing tall for the U.S., one thing was certain—Howard brought everything to the pitch. He carried that responsibility with a focus that bordered on superhuman. When you consider he was doing all of this while publicly managing Tourette’s syndrome, his story becomes even more remarkable. Howard didn’t just defend a goalpost; he defended a narrative that said nothing could stop him—not opponents, not expectations, and certainly not a neurological disorder.
Tim Howard made me fall in love with the game in ways I didn’t expect, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. Or resentful. Depends on the day.
Tony Romo
Ah, Tony Romo—a name that, in my household, is met with a mix of reverence (from me) and playful derision (from my wife). You see, Tony has a bit of a reputation for throwing game-changing interceptions, and my wife never misses a chance to remind me of this. But let’s be clear: this is a list of my favorite players, not a ranking of people based on their number of championships—which is, let’s be honest, fortunate for Tony.
What I loved about Romo had nothing to do with Super Bowl rings or lack thereof. It was his story—going from an undrafted free agent to the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, with all the pressure that comes with America’s Team on his shoulders. Romo didn’t have it easy, and that’s what made him so compelling. He played with grit, determination, and the kind of resilience that makes you root for someone, even when things aren’t going their way (or when they’re throwing a late-game interception, depending on who you ask in my house).
And look, Romo wasn’t just out there flinging the ball around like a kid on a playground. He was a leader—someone who rallied his team, led by example, and never shied away from taking the blame when things didn’t go right. There was a courage to the way Romo played. He wasn’t afraid to take risks, even if those risks occasionally led to my wife pointing at the screen with an “I told you so” look in her eye. But that’s what made him special. Romo wasn’t perfect (and that’s probably an understatement), but he had heart.
Every time he took the field, you knew he was going to give everything he had, even if it meant taking a few hits and making a few mistakes along the way. And for me, that’s what made him one of my favorite players. Tony Romo was the kind of guy you couldn’t help but root for—because, despite all the interceptions and the missed opportunities, he played with a kind of joy, a kind of passion that’s hard to find.
So yes, Tony may not have racked up the championships, but he racked up something else: a place on this list and, dare I say, a place in my football heart. And that’s more than enough for me (though maybe not for my wife).
