extension, the Rams’ move from St. Louis to L.A. and
everything else, one of the greatest players in the his-
tory of football had, at last, the only accomplishment he
lacked. He thought back to Pittsburgh, his hometown:
the close friend who was murdered, the other friends
who went to prison and the family that both sheltered
and shaped him, starting with 4:30 a.m. workouts in The
Dungeon—what his father, Archie, named their basement.
“I’m still living in the moment,” Donald says, nine
days after the Super Bowl triumph, his words accurate
and incomplete. That’s because no matter where he goes
or what he does, the question
strangers, teammates and James
asked lingers, even in football
heaven: What’s next?A
LL THE DRAMA started
when Donald met with
NBC broadcasters during
Super Bowl week. Before sitting
down, he had an informal con-
versation with Rodney Harrison,
one Donald calls “personal.”
When the retired NFL safety
joked that Donald might play
15 additional seasons, the defen-
sive tackle responded honestly,
answering for, he believed, anaudience of one. “Honest ly, you never k now,” he responded.
“This could be my last year.”
Harrison shared that sentiment on national television
before the game, but Donald didn’t find out until after-
ward, when reporters asked him about it. “I wouldn’t
expect [Harrison] to do something like that,” Donald
says. “I wouldn’t want him to.” Notice what he didn’t
say: that Harrison was wrong.
The rumors had spread in the days before the game.
Most framed Donald’s decision as tethered to his dom-
inance. With 98 career sacks, eight Pro Bowl nods,
seven first-team All-Pro honors and three Defensive
Player of the Year awards, he was already a lock for the
Pro Football Hall of Fame. Beyond a title, what else
could he play for? Others ventured that his job descrip-
tion—clashing with multiple (and massive) blockers on
almost every play—had left a physical imprint. Maybe
he worried about his brain?
They were right, those rumormongers. Donald was
seriously considering whether he wanted to play foot-
ball anymore. But they were wrong, too, because his
emotional tug-of-war wasn’t about football (beyond the
time, effort and sacrifice it took him to, as McVay says,
“epitomize greatness”).
This isn’t a subject that Donald wades into often,
certainly not publicly. He told reporters what he told
himself at the parade. But he left out how problematic
his reality had become. The same thoughts had weighed
on him every day throughout the past three seasons.
He even told teammates two years ago that perhaps he
would step away after Year 8—the very season that had
ended with his meaty hands raising the Lombardi Trophy
toward the sky.
During a late-February phone interview, and for the
first time publicly, Donald broached the true reason
he would consider retirement.
“I’m thinking about my kids,
first, always,” he says. “People
who know me understand why.”
He spoke softly, with inten-
tion. Why the honesty? Why now?
“I’m a guy that shows my truth,”
he responded.
And his truth is this: Donald
lives in Southern California
with his wife, Erica, and their
son, Aaric, who was born in
September. His other two chil-
dren, Jaeda and Aaron Jr., spend
most of the year in Pittsburgh.
He can pinpoint the day he real-
ized how deeply the distanceSPORTS
ILLUSTRATED
SI.COM
APRIL 2022
25AARON DONALDPLAY
THEN
SPRAY
Donald’s
on-field
celebration
spilled over
into a week of
champagne-
soaked,
shirtless
moments.KIR
BY
LE
E/U
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