Jimmy Rodgers

⚫🟣 𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗥 — 𝗛𝗨𝗦𝗞𝗬 𝗟𝗘𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗗! 🟣⚫ 🏈 𝗨𝗪 𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗟𝗘-𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡 𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗗: 𝟰𝟴.𝟱 🏈 𝗨𝗪 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗗: 𝟰𝟲.𝟭 𝗔𝗡𝗗!!! 😃 💜 𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗠𝗘𝗧 𝗔𝗧 𝗔 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗠𝗘𝗘𝗧! 🖤 🟣⚫ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗧𝗢𝗪𝗡 𝗗𝗔𝗪𝗚𝗦 ⚫🟣

Left to right: Coach Don James, Brian Stone, Jimmy Rodgers, James Sandberg, Lori Stone, Scott Fausset, Lisa Kraft, Kevin O'Keefe, Richard Wilson, Mark Mills, Mr. Allen Stovers.... Far Left Don James

Husky Legend and Host of The Downtown Dawgs creator of The Don James statue Jimmy Rodgers

🍊🍊 𝗦𝗘𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟭𝟱, 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟰. 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗜𝗚 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗦𝗘. 🍊🍊 𝟭𝟬𝟱,𝟬𝟬𝟬 𝗙𝗔𝗡𝗦. #𝟭𝟲 𝗪𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡. #𝟯 𝗠𝗜𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗡. 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗨𝗦𝗞𝗜𝗘𝗦 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢 𝗔𝗡𝗡 𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗢𝗥 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗖𝗔𝗠𝗘 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗔 𝟮𝟬–𝟭𝟭 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧. 🍊🍊 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗨𝗥𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗡 𝗛𝗔𝗗 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗗. 🍊🍊

⚫️ 𝗔 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗔𝗪𝗔𝗬 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝟲:𝟮𝟮. ⚫️ 💜🖤 𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗗𝗢𝗖𝗨𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗗-𝗜/𝗙𝗕𝗦 𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟬. 🖤💜 🖤 𝗝𝗢𝗘 𝗞𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗬. 𝗝𝗢𝗘 𝗞𝗥𝗔𝗞𝗢𝗦𝗞𝗜. 𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗡𝗜𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗠𝗘𝗦. 𝗥𝗢𝗡 𝗛𝗔𝗗𝗟𝗘𝗬. 💜 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗨𝗥𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗡. 🖤🖤💜 𝗟𝗘𝗧’𝗦 𝗚𝗢 𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗭𝗬!

🐋🌊🐋 𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗗, 𝗘𝗟𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗘! 🐋🌊🐋 🚨🏈🔥 𝗧𝗜𝗠 𝗚𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗡 & 𝗨𝗦𝗖 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞! 🔥🏈🚨 Former USC QB Tim Green stepped up for his fellow Trojan QB Todd Marinovich… and somewhere along the way called my dear friend of four decades, JIM VON SAND TRAP, A REDNECK! 😂 Tim, I respect your stance—and I fully expect you to respect mine. 𝗝𝗜𝗠 𝗩𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗣-𝗕𝗘𝗥𝗚 𝗜𝗦 𝗙𝗔𝗥 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗗𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗞. As Lisa’s rare National Geographic footage clearly proves… 🐋🌊 𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗗, 𝗘𝗟𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗘. 🐋🌊 The Sand Trap Chronicles 💜🖤😂

🦉💜 𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗪𝗛𝗢 🖤🐺 𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗪𝗚𝗦 𝗔𝗜𝗡’𝗧 𝗕𝗔𝗗 𝗠𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗥𝗦! 💜🖤 𝗚𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗔 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘. 💃☔️ Three seconds at Pike Place… Lady Bird looked me dead in the eyes. 👀🦉 𝗦𝗛𝗘 𝗞𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗜 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗗𝗔𝗪𝗚. 💜

💜🖤 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗣𝗧 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 “𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗧 𝗜𝗧 𝗢𝗡 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗟𝗔𝗞𝗘” 🖤💜 Greatness is only achieved when you strive for perfection. And perfection is almost impossible—unless, of course, you played on the 1991 team. From 1980 through 1983, our goals at Washington were clear: Win the Pac-10. Win the Rose Bowl. In 1981, we did exactly that. We won the Pac-10, won the Rose Bowl, and finished No. 7 in the country. Those were great goals. But heading into 1984, something changed. One day, the great Coach Skip Hall started walking toward me. My first thought was: What did I do now? I was already preparing my defense. Yes, Coach, I know I got kicked out of McMahon Hall. Yes, Coach, I was drinking on the plane to the Aloha Bowl. Yes, sir, that was me in the fight at the SAE fraternity. And, if necessary: Yes, Coach, Brenno, Larry, Tim, and I were the four guys hiding in the men's bathroom stalls after the Aloha Bowl so we could stay behind in Hawaiʻi. After all, we'd never been to Hawaiʻi. I was prepared to confess to just about anything. Instead, Skip told me something I never expected: My teammates had unanimously selected me as one of their captains. Now we're talking. Tim Meamber and I had been talking about 1984 for years. We knew that when we became the seniors—the leaders, the captains—this would finally be our team. And we knew something else. We had one hell of a defense. For the previous several seasons, Washington's goals had essentially remained the same: Win the Pac-10. Win the Rose Bowl. But when the four captains sat down with Coach Don James, we wanted more. I looked at Coach and said: “Coach, we want to win the national title.” Not just the Pac-10. Not just the Rose Bowl. The national title. Tim Meamber—one of the most passionate and intense players I've ever known—jumped in. “We can't beat Northwestern or Miami of Ohio 10–3. We have to beat them 55–0.” Don's eyes sharpened. Tim got quiet. Quickly. And then Coach James did something rare. He smiled. Not a big smile. Don James didn't give many of those. It was that subtle Coach James smile—the corners of his mouth barely lifting. But to me, that smile said everything. It was as if he'd been waiting his entire career for this moment—for his captains to sit across from him and say, “Coach, winning isn't enough. We want the national championship.” He understood exactly what we were saying. We weren't satisfied with simply winning anymore. We wanted dominance. We wanted a defense that could change a game. We wanted opponents to know exactly what was coming—and still be unable to stop it. Most importantly, we weren't lowering the goal because perfection was nearly impossible. We were raising the standard because greatness demanded that we chase it. That was the beginning of 1984. The beginning of something bigger than any one of us. And, in many ways, the beginning of what would become known as the ☔☔ THE ORIGINAL 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍 ☔☔☔

Every once in a while, early in the morning, my dad would take me along when he met his buddies for coffee. I sat quietly because kids in those days were supposed to be seen and not heard. That was fine with me. All those men talked about was sports. And more and more, they talked about one guy in particular: Ashland’s own Sonny Sixkiller. Even the name took me places. Sonny Sixkiller. There was a song about Sonny. And then came October 4, 1971. Sonny Sixkiller was on the cover of the only magazine that mattered to a sports-crazy kid like me: Sports Illustrated. I can still see it. The purple. Sonny. His Native heritage. And those words: WASHINGTON WONDER — SONNY SIXKILLER. It may have happened long before I ever understood it, but I think I became a Husky right then. More than fifty years later, on October 7, 2023, I had a heart attack. Soon afterward, I found myself in cardiac rehabilitation. Quite a journey. There were about a dozen folding chairs arranged around the room, and in front of every chair was a different set of colored dumbbells. Two pounds. Five pounds. And sitting in front of my chair: pink dumbbells. Two and a half pounds. Mirrors surrounded the room. I sat there with the other cardiac rehab patients waiting for our trainer and started looking around. And I remember thinking: Is this it? All of that... to this? All those football fields. All those games. All those collisions. All those years training my body to do things most people couldn't do. And now I was sitting in a room full of heart patients with a pair of two-and-a-half-pound pink dumbbells at my feet. I started thinking about my life. Then I looked across the room. My eyes locked with another man's eyes in the mirror. Sonny Sixkiller. We both started laughing. More than fifty years after I sat silently listening to my dad and his buddies talk about him over coffee, there we were. Two old Huskies. Two heart patients. And a room full of dumbbells. I walked over. We shook hands. And Sonny said: “How's John, Jeff, Judy, Joey and Jill?” I couldn't believe it. He remembered every one of my brothers and sisters. John. Jeff. Judy. Joey. Jill. The little boy from Ashland who once sat quietly listening to grown men talk about Sonny Sixkiller was now standing beside him in cardiac rehab. Maybe that's what a life is. You spend years believing you're moving forward in a straight line. Then one day you look across a room— and discover you've been traveling in circles.