Steelers Defy Critics: Rodgers Comeback Looms as McCarthy Returns

Paul Riverbank, 2/9/2026Amid speculation over Aaron Rodgers’ future with the Steelers and Mike McCarthy’s return, the NFL offseason merges nostalgia and change. Meanwhile, RFK Jr.’s Super Bowl snack talk spotlights America’s ongoing conversation about health, echoing the enduring connection between sports, personal choices, and national priorities.

When the Steelers announced Mike McCarthy as their next head coach, fans in Pittsburgh barely had a moment to process, let alone exhale. The McCarthy-Rodgers partnership is the stuff of modern football folklore: thirteen years, a Super Bowl Trophy, playbooks torn and rebuilt, two men whose rapport veered from indifference to silent respect, depending on the month. Now, the possibility—just the hint—of a late-career encore flickers.

Rodgers, who just finished his second, often rocky, campaign with the Jets before Pittsburgh traded for him, seemed both drained and content at season’s end. He stood in the locker room, helmet still clutched, and told reporters, “I’m not going to make any emotional decisions,” his voice even, eyes tired. He had grown into Pittsburgh in a matter of months, and it had surprised even his harshest critics. Players mentioned him by name during exit interviews, unprompted. Local columnist Gene Stapleton described the quarterback as “more mentor than mercenary.”

Yet, not everyone in the city is eager to see the Rodgers-McCarthy saga extended. This was a Steelers team that barely punched their ticket to the playoffs. There's a quiet but palpable drumbeat among some in the front office and a large chunk of the fanbase: when does fresh blood get a shot? Will Howard, for example, has been the object of increasing curiosity—and scrutiny—in local diners and sports radio segments.

Nevertheless, as Tom Pelissero of NFL Network wryly put it, “odds are increasing” that Rodgers will play in 2026. One could almost sense a split-screen effect: on one side, the old guard eyeing one last ride; on the other, hungry prospects pacing at the gate. Pittsburgh has always been a town that embraced its legends, but has little patience for sentimentality when it comes to wins and losses.

Super Bowl week, meanwhile, delivered an odd detour as the country’s health obsessions collided with its football ones. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., who heads up the Department of Health and Human Services these days, found his way into the sports cycle—not with a policy pronouncement, but a revelation about his own Super Bowl fare. “I'm on a carnivore diet,” he told a Fox correspondent, pausing as if anticipating the inevitable eyebrow. Yogurt, maybe—possibly some ferments—he joked, noting that while wings were off his personal menu, others should at least “check the ingredients.”

It was the type of comment that lands differently in an era where former heavyweight Mike Tyson is showing up in Super Bowl ads about obesity, and where game day snacking has reached something like existential importance. Kennedy, famously peculiar about his eating habits (tales of wild game and, yes, that bear cub, have almost become apocryphal), insists the country needs a refresh when it comes to food consciousness. “You don’t have to stick to celery sticks,” he told a local journalist afterwards, “but don’t ignore what goes into your mouth, either.”

Health, for both fan and athlete, loomed in the background as the NFL’s biggest event approached. The same questions echoed around both: How much more can one take? When does smart caution overtake nostalgia or tradition? Can old routines deliver new results, or is real progress about embracing the unfamiliar?

Rodgers faces a decision tinged with all of this. Is there another chapter—a last campaign with an old coach and some new energy? Or is Pittsburgh about to break from its habit, hand the keys to untested hands, and bet on tomorrow rather than yesterday?

One thing is certain: in football, as in the rest of life, chapters rarely close cleanly. Sometimes, all it takes is a single offseason, an unexpected reunion, or a conversation over plates of food—healthy or otherwise—to remind us that legacy, like appetite, can be surprisingly hard to satisfy.

On any given February, football speculation has a tendency to take on a life of its own. This winter, a familiar swirl caught up Aaron Rodgers, and for once, it wasn't about his ankle or an unexpected interception—it was about legacy, future, and whether a reunion could spark what remains of a legendary arm.When the Steelers announced Mike McCarthy as their next head coach, fans in Pittsburgh barely had a moment to process, let alone exhale. The McCarthy-Rodgers partnership is the stuff of modern football folklore: thirteen years, a Super Bowl Trophy, playbooks torn and rebuilt, two men whose rapport veered from indifference to silent respect, depending on the month. Now, the possibility—just the hint—of a late-career encore flickers.Rodgers, who just finished his second, often rocky, campaign with the Jets before Pittsburgh traded for him, seemed both drained and content at season’s end. He stood in the locker room, helmet still clutched, and told reporters, “I’m not going to make any emotional decisions,” his voice even, eyes tired. He had grown into Pittsburgh in a matter of months, and it had surprised even his harshest critics. Players mentioned him by name during exit interviews, unprompted. Local columnist Gene Stapleton described the quarterback as “more mentor than mercenary.”Yet, not everyone in the city is eager to see the Rodgers-McCarthy saga extended. This was a Steelers team that barely punched their ticket to the playoffs. There's a quiet but palpable drumbeat among some in the front office and a large chunk of the fanbase: when does fresh blood get a shot? Will Howard, for example, has been the object of increasing curiosity—and scrutiny—in local diners and sports radio segments.Nevertheless, as Tom Pelissero of NFL Network wryly put it, “odds are increasing” that Rodgers will play in 2026. One could almost sense a split-screen effect: on one side, the old guard eyeing one last ride; on the other, hungry prospects pacing at the gate. Pittsburgh has always been a town that embraced its legends, but has little patience for sentimentality when it comes to wins and losses.Super Bowl week, meanwhile, delivered an odd detour as the country’s health obsessions collided with its football ones. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., who heads up the Department of Health and Human Services these days, found his way into the sports cycle—not with a policy pronouncement, but a revelation about his own Super Bowl fare. “I'm on a carnivore diet,” he told a Fox correspondent, pausing as if anticipating the inevitable eyebrow. Yogurt, maybe—possibly some ferments—he joked, noting that while wings were off his personal menu, others should at least “check the ingredients.”It was the type of comment that lands differently in an era where former heavyweight Mike Tyson is showing up in Super Bowl ads about obesity, and where game day snacking has reached something like existential importance. Kennedy, famously peculiar about his eating habits (tales of wild game and, yes, that bear cub, have almost become apocryphal), insists the country needs a refresh when it comes to food consciousness. “You don’t have to stick to celery sticks,” he told a local journalist afterwards, “but don’t ignore what goes into your mouth, either.”Health, for both fan and athlete, loomed in the background as the NFL’s biggest event approached. The same questions echoed around both: How much more can one take? When does smart caution overtake nostalgia or tradition? Can old routines deliver new results, or is real progress about embracing the unfamiliar?Rodgers faces a decision tinged with all of this. Is there another chapter—a last campaign with an old coach and some new energy? Or is Pittsburgh about to break from its habit, hand the keys to untested hands, and bet on tomorrow rather than yesterday?One thing is certain: in football, as in the rest of life, chapters rarely close cleanly. Sometimes, all it takes is a single offseason, an unexpected reunion, or a conversation over plates of food—healthy or otherwise—to remind us that legacy, like appetite, can be surprisingly hard to satisfy.