Redemption, the Seattle Way: What Sam Darnold’s Career Really Tells Us

If you grow up in the Northwest, you develop a relationship with being underestimated.

It shows up in sports first. The teams you root for rarely get the benefit of the doubt. Big moments are framed as flukes. Wins are explained away. Losses are treated as proof of something people already believed. Over time, that skepticism becomes familiar, and eventually, it becomes something you almost take pride in.

That context matters when you talk about .

I first started paying attention to Darnold long before he ever put on an NFL uniform. He was an opposing quarterback at USC, playing against the Huskies, and you could tell immediately that he had something you don’t teach easily. He wasn’t perfect, but he was fearless. He competed. He didn’t shrink.

When he entered the NFL, the narrative around him hardened quickly. High draft pick. Immediate expectations. And then, instability almost from the start.

The Jets were never a particularly forgiving environment for a young quarterback, and that has been true across multiple regimes. Coaching turnover. Shifting systems. An organization still trying to find itself while asking a young player to be the face of it. That combination rarely ends well.

The moment that seemed to crystallize the national narrative came during that infamous Patriots game, when Darnold was caught on the broadcast saying he was “seeing ghosts.” It became a punchline almost instantly. Replayed endlessly. Treated as evidence that he wasn’t built for the moment.

What always stuck with me, though, was how out of line that felt.

Local radio host said what a lot of people were thinking at the time. That moment was taken out of context. It wasn’t intended for public consumption. It was a private comment pulled into the spotlight and weaponized.

Once a label sticks, it rarely lets go.

What I also remember is how supportive was of Darnold, even then. Carroll has always been someone who sees the person before the narrative. He understands development. He understands confidence. He understands that leadership doesn’t always announce itself loudly.

That belief matters, especially when the outside world has already made up its mind.

Fast forward to this season in Seattle, and the gap between perception and reality couldn’t have been clearer.

Week after week, national media continued to question the quarterback and leader of the . The doubts were familiar. Too inconsistent. Too mistake-prone. Not the guy.

And yet, if you watched the games instead of the panels, you saw something else.

You saw poise.

You saw confidence.

ou saw command, especially late in games.

Yes, there was the Rams game where he threw four interceptions. That game gets referenced constantly, as if it exists in isolation. But football seasons are not single moments, no matter how convenient it is to treat them that way.

What stood out far more were the countless games where Darnold steadied the team when it mattered. Where he didn’t unravel. Where he took responsibility without theatrics. Where he led without needing to convince anyone he was the leader.

That distinction matters.

There was a moment this season that captured it perfectly. After yet another round of criticism, linebacker said what the locker room clearly felt, telling the critics to f*** off. That wasn’t bravado. It was protection. It was belief. It was a teammate publicly drawing a line.

You don’t get that kind of response unless it’s earned.

There’s a famous video from last season in Minnesota, when Darnold’s teammates literally carried him off the field and into the locker room after the final game. That doesn’t happen because of stats. It happens because of trust. Because players believe in the person they’re following.

Leadership shows up in moments like that long before it ever gets acknowledged on television.

Part of the disconnect is structural. There is a very real East Coast bias in sports media. Most of the major outlets are based there. Most of the narratives are shaped there. West Coast teams routinely receive less attention, fewer primetime slots, and less favorable framing.

That bias affects everything. Awards voting. National storylines. Even how wins and losses are contextualized.

If you play in Seattle, you are already swimming upstream.

That’s why the playoff introductions this year mattered so much.

The announcements at Lumen Field are always loud. They build toward a crescendo. Historically, they end with the biggest name. On defense, it was . On offense, it was or .

That pattern had meaning.

This time, it unfolded differently.

The final names weren’t defensive legends or nostalgic icons. They were , the unquestioned star of the present, and then Sam Darnold.

JSN got a massive pop, as expected.

Then Darnold ran out, and the reaction was even bigger.

That moment wasn’t subtle.

It wasn’t about stats or narratives or convincing anyone outside the building. It was Seattle, in front of a national audience, making something clear. This is our guy. We believe in him.

That kind of affirmation doesn’t come from hype. It comes from shared experience.

Redemption stories often get oversimplified. They’re framed as sudden turnarounds or triumphant vindication arcs. In reality, they are far quieter.

Redemption isn’t about erasing mistakes. It’s about integrating them.

It’s about learning without hardening. About staying steady when praise disappears and criticism gets loud. About showing up every day for your teammates even when the story being told about you isn’t flattering.

Darnold’s career mirrors something that exists far beyond football.

Many people experience early praise that turns into unrealistic expectations. Others have mistakes follow them longer than they should. Some are asked to lead before the environment is ready to support them.

The ones who last aren’t always the most gifted. They’re the ones who don’t quit when the narrative turns against them.

They stay in the work.

They stay accountable.

They stay human.

Eventually, the right team sees them clearly.

That’s the real lesson in Sam Darnold’s story. Not that he proved anyone wrong, but that he stayed long enough for the truth to catch up.

Seattle understands that instinctively.

It always has.