By TODD HORNE, Tiger Rag Executive Editor
Anyone who’s covered enough SEC wars knows when a quarterback at any level is facing something heavier than a single bad night.
On a frigid December evening in 2025, inside the echoing locker room at Paycor Stadium in Cincinnati, Joe Burrow sat alone on the bench. His helmet lay discarded beside him, his gaze fixed on the concrete floor as if reading tomorrow’s headlines.
Ravens 24, Bengals 0.
His first professional shutout. Two interceptions. A season that began with Super Bowl chatter now lay buried at 4-10 as Cincinnati plays at 6-8 Miami Sunday. Playoff hopes extinguished.
Louisiana fans remember the ascent all too well. The kid from southeast Ohio transferred to LSU in 2018, claimed the Heisman Trophy in 2019 while orchestrating the greatest single-season performance by any Tiger quarterback en route to an undefeated national championship at 15-0.
Drafted first overall by Cincinnati, he shattered rookie records and led the Bengals to the Super Bowl in just his second year. Pure brilliance.
But on this night, the cold seeped into his surgically repaired toe, and a deeper weariness pressed down -one built over years of setbacks now resting squarely on his shoulders. The comparisons began surfacing after his candid midweek remarks:
“If it’s not fun, then what am I doing it for?”
The words evoked memories of Andrew Luck, the gifted Indianapolis Colts quarterback who stunned the NFL by retiring at 29 in 2019, drained by an endless injury-rehab-pain cycle.
Yet for LSU faithful, the sharper parallel was Bert Jones. Old footage shows Jones, LSU’s star of the early 1970s, taken second overall in 1973, transforming a struggling Baltimore Colts franchise into a perennial contender with three consecutive division titles. He earned MVP honors in 1976, firing deep balls with ice-cold poise, while dominating his era-adjusted peers.
Then came the injuries—shoulder, neck, back—behind offensive lines that offered little resistance. By age 30, in August 1982, he could no longer throw effectively and stepped away quietly, his body overriding his drive.
The similarities strike hard: both inherited losing programs, ignited immediate contention, delivered elite production relative to their time, earned reputations for clutch play, and endured repeated punishment up front.
Burrow has already lost significant time to an ACL tear, a wrist injury, and now the toe issue. His sack rate ranks in the bottom percentile. The Bengals’ run game sits near the bottom of the league in yards per carry. Under constant pressure, even his pinpoint accuracy has begun to waver.
No LSU supporter wants to watch another generational arm—one raised in Tiger Stadium—dimmed before 30 because adequate protection never materialized.
After the Ravens rout, Burrow shouldered the blame: “One of the worst games I’ve played… I’ve gotta be better. Everything.”
He offered no excuses, later clarifying that his comments about fun concerned only his personal mindset, not the organization.
Ja’Marr Chase, Burrow’s LSU teammate and longtime receiver, has pushed back against the gloom. Before facing Baltimore, Chase told reporters the quarterback remained unchanged: “He’s the same guy. That clip felt like AI. He don’t look bummed—same fierce competitor every day.”
Yet after the shutout, Chase revealed a shift: “I’ve never had to uplift him, but going forward I might need to, ’cause he does it for me. You never know what he’s going through.”
Chase even confronted hecklers behind the bench, shouting for them to head home. That fierce loyalty traces straight back to the bond forged under coach Ed Orgeron at LSU.
Three games remained – irrelevant for the postseason, but vital for reflection.
A top-five draft pick awaits. Larger questions loom in the offseason: Will Cincinnati finally construct trenches worthy of its franchise quarterback? Can Burrow reclaim the joy that once made every throw look effortless?
Like Jones and Luck before him, his legacy now balances on health, support, and that elusive spark. For the moment, he rises from the bench, laces his cleats, and walks toward the tunnel – still competing, still searching.
Geaux get that fire back, Joe. Louisiana remains watching.
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