A Breakup Letter to Trevor Siemian, Former Northwestern Quarterback, Ruthless Con Man, and the Deceptive Traitor of My Heart

Dear Trevor,

I always had a thing for the bad boys. That’s how I knew we were perfect for each other. Not only were you bad in the “BMOC” way (but not really), you were also bad in the literal “wow, this guy is hot garbage at football” way. Two kinds of bad—it was too good to be true. I should have known you would betray me like this.

You’ve changed, brah. The days of Trevor “Sad-Sack” Siemian we knew at Northwestern are over. Now you’ve evolved into Trevor “Potential Starting Quarterback for the Defending Super Bowl Champion Denver Broncos” Siemian, and it’s a transformation that feels surprising and inevitable, but also a bit cowardly. Scouts and analysts are perplexed by you. That makes sense. You always were an enigma, Trevor.

I remember the way people used to talk about you. I also remember the way people used to not talk about you. When I watched you on TV as you bumbled and stumbled and fumbled your way around the field, we never heard anything like:

• “You know Bob, that was an NFL-caliber throw by Trevor Siemian.”
• “The secret to this Northwestern football team, Andrea, is really Trevor Siemian. He’s easily their best player.”
• “You know what Trevor Siemian should do tomorrow? Enter the NFL draft.”
• “I can’t imagine a better use of Trevor Siemian’s time and money than flying cross-country to the NFL combine and trying out for some pro teams.”
• “If there’s one man I trust to lead this comeback, Michelle, it’s Trevor Siemian.”
• “If you only gave me one word to describe Trevor Siemian, it’d be an easy choice: Champion.”

You were disgusting at football. Not in a “watching you was physically unattractive” way, but actually in a “watching you made me throw up in my mouth a little” way. It was sorry to see. All of us at Northwestern wanted to like you. I, personally, was ready for love. But then, like any Bachelorette frontrunner, you were not the man I nor any of the other Wildcats hoped you would be. It was clear you were holding back from us. I mean, look at these numbers:

Career completion percentage: 58.9%
—Were you even trying? 

Career touchdowns/interceptions: 27 TDs/24 INTs
—Sure, maybe this isn’t entirely bad, but it’s like if you made plans for us to go out to a nice dinner, but we never actually secured a table because you forgot to make reservations at the restaurant, you know?  

Career rush yards: -23
—Maybe we should just recognize this for what it is: a cry for help. You should’ve communicated Trevor. That’s how love works. Love is having the courage and self-respect to not rush for -123 yards your senior year. That’s worth writing again so everyone knows it’s not a mistake. Love is having the courage and self-respect to not rush for -123 yards your senior year. If you’re hurting inside, that’s okay, but you have to tell someone when you’re in pain. Keeping it pent up was just going to bring us down with you, and, well, we shouldn’t have to mention the fight we had after Michigan.

Trevor, if we can be frank for a second, I feel like I speak for everyone when I say that we were really disappointed in the way you treated us at Northwestern. Heaven knows you weren’t a 10, but you didn’t have to be a 10.  We just wanted someone to stand in the pocket and take a hit for us. Stand up for us. Hold us when we cried. Maybe sing a song or two. Croon. Doesn’t matter—look, we didn’t want the best, but we wanted your best. And we know, we know. We’re Northwestern—we can be intimidating sometimes, but the answer wasn’t to hold back from being the NFL-ready quarterback that this doomsday-bound world has christened you. You tricked us, Trevor. You phoned it in. You betrayed our trust. You deceived my heart.

Now look at you. Just shameless. The moment we move on from your used-tissue style of athleticism and find someone else (Clayton Thorson comin’ in hot), you decide you’re going to become a notable professional athlete? That’s low, man. You can come around here with your Super Bowl ring and your new headlines, but there’s no way we take you back now. You can’t just decide to be good after giving Northwestern four years of stiff, fragile football. We had to sit in the stands of Ryan Field for four seasons and watch the human equivalent of a Slap Bracelet be our quarterback, and meanwhile you withhold your full self from us in favor of Denver, a city known in large part for its unique take on omelets? Just shallow.

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There’s a common hypothetical scenario in which someone comes to your house with a suitcase and big red button, like a button on a dashboard. They say if you push the button they’ll give you the suitcase, which is full of $1 million, cash. The problem is if you push the button, someone in the world will die at random. Could be someone you know, could not. Would you push the button?

Normally, I’m inclined to say no, but then I think of an alternative scenario where the person at the door says, “If you push the button I’ll give you the money, but pushing the button will also result in the death of Trevor Siemian, potential starting quarterback of the defending Super Bowl champion Denver Broncos.” And then I’d say, “Wow, that’s intense. No kidding?” And they’d say, “Right.” And then I’d grab the button and push it really nice and hard to make sure it went through, and then after the person gave me the suitcase of cash I’d push the button again a second time, just to be safe, and then I’d probably ask if I could keep the button, you know, as a memento of the moment I satisfied my relationship vendetta and became a millionaire at the same time. Best Christmas Eve ever.

You might be appalled to read that, Trevor, but deep down in your deceptive cloak-and-dagger heart, you know that you’d push the button too. In fact, you already pushed the button two years ago, when you took a briefcase full of NFL potential and killed any sense of closure at Northwestern. You’ll always have a place in our hearts, a place once so full of hope and promise and hey-that’s-okay mediocrity, but now so full of confusion and frustration that it’s hard to make sense of. Are you a good quarterback? Are you a bad quarterback? I have no idea. I just know all the questions make me angry. You were our Wildcat quarterback, and your first signal-caller is forever, but why’d you have to upgrade so visibly? So publicly? So obviously? You were just pulling our strings the whole time.

I’m sorry it had to be this way, Trevor. If we could do it all over again, we’d probably both take back some of the things we did (mostly you though). But as it stands, we have to part ways. Don’t text me, and don’t snap your Super Bowl ring and say you brought it home for the ‘Cats. It just makes it worse.

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—Dazz