Jennifer Mangold: The Anchor

In this fictional world, Jennifer and Nick met in college — she, an education major with a quick wit; he, a lineman with a shy smile. Their first date was at a local diner where Nick ordered three burgers “just to be polite.”

“I knew right then he was one of a kind,” Jennifer recalls with a laugh. “And I also knew I’d be doing a lot of grocery shopping.”

Throughout his fictional career, she became the quiet constant — handling moves, injuries, and the chaos of NFL Sundays with calm grace. When Nick retired, he often joked that she’d “finally get her Sundays back.”

Now, in the soft quiet of evenings, she keeps his grill spotless and his old Jets hat hanging on the porch hook where he left it.

“The world saw strength,” she says. “We saw gentleness. That’s what we miss most.”

The Kids Who Carry His Fire

In this imagined story, the Mangolds’ four children — Jake, Ellie, Sam, and Harper — each carry a piece of their father’s soul.

• Jake (14) is already the size of a lineman and wears his dad’s old number at youth football practice. Coaches say he plays with the same calm ferocity — silent until the whistle, unstoppable after.

• Ellie (12) prefers art to sports but keeps one of Nick’s wristbands on her nightstand. She paints his silhouette into her sketches: a big figure, small smile, eyes kind.

• Sam (9) has his father’s humor. He runs around yelling, “You can’t blitz the kitchen!” whenever someone asks him to set the table.

• Harper (6), the youngest, remembers his voice the least but his warmth the most. She sleeps with the stuffed bear he bought on his last road trip.

Each Sunday, they gather around Jennifer in the living room to watch a Jets game. Before kickoff, Jake presses his hand to the screen. “For Dad,” he whispers.

The Backyard That Became a Shrine

In the fictional backyard, Nick’s old smoker still sits under the oak tree. The kids say it smells like summer and hickory whenever the wind blows just right.
Jennifer planted wildflowers around it — his favorite color, deep green, blooms every spring.

Neighbors sometimes stop by, bringing old photographs from community cookouts or charity events. They laugh, they cry, and they tell stories that begin the same way: “Remember how Nick…”

“He was the neighbor who’d shovel your driveway before you woke up,” says one friend. “You’d only know because you saw his boot prints in the snow.”