Dear John Harbaugh: The long fraud of your goodbye and $oft landing in The Big Apple

Dear John:

No one cares but I’m still working harder.

Yes, even in your absence, I still live, eat and breathe the lousy T-shirt.

And hey, if Sexy Rexy could pirate “Play Like a Raven” into “Play Like A Jet” without anyone afoot noticing, I’m sure the Giants faithful will be all greased up waiting for your next rehashed bulletin board slogan because we all know you have that “rah-rah,” ballcoach bullshit hardwired into you.

I’ve blessed myself with 60 days to give your rather abrupt departure here some time to fully decant – like a hair-raising, pellet-gun plum Owings Mills vintage – and smelling that musty, stale aroma and a hint of that rancid taste in the mouth you get when someone leaves town wearing a smile that doesn’t quite match the damage they did on the way out.

So, let’s get to it quickly, because I know you love a long answer that doesn’t answer anything.

You and Chad Steele never answered the question I asked when you bullied me out of the local media after four decades of doing this work on behalf of Baltimore sports fans:

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“What do you want me to tell the other humans I know when they ask me about you?”

So, over the last two months when the people who really know how well I know you over two decades ask me about the hammer of Bisciotti’s mobile phone firing and your feather landing in the $wamp$ of Jersey, I speak from the heart the way you always pretended to when I politely say, “Good f***ing riddance to John Harbaugh!”

The ‘F’ standing for fraud, of course, because that was pretty much the public image and the smell and trail you left behind as a Super Bowl-winning coach who spent the last dozen years not winning playoff games and blowing more leads uglier than anyone who ever survived for 18 seasons.

And it’s not because you didn’t win here once. You did. Not because you didn’t work hard. You did (even if no one cared). Not because you didn’t say the “right” things. You certainly did that, even when it was nonsensical to the edge of comical.

The brand you sold Baltimore: straight shooter, culture builder, accountable leader, humble servant, winning car dealership spokesman, Christian Fellowship of Athletes devotee and faithful Man of God. The man you practiced being at the podium: evasive, strategic, selective, slippery, purposely dishonest when it served you. And the older and richer you got in power, the less honest you became with the people paying for the tickets, let alone to the lifer local sports media guy and PSL holder with the FCC license who has served the community with integrity for a lifetime with coverage of a game that has made you a very wealthy man.

John, you richly earned all of those empty seats and walkouts last season at the stadium.

And now you’re up on Exit 16W with a Giants logo affixed over your bleeding red, white and blue heart, a five-year big boy deal for $100 million and a brand-new stage in East Rutherford where the questions don’t stop just because you don’t like how they sound.

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You ain’t in Baltimore no more, Hon!

I saw how you stood at that bright Broadway podium and gave them your shiny new line:

“Football is a Verb – All the time, every day.”

Cute. I’m sure it’s already a T-shirt in Asbury Park. Surprised you weren’t wearing it at the Knicks game at The Garden last month when you looked like a conquering hero – or Pat Riley if he had ever won there.

But here’s the problem, Coach Hard Ball: truth is a verb, too. Accountability is a verb. Leadership is a verb. And for the last stretch of your Baltimore tenure, you treated those verbs like optional drills – or a Lamar sighting at your OTAs – something you talked about far more than you lived.

I’ve covered hundreds of coaches in my professional sports media career since 1984. Ask anyone: coaches have been my favorite people during my life’s incredible journey because long before the likes of Bill Belichick came around, I found them to always be the honest ones, the grown-ups in the room who didn’t abide fiction or nonsense so they never tried to sell it to a young reporter who had no problem calling “bullshit” on any of them. I wrote for the paper as 17-year old kid from Dundalk. I was a piss-poor guy to lie to if you had to see me the next day.

You, however, simply didn’t walk your talk, John Harbaugh.

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You are, quite comfortably and at your very core, a fundamentally dishonest man as this lifelong reporter saw it.

Big Truss? Yeah, I remember that…

I’ve watched you build… and I’ve watched you hide…and evaporate…and then send me a few years’ worth of the damnedest texts and a personal thread of brazen lies that will forever be a first-ballot bust in the Aparicio reporter “Hall of Shame.”

“What do I really think of John Harbaugh?”

I can assure you that when I show people your actual words in my phone over many years that most of the feedback I get from my astute friends begins with “a piece” and ends with an “it.” And the more I ask around to former players and others in the Owings Mills building that you ran, the more I realize that there is a long trail of dishonesty that follows in your wake far beyond the media podium and the many times you lied to me.

I know what you’re about, John.

New York is about to find out.

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And, of course, you’re a helluva football coach. Belichick was too, but he was a serial cheater. You only cheat the rules; never the game. That’s more your brother’s act in Ann Arbor.

But, let’s put some respect on true Baltimore Ravens history and your massive role and successes before I sharpen the scalpel on your tenure and era here in my hometown. Not to mention what you and the same billionaire who fired you on speakerphone on Tufton Road two days after a rookie kicker shanked a kick in the easy end in Pittsburgh. And only because the previous “Hall of Shame > Fame” kicker, the G.O.A.T got caught with his pants down 11 months earlier in a scandal that should’ve been much larger in Baltimore than it was – and the whispers were roars from women on the streets of my hometown – but still massaged enough karma to kick all of your lying, arrogant asses wide right at The Confluence.

But that poor Loop’ed kick gave you the richest landing in NFL head coaching history with $100 million of fresh dough and Steve gets a shiny, new coat of purple paint – with a Harbaugh family devotee and protégé nonetheless – and the youthful, trusted defensive voice for Lamar in Jesse Minter that you clearly weren’t in regard to getting what you really desired but couldn’t demand from No. 8: full participation. (The guess here that Jaxson Dart will be darting many down and out throws in the “optional” offseason program for Big Blue. We’ll see about Lamar.)

You came to Baltimore 18 years ago and made the operation feel younger and tougher after Brian Billick but you inherited a stacked roster and a capable corps of talent evaluators and coaches that wildly enhanced your capabilities and legacy. You won a Super Bowl (barely, but they can’t take it away from you even if your cheating brother would like to). You stabilized the franchise, became a son to Bisciotti and for a long time, somehow appeared to be the adult in the room — the guy who could walk into a mess like Ray Rice and lie enough with a straight face to make it make sense. I’m sure Dick Cass and Kevin Byrne appreciated that.

I wrote glowingly and at length about the first five years of your stewardship in over 500 pages in Purple Reign 2. You are a Super Bowl-winning head coach pushing for Canton but I can’t put you in any Hall of Fame for winning January football games. Or throwing challenge flags.

And your integrity? Well…

I’ve kissed your ass publicly far more than I’ve flogged you, believe it or not. There was a time when I was foolish enough to believe that you only lied to other people before the reality sank in that it doesn’t really work that way for good fellas like you who line up to work with louts like Steve Bisciotti who employ bouncers like Chad Steele.

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Dishonesty has been the one constant in the air in Owings Mills for a long, long time in the aftermath of the Modell family. But no one ever offered me an NDA, so I simply report the truth instead of subverting it.

Something definitely happened with the institutional arrogance of Team Bisciotti after your New Orleans ring and the years and the power and the ascending paycheck that made you untouchable even before Lamar Jackson saved your job here almost a decade ago. Something always happens when people stop being hungry and start being protected and the owner runs off to Florida and hides, even when their star running back is punching his wife in the mouth in a glass elevator and everyone in the building is willing to look the other way because they need to get 1,800 all-purpose yards out of him next season.

You began confusing control and false information with leadership. Hell, you guys lied and manage to hide the truth about Justin Tucker for a decade! And then bullied and smeared the media members who reported the absolute truth on behalf of traumatized young, female massage therapists all over the city!

Women being insignificant is a massive message that Owings Mills (and the NFL) has sent the local citizens for a generation now. And you ran the building.

This remains a small town. And I remain in the epicenter of its echoes – the aorta of its heart for authenticity, legitimacy and care.

And Baltimore – the fans, the media, the people who actually live and discuss the consequences of your decisions on Sundays – started feeling it long before you executed your extermination of me as a media member and neutered everyone else in my wake.

The press conferences got more controlled and polished and less revealing. The accountability got softer and more performative. The answers became corporate, even when you were “passionate.” You became a punchline narrator more than a truth-teller, and you started treating honest questions like hostile acts.

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That’s the fraud part, John. Not that you didn’t know football; you’ve always got your end on that part (well, at least until the fourth quarter).

The truth: you sold honesty and practiced spin.

And yes, I mean me. Personally.

This isn’t some abstract sports columnist routine where I wag my missing pointer finger at “leadership culture” like I’m grading a philosophy exam.

You lied to me.

Personally. Repeatedly. Brazenly.

You told me things privately that you didn’t stand up for publicly. You promised accountability you didn’t deliver. You watched weak people with power in your orbit bully, blacklist, and attempt to smear a working local journalist – and when it came time to do the right thing, you hid behind the oldest coward sentence in the NFL:

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“That’s not my department.”

All while texting me thoughts and prayers – and lies.

A head coach with full command of an organization’s football culture suddenly becomes a guy who can’t pick up a phone when integrity is on the line? A “leader of men” who runs the building (according to the current Super Bowl-winning head coach in Seattle and anyone else with a brain) and can motivate a locker room of millionaires but somehow can’t influence the people running the gate?

Chad Steele had more power than you?

Really, that’s what you want me to tell people on the streets of Baltimore?

And you wonder why I call you an absolute fraud?

And the cost wasn’t theoretical. It’s cost me years. It cost me access. It costs me revenue. It still costs me reputation amongst those who also think professional wrestling is real and Trump is honest. It cost me several lifelong friendships and was very intentional in its intention to cast doubt on my integrity and credibility as a human and an honest, local media member.

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(But, really, the smart people here know better, which is why I’m still here and you’re not.)

And the ugliest part, especially as it relates to me, my wife and my family, local business and loyal audience? You let it happen while still smiling for cameras and talking about faith and family and values. And privately sending me texts the last three years with more lies and biblical gibberish, while asking me how my wife is doing.

You had so much power that no one dare even ask you about it.

I get asked about it every day of my life.

So when I call you a fraud, I’m not doing it for clicks. I’m doing it because I’ve lived the receipts in my own career – and I’ve documented it for years on Baltimore Positive. Not as a whine. As a civic warning.

I have your texts, John.

I know the gospel; New York is only buying the sermon. They didn’t read the fine print although some in the media caught on that it was printed in POWER point. Because that’s always the point. And that’s why you arm-wrestled and feigned the Luv Ya Blue of Nashville with Amy Adams right on up until you finally kissed Tisch and Mara and let them know whose “ring finger” would be picking the groceries just like the old Parcells days in the swamps.

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So, let’s talk about the latest “John Harbaugh Experience” – Broadway Hard Ball – now playing in East Rutherford.

You got the grand fanfare, the championship-culture talk, the papal wave and the “we’re gonna football” vibe. You got the bag – and even let Bisciotti off the hook for tens of millions.  

But, Harbs, you didn’t just get hired. You got empowered.

You got anointed, John!

It kinda reminded me of back when Tony took over the family business for Uncle Junior up there, once upon a time.

But, badda bing, New York reports say you’re reporting directly to ownership and sitting at the top of the food chain in a way Giants coaches haven’t in decades. (I’m thinking George and Ernie wouldn’t have approved of this arrangement, but, hey it’s family business.) And you’ve leaned into that publicly – with that familiar “everybody reports to the boss” framing, while also making it clear to John Mara who is, ahem, running the show. (Tisch, Tisch, Tisch…)

Translation: you’re not walking into a ball coach job like you had in Baltimore. You’re walking into a structure where your infamous paranoia can shape the structure around yourself. In the biggest media market in the world.

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Real power.

And you’ve already started insulating the walls of The G Men with a G-rated woman.

You’ve jetted NFL legend Dawn Aponte back into a meeting across the river in the swamps of Jersey and planted her into a sweeping football-operations strategy role touching analytics, cap, contracts, compliance — basically every lever that turns a roster into a weapon. That’s not some ceremonial title. That’s some Pam Bondi, “How Dare You!” power. And it’s also the kind of organizational layering that creates a thousand new opportunities to say, later, when the questions get Hudson River hot:

“I’m not going to get into that.”
“That’s internal.”
“We’ve got people for that.”

In other words: more places for you to hide. (To focus on football, of course…)

Now add the Tisch cloud and the pedophilia of his buddy Epstein – and watch how fast “football” becomes a shield around the biggest scandal of our lifetimes.

Welcome to New York, where the co-owner isn’t just filthy rich, he’s actually filthy news that is bigger than beating the Eagles on Sunday. Front page > back page!

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Steve Tisch’s name surfaced repeatedly in the latest DOJ-released Epstein document batch, and of course he issued a statement saying he had a “brief association,” regrets it, and denied visiting Epstein’s Little Rape Island. (They all do. I’m sure that is satisfactory enough for Roger and Lisa Friel!)

At the combine, when “the Giants” were asked about Tisch and Epstein, you and Joe Schoen “stuck to football” and declined to comment beyond pointing back to Tisch’s statement. Of course, he’s unavailable right now counting all of the money the Giants fans are forking over.

“Stick to football.”

Of course that’s what you wanna do. Just like Justin Tucker last winter. You barely even knew him, right? Plus, he was old and it was a long time ago and he’s not very good anymore! It was, errr, a “football” decision…

You’ve been practicing that move for years: when the topic is uncomfortable, when it’s bigger than X’s and O’s, when it threatens the brand or hurts your feelings – you throw a tarp over it and announce you’re “focused on football.”

And then Chad Steele would happily threaten – or simply deny – anyone with a follow up question.

(Yo, New York media, I’ll be writing to you separately with a primer on Harbaugh-ease! But, do not miss what you just saw in Indianapolis! That wasn’t a one-off. That’s the ‘Harbs’ operating system.)

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And here’s the issue: the New York media machine isn’t built to accept flimsy tarps covering obvious bullshit. It’s built to rip them off.

So, the question isn’t whether controversy will follow you or find you. It already has and will. The question is whether your old Baltimore paranoia and power tactics will work under Manhattan lighting and the neons of Broadway or the reflections of green awfulness emanating from Woody and the Jets, who we all thought would somehow always manage to stoop lower in the swamps of the Meadowlands until this Tisch disgrace surfaced.

But, of course, you support all of the illegal shenanigans of the Commander-In-Chief so much so that you went and rubbed some of your family credibility off on him enough to be his favorite NFL coach.

You have no problem with any of Epstein’s pals. They’re your pals, too!

(BTW: Nothing screams “fraud” louder than this image.)

But, you’re weirdly and naively comfortable around political power – and you showed it and sought it by seeking to cozy up to a man burying millions of documents about his association with the world’s most infamous pedophile, rapist, kidnapper, jailer and best friend of this guy and a closet good buddy of your new boss.

Trump also called the city where you were employed as a “civic leader” for $17 million per anum a “disgusting rat-infested hell hole” without any defense from you. He also called your players of color “sons of bitches.” And the cheerleading of those who were inspired by The Wembley Knee to never watch another Ravens game again in 2017 were the very ones who still somehow love you for not defending your players or the city you made $100 million and your fame.

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Then there’s the Trump worship and emulation that probably didn’t play so well with all segments of color in your own building, let alone the locker room of the men you lead. (But I do hear that Chad Steele’s sister thinks you’re super cool.) But it’s part of the same millionaire to billionaire pattern of fealty: proximity to power, comfort with the spotlight, and an extremely selective moral spine and memory for facts and abiding the rules and laws of the system.

Hell, your brother got thrown out of college football until 2038 for being a serial cheater and liar in your hometown. Meanwhile, in the NFL, the Spanos Family doubled his money and made him a Hollywood icon. Your former billionaire employer just hired a former employee of yours (who also cheated on your brother’s behalf) to take your old gig here as the next coach of the Baltimore Ravens. I won’t have to ask Jesse Minter if he’s capable of “bending the rules” like you always tried because the NCAA already gave me the answer after the investigation.

As a quid pro quo for you and your cheating brother being the Kid Rock and the Ted Nugent of Team Trump’s NFL white power leadership wing, the biggest criminal in the history of our country publicly urged the New York Giants ownership (also pals with Epstein) to hire you. He publicly pushed teams to hire you “fast,” and noted your past White House visit with your family validating him – a visit you somehow defended as meaningful even amid backlash.

And when asked about it later, you didn’t exactly recoil. In your own words to Brian Kilmeade, you called it “awesome” and “pretty cool,” and framed it as being “blessed.”

Did he autograph your tie, too? Did your wife and daughter think he’s pretty cool, too? Did he feed you a cold, fast food cheeseburger?

Well, of course, you didn’t wanna get into that the same way that Trump doesn’t wanna quote his favorite Bible verse.

When the powerful clap for you, you glow. When independent scrutiny questions come your way, you bristle. When the moral issues are messy and inconvenient, you suddenly become the prickly, Mister “Is That a Football Question?” guy with your jaw jutted and the veins bulging out of your neck.

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Or, with a straight face, you simply lean in on scripture, The Bible and God. (And who is going to argue with that, right?)

That might play in the small rooms in Owings Mills for the likes of Jamison Hensley – and it did for almost twenty years.

My guess is it won’t play in all of the big rooms in Gotham, John.

But you keep doing you because, like your idol Trump, you’re winning bigly and the results are irrelevant. You’ve got a hundred million coming your way no matter what you say or do or what the record brings in the NFC East and beyond.

And you might even win – but the playoff ledger on your permanent record in Baltimore is the real indictment, not the slogans.

You’re going to sell New York the same pitch you sold Ravens fans: the Harbaugh C.E.O. culture, toughness, winning, January football. And they’re going to nod because they’re hungry and beyond desperate.

But your recent Baltimore truth is this: the biggest moments kept ending the same way.

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2019: the 14–2, top-seed Ravens get punched in the mouth at home by Tennessee, 28–12.

2024: the AFC Championship is in Baltimore and Kansas City walks out with a 17–10 win, while the Ravens look tight and frantic in their own stadium.

2025: a divisional-round heartbreak in Buffalo, 27–25, with turnovers and a dropped two-point conversion that would have tied it late.

New York doesn’t care that you can build a week-to-week machine. New York cares if you can win when the oxygen is thin, the Met Life Stadium wind is swirling, the questions are sharp and the season hinges on one possession.

We waited years in Baltimore for you to solve that riddle again.

Then Bisciotti solved it for you – and for us – by ending the relationship.

And yes, you were fired over the phone while driving home – a not-so-insignificant detail that illustrates how quickly even long marriages end when the “big truss” is gone.

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The Lamar relationship: “A-plus” language, complicated reality. You insisted – repeatedly – that you and Lamar were “A-plus,” dismissing concerns and waving away anonymous reports. I have a series of texts in my phone from your fingers regarding your personal feelings about Jackson not being at OTAs that speak more factually than anything any reporter in New York outside of Ian O’Connor are ever going to get from you.

Even the injury-report fiasco became its own little parable. The NFL fined the Ravens $100,000 for violating injury-report policy involving Lamar’s practice participation, and the league characterized it as negligence rather than competitive intent.

Negligence. Not malice.

I’m not sure which is a greater indictment but they were the only two options.

But negligence is still a truth problem, even when you’re playing dumb for the room – a Harbaugh tradition. It’s still a “get your story straight” problem, a credibility tax.

And in New York? Credibility is the only currency that matters when you’re 4–13 and trying to sell hope.

I saw your little Baltimore media “exit” tour last month where you went everywhere you felt safe – you even kissed Mike Preston’s ass, which made me spit out my stout – and tried to play the humble guy with $100 million role who wants his Chesapeake roses a decade from now when it’s time to enter the Ring of Honor here.

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You sure don’t want any part of me or LaCanfora, which eliminates the two guys in the room you fear the most – the truth seekers who become truth tellers.

But here’s what I noticed – and what New York should notice, too:

You made sure your last month in the Baltimore conversation included plenty of microphones and a back page ad paid to the right winger billionaires here who own a television network that appeals to you. The friendly ones. The controllable ones. Friends of Chad Steele. Sons of Hall of Famers. The ones who weren’t going to press you on the ugly stuff – like exterminating me and the media threats behind closed doors, the backchannels, the hypocrisy, the moments where your private assurances didn’t match your public posture.

That’s not leadership, John. That’s transparently flimsy image management. Just like your agent had you tied to six jobs less than six hours after you were fired by speaker phone because apparently Bisciotti doesn’t do faxes the way Angelos did.

And if you bring that “image” approach to New York – if you start picking your “safe rooms” and treating hard questions like personal disrespect (and you will because you are the most paranoid man I’ve ever known) – the back page and the fan base are going to chew you into red, white and blue confetti.

Five questions New York should ask you – and not let you dance away from:

When you say “football is a verb,” do you also mean truth is a verb – or will you keep treating honesty like a strategy?

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When ownership controversy hits – like the Tisch-Epstein pedophile questions – will you ever answer like a real leader, or will you always hide behind “we’re focused on football”?

If you report directly to John Mara, who exactly is accountable when the roster fails – you, Mara, Schoen… or some new layer created to absorb blame (like the offensive and defensive coordinators)?

When the season turns and the pressure rises, will you tell the truth about why things are failing – or will you give New York the same purple fog Baltimore got? (I can’t wait to see who you target for media extermination in the Meadowlands!)

And the biggest one: Do you still know how to win when it’s hardest? Because that’s the only thing that keeps New York patient. Good luck finding those Ray Lewis and Ed Reed and Lamar Jackson types that keep you employed.

So yes, John: take your money. Take your new leash. Take your “football is a verb” slogan. Take your handpicked structure, your new staff, your new power arrangement, your new stage, even your pedo-friendly new billionaire owner.

I’m just not going to allow you to take any moral high ground with you like you earned it.

I watched you lie to me and then wave The Bible in my face while regurgitating the lie. And, all “off the record” when and where it served your purpose.

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Baltimore watched you talk about values while practicing politics. Watched you preach accountability while dodging accountability. Watched you enjoy power’s fame, money and applause while treating independent scrutiny like a mortal enemy.

And in my world – in journalism, in civic life, in the real relationship between a team and its people – that’s the unforgivable sin.

You didn’t just lose playoff games. You lost civic trust.

It didn’t work out so well for the Baltimore Ravens this year but, hey – it all worked out perfectly for you.

I don’t expect to ever see you or have the dignity of looking you in the eye and telling you what I think of your actions and my career after 42 years of doing this work, so this will have to serve. That and the final text I sent you back in September after one of your players made a not-so-professional approach and less-than acceptable remarks toward a female reporter in your locker room.

I learned a long time ago that not all people who profess of a love of God or go to church practice what they preach and walk their talk. All you had to do is do the right thing: speak up and speak truth. Not a high bar for a “man of God” who speaks of standards. Somehow, I found that was exceedingly difficult for you to do.

With my career, reputation, business and all that I’ve ever worked for on the line, you went with the sleazy company line and played your role and piled on – knowing it’s wrong and that everything I write here is true. You set me up  – and then send me bullshit platitudes, prayers and trying to rub my shoulders and ask how my wife’s doing after my four-decade career was shot in the head by your franchise with your leadership?

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When people on the street come up to you and say, “What happened to Nestor?” do you feed them Chad Steele’s bullshit about me not coming OTAs? Or do you tell them the truth about what happened? How I came to you – repeatedly – seeking professional help and was further bullied and remediated in your witness. And then you claimed you were helpless to speak truth or serve justice?

Fraud is a tough word, John; I don’t just throw that one around. But, Big Truss me, you’ve earned it.

You watched your franchise try to end my professional life, career and business over a bizarre personal grudge and you offer me platitudes and some kind of Pontius Pilate tin man courage of Bert Lahr in a costume on the yellow brick road schtick?

What kind of leader are you, dude? What kind of a man?

You’re either a liar or a fraud. Lousy organizations stalk and exterminate local media members. Truly awful ones have everyone in the building know it’s wrong and endorse it anyway.

That’s you, John!

There’s nothing more disingenuous than invoking the name of God to feign innocence or protect your obvious lies and deceit. And that goes far beyond the “fibs” and little white lies of your injury reports.

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Quite frankly, your track record on honesty and transparency stinks. Your words are often their own punchlines.

And, as I will tell the New York media, that always began with “Good to see everyone…”

So here’s my goodbye, with all the dignity you didn’t always extend to people like me:

Good riddance, Coach Hard Ball.

Enjoy New York. Enjoy Jersey. Enjoy the fanfare.

You might even win a Super Bowl or two and punch that Canton ticket you so desperately seek.

You were, indeed, born to run.

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Poor man wanna be rich. Rich man wanna be king. But the king ain’t satisfied ‘til he rules everything.

You are the king of New York until kickoff in September. Then, we’ll see how your bullshit sells in the big room.

And when the questions get loud and the mandate gets real and the truth is demanded like a toll to enter the Boroughs – don’t look too shocked.

You trained Baltimore to stop believing the podium.

Now, the New York media gets a turn.

Give ‘em a T-shirt and a slogan and see how that works out…