The Promise of Aaron Jones
It took until this year to truly come to grips with his father's death. The Minnesota Vikings running back is fueled by their final hours together. His sights are set on Canton.
Dad was dying.
Time was running out.
Everyone knew they’d be saying their final goodbyes on April 6, 2021.
Growing up, Dad always tried to comfort his kids before being deployed to a war zone. “I’m coming home,” pledged Alvin Jones Sr. with conviction. So when his case of COVID-19 took a grim turn for the worse at the hospital — and the doctor said he wasn’t going to make it — it was only natural for Dad to make one request: he wanted to come home. The family secured an ambulance with the correct breathing machine for the transport and Alvin Sr. was able to spend three hours with loved ones.
His voice is forever seared in the memory of Aaron Jones. He told his twin boys that he prepared them to be men. They were ready for this. Then, he transitioned to football. Alvin Sr. told Aaron how proud he was of him. “Keep chasing your dreams,” he said. “Go get everything we talked about.”
Son chokes up as he relives this day. “Surreal,” he recalls.
Soon after, Alvin Sr. passed away at the age of 56.
On the day of the funeral, Aaron had one final moment with Dad before the mortician closed the casket. Eyes welling up, Aaron brought up the goal his father was referencing. “I’m going to go get that gold jacket,” Aaron promised. With that, Aaron balled up a fist and beat his heart because his father taught him to do everything with his heart. With that, Son dedicated the rest of his career to Dad. There’s no chance he’s even playing the sport without him.
Every snap of every game, he can feel his presence.
“My role model, my superhero, my everything,” says Jones.
Nothing about Aaron Jones is visibly extraordinary. He’s not big. Not a speed demon. Rather, a 182nd overall pick from the University of Texas-El Paso — hardly a Running Back Factory. Before Jones, only five other backs from the school were even drafted and, well, there’s a 0.1 percent chance you’ve ever heard of their names. At the sport’s most disposable position, Jones should’ve been ejected into a new profession ages ago. Yet, he’s still going. Still brushing his jersey off after first downs. Still invaluable. In Year 9, on a Minnesota Vikings team breaking in a new franchise quarterback, Jones is closing in on 10,000 total yards with 71 touchdowns.
Way back in his youth football days, Dad knew God-given talent would only take Aaron and Alvin Jr. so far. There were guaranteed to be faster and stronger kids. Thus, it was simple. Dad said they’d need to outwork everyone, to play with heart.
“If you do everything with your heart,” Jones says. “it’ll always be done right. Because you’re doing it with pure intentions.”
Go Long chatted at length with Jones back in August, before a rash of injuries threatened to ruin his season. He’s hoping to grit through shoulder and toe ailments this Sunday against the Baltimore Ravens. Both clubs are on the precipice of code red. It’s taken until this 2025 season for Jones to overcome the loss of his father. His body’s been taking a beating this season, but his mind has never been this clear.
The fire still burns inside… for many reasons.
Jones wants to prove he’s the best pound-for-pound running back in the sport. Taking everything into account — rushing, receiving, blocking — he wants to be considered No. 1. Providing for his son is a motivator. Aaron Jr. has been requesting many shrimp and steak dinners of late.
He wants to win a Super Bowl, of course.
Then, there’s that promise. Jones doesn’t tell many people about his Canton aspirations but, to him, a gold jacket is extremely realistic.
Don’t believe him? That’s fine. You wouldn’t be the first.
“Nobody came in the league believing in me,” he says. “But that’s been my goal since I’ve come in. I feel like people get complacent. Some people are like, ‘Hey, it was my goal to make it to the NFL.’ Which that was my goal as well. But once you achieve your goal, now you have to shoot for the stars. Refocus and set new goals. That’s what I’ve done. I want to be a unicorn. Like Frank Gore, Emmitt Smith, those guys who played the game for a long time. I’m still loving the game. I feel even more gratitude the more and more I get to play it. Every Sunday I get to run out of the tunnel, I’m not taking it for granted.
“It can really end at any moment. When you’re younger, you don’t think about those things. You’re just like, ‘Let me go make a play. Let me not lose my job.’ Now it is gotten to a point where it’s gratitude: ‘Let me show my hard work is going to pay off.’”
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The odds of locating Big Foot are 100x greater than finding one person who’ll speak ill of Aaron Jones. Teammates. Trainers. Coaches. Media members. It’s universal. Everyone who’s been around the man with the flowing dreads, megawatt smile and hilarious Sombrero is effusive in their praise.
To understand why he’s regarded as an A+ human being, start at home with how Dad (Alvin Sr.) and Mom (Vurgess) raised their kids. Both were in the military. Both were in charge of entire units as sergeant majors. Combined, they accrued 56 years of service in the U.S. Army. Getting a group of soldiers to put their differences aside for a common goal, Jones notes, is a skill. That was the foundation of their parenting. Strict, yet full of love. Georgia… Germany… Tennessee… Virginia. Counting aloud, Jones recalls moving eight times in all. Forced to adapt and meet new people — constantly — Jones has never been afraid of new environments.
That’s why he thinks he’s so affable. His entire childhood was spent introducing himself to new people.
Albeit, while worrying for the safety of his parents. Especially at age 9.
In 2003, Aaron and Alvin Jr. lived with relatives in Norfolk, Va., when Mom was deployed to one side of Iraq and Dad to the other. Vurgess also spent time in Kuwait during the Iraqi War. Aaron heard the word “war” and was terrified. His mind immediately raced to the American Revolution and Civil War, to two sides lining up across from each other in a field and firing. “The first row goes down,” he recalls thinking, “the second row is down, and it’s going on back.” The sight of Mom and Dad in the fray — bullets flying, bodies dropping — was exceptionally traumatizing.
No wonder it meant so much for Dad to say they’d come home.
Reality wasn’t quite as life-and-death. Last April, Jones visited Kuwait on a USO Tour that brought him full circle. At the military base, at one point, he lined up behind soldiers to head to a bomb shelter for safety. Seeing their sacrifices up close gave him chills. A “life-changing” experience. He couldn’t help but think back to one of the most important lessons his parents ever gave him: Outwork everyone.
Once he got to UTEP, Aaron Jones befriended teammates who were equally possessed, like safety Devin Cockrell, to get extra lifts in on Saturdays. “We want the same success,” Jones says. “We’re on the same kind of grind.” They didn’t need to map out workouts via text. Simply, it was understood that they’d work out twice a day. Up to this point, Jones played basketball each offseason. To put on weight, he swapped the roundball for dumbbells and beefed up from 165 pounds as a freshman to 196 as a senior. Good weight, too. Muscle. That final season, Jones rushed for the fourth-most yards in the nation (1,773) and 17 touchdowns.
Jones recently heard former NBA pro Michael Beasley say on a podcast that if you stay consistent with anything in life, success is achievable overnight… you just don’t know which night it’ll happen. That was the story of his football life. Jones will never forget when he was drafted — “182, a compensatory pick!” — and, out of nowhere, became a focal point in Green Bay’s offense through three straight 13-3 seasons.
His play style was strikingly unique. Slippery elusiveness blended with sneaky toughness and ample explosion. Jones made the Pro Bowl in 2020, averaging 5.0 yards per carry in his career as a Packer.
His day-to-day regiment became militaristic. In the AM, he’ll awaken all muscles, all joints with a trip to the steam room and active stretching. Then, it’s off to the cold tub. Then, prehab in the training room. Breakfast. Meetings. Lifts. Protein shakes at the ready. Practice. And when practice is over, it’s off to either the cold tub or the hot tub with more stretching. After three hours at home to relax and eat dinner, he returns to the facility with Aaron Jr.
He’ll slip into the sauna for 10 to 15 minutes, and then alternate between the hot and cold tubs a handful of times to stimulate blood flow.
At home, he’s always looking for an edge with his own stretch machine (not quite Harrison Smith’s torture device), a Peloton bike, dumbbells. He still works with his Wausau-based soft-tissue expert, Joe Tofferi. Each week, Jones gets at least two massages in. A work ethic that became contagious in Green Bay. Soon enough, teammates were joining him in the offseason to adopt his routine. During the season, they were shocked to hear the facility was even open at night. They had no clue. Jones told ‘em that all you need is the code to get in. More… and more… and more players started to join him at 1265 Lombardi Ave.
At some point, Jones got into the habit of using a hyperbaric chamber before practice.
Anything to stay at peak performance.
“I tell people they can count me out,” Jones says, “but they’re going to have to start over and keep counting every time.”
Life was good.
Until it wasn’t.
Dad died. He made that heartfelt promise. But this wasn’t the movie screen.
It’s not as if Jones immediately put a cape on and left all of his troubles behind.
Stories were written. TV specials were recorded. Deep down? Moving on was impossible.
Few on the team knew just how much he was hurting because Jones returned to Green Bay for OTAs the spring of 2021 and didn’t miss a single day. It wasn’t easy to leave his mother. (“She was hurting. We were all hurting.”) Case in point: Jones couldn’t live alone. Far too lonely, far too sad, he moved in with a teammate three doors down. Fellow running back Dexter Williams let him sleep on the couch and the two became more than mere roommates through this fragile period of Jones’ life.
Williams’ family even flew to the funeral in El Paso. To this day, the two talk regularly.
“He was there when I felt at rock bottom,” Jones says. “I didn’t leave his side. He knew what I was going through.”
The 2021 season inched closer and closer and — honestly? — the last place Jones wanted to be was Wisconsin. The last thing Jones wanted to do was play football. All of this felt so trivial, so inconsequential. Jones tried his best to leave his emotions at the literal door and greet co-workers with that signature pep in his step. Many days, however, he couldn’t help it. He’d start crying uncontrollably and try to hide those tears from teammates.
“I didn’t want to play ball at all,” he admits. “It was hard for me that first year.”
More than any specific touchdown — any feat on a field, period — Jones is most proud of the fact that he kept showing up to work in 2021. He could virtually hear Dad in his ear.
“He wouldn’t want me feeling bad or feeling sad,” Jones says. “I didn’t want to do anything with football, but I was there every day. I was committed to my teammates and it was bigger than me. It was about the guys around me. I made a commitment to them and they were dependent on me as I was dependent on them. I had to give them my all.”
In Week 1, the Packers faced the New Orleans Saints. Hurricane Ida forced the two teams to play the game in Jacksonville, Fla. Jones had no clue how he’d feel once his game uniform was on and he took a football field. He hoped these three hours would serve as an escape.
It did not.
Each pregame, father and son always shared a special moment together. Each postgame, Dad was always point-blank honest about his performance. Alvin Jones Sr., never missed one game through college and the pros. So as Aaron started to walk through the tunnel in Jacksonville, the feeling of pure dread was emotionally debilitating. “Damn,” he told himself. “I’ve got to go play football without him. I’ve never done that.”
He jogged out, saw his mother, brother, sister, son and niece in the stands and proceeded to break down in tears. Right then, it hit him. He wouldn’t hear Dad say “I’m proud of you” before this game against the Saints. Or any game the rest of his life.
In this exact moment, Jones would’ve done anything to hear those words just one more time.
“To run out and not see him? All the emotion just took over. I’m balling right before kickoff. I’m like, ‘Get out of this. You’ve got to go play ball.’”
Green Bay lost, 38-3. Jones rushed five times for nine yards.
His mind wasn’t right all game and — truthfully? — all season. Oh, he scored four touchdowns in Green Bay’s home opener the next week, famously losing a necklace containing his father’s ashes. At 1:45 a.m., team trainer Bryan ”Flea” Engel found it in the end zone. An uplifting moment, no doubt. But it took Jones several months to quit asking Why me? and rediscover his “burning desire” for the game. Jones needed a full offseason to realize he’s not the first NFL player to lose a father and wouldn’t be the last.
He healed at a glacial pace. As the pain lingered from ‘22 to ‘23 to ‘24, all Jones could do was keep waking up.
“It was hard,” Jones says. “I didn’t feel any emotion. I didn’t want to be out there. At the time, I didn’t feel any emotion towards the game. Toward anything. My emotions were dead. I was kind of just there at times. But I found a way. Thank God I was still able to go out there and play ball and never missed a day, never missed a rep, never missed a practice.”
Jones would go long stretches without even thinking of his father because he subconsciously knew it’d spiral him into depression. His emotions “dead,” Jones glided through life in a very numb state. Not until this 2025 season did Jones start to accept his father’s death. Adding “Sr” to the nameplate of his jersey has helped. He can honor Dad by being the best Dad possible for his own son.
For the first time in forever, Dad started appearing in his dreams this year.
Jones also drummed up enough courage to finally watch an NFL Network special that aired a while back. He cried while he watched, but this cry was different.
“It wasn’t a sad breakdown. It was more of a happy — ‘Wow, you’re finally facing this and Dad’s proud of you. He’s proud of you,’” Jones says. “So it’s not necessarily closure, but getting better. And it takes time. Death is inevitable. It’s going to happen. But dealing with it is like soup. Everybody makes their own soup different. It may take me longer to eat it or even make it, but just keep pouring into that soup and when that soup is done, you’ll feel it.”
He’s getting closer. He realizes he cannot compartmentalize sadness this potent inside a quadruple-padlocked safe somewhere in the back of his brain. So he uses those emotions for good.
Jones replays those final moments with his father. Jones remembers that oath.
Death has proven to be inevitable. Ahead of the ‘24 season, Jones forged a friendship with a rookie named Khyree Jackson. The 24-year-old was ultra-inquisitive. Jackson constantly asked questions. The right questions. Like how in the heck Jones has managed to play at such a high level for so long. Jones could tell this cornerback from Oregon was wired like him. And on July 6, 2024, tragedy rocked his world again when Jackson was killed in a car accident. Cori Clingman was charged with 13 counts, including manslaughter and driving under the influence of alcohol. She allegedly changed lanes at high speeds and struck a Dodge Charger, killing three people in all.
Inside the locker room, the Vikings kept Jackson’s spirit alive. His locker’s intact. Whenever the flowers inside started to die off — every 1 ½ weeks or so — Jones was the one who brought new ones in. The habit stuck. Many days, Jones feels Jackson’s presence and starts talking to him.
“He probably thinks I’m crazy or something,” Jones says. “But it’s real. I was going to continue to honor him. That won’t stop now.”
This 2025 season has mostly been a nightmare. After scoring a TD in a thrilling season opener at Chicago, Jones suffered a hamstring injury vs. Atlanta, landed on injured reserve, returned to shred Detroit’s defense for 98 total yards in a 24-14 upset win and suffered an AC sprain. Minnesota has managed to stay afloat. At 4-4, Kevin O’Connell’s team is very much alive. A slashing Jones could be the difference between contention or a rebuild.
In Year 1 with the Vikings, Aaron Jr. would see pictures of the team’s captains on a wall at the facility and ask Dad why he wasn’t up there. Aaron explained that you’ve got to be voted by your teammates. He was still the new guy then. In Year 2, he was named a captain, which led to a special moment between the two. This team in flux can certainly use Jones’ leadership now.
For all generosity, all selflessness, he certainly does not lack confidence.
The way he sees it? Jones wants to leave a legacy for his family the way Walter Payton did.
“When I look up, I’ll be right where I want to be,” Jones says. “I don’t say a lot when it comes to me and the other backs. But there were 18 other backs taken before me. I feel like I never get the respect where I’m considered in that top 10 every year. Put my numbers side-by-side next to anybody and that speaks for itself. And that’s one thing I’m proud of. I’m going to keep my head down, keep working, and at the end of it look up and see where the numbers stack up.”
He doesn’t need to hunt for motivation.
The team that originally drafted Jones stopped believing. This is obviously a sore spot.
After Jones eclipsed 100+ yards in each of Green Bay’s final five games, the Packers did what the Packers have done for ages. They bid farewell to a core player a year early in fear of hanging on a year too late. Usually, this philosophy pays off. Out was Jones, in was a more rugged RB1 (Josh Jacobs) who’s also 2 ½ years younger. Jones has steered clear of speaking about this divorce much publicly. But Week 12 and Week 18 dates with the Packers loom. Stakes could be high. He’s got a chance to prove he’s far from finished.
The sight of Jones in Vikings purple surely has cheeseheads reaching for the barf bag, but Jones feels right at home. One reason? He’s got a father figure in Curtis Modkins. The team’s 54-year-old running backs coach invests in Jones as a person more than a player. “It’s bigger,” Jones says, “than a player-coach relationship.” To Modkins, their connection is the essence of his profession. He loves having “conversations on top of conversations” about life and admits their bond is something he needed at this point of his career. Minnesota is the coach’s eighth NFL team since 2008. He’s rejuvenated.
There’s no replacing Dad’s blunt critiques after games, but Modkins pushes him.
“He wants to be the best,” Modkins says. “He’s very coachable. He wants to continue to learn. Sometimes you can be in the league for a few years and feel like you know it all. Whereas he wants all the info he can get. He’s still trying to improve every day. He’s driven. He’s intrinsically motivated.”
Modkins calls Jones a “1 of 1 individual” we’d all want our sons to become one day.
Inside the Vikings building, he’s seen Jones treat the janitor with the same amount of respect as any coach, any teammate. Outside the building, Jones is still the kid who loved meeting new people in new cities his entire childhood. When the two went to a Twins game last summer, Modkins couldn’t believe how many times fans intercepted Jones to shake his hand, score an autograph, take a picture, make small talk.
At no point did Jones express an inkling of a desire to hurry to his seat. He treated each person with the same amount of sincere joy.
“I can see why he has connected everywhere he’s been,” Modkins says. “Which is not commonplace in our world today that you have a person that’s a force multiplier. You can meet people — and within a few minutes — you know if they’re going to subtract from you, if they’re going to add a little something to your life or if they’re going to multiply. Aaron’s a multiplier and it’s a joy.
“The bonus is that he’s a hell of a football player. He’s a Hall of Fame person right now.”
Modkins doesn’t flinch at all Hall talk. He raves about Jones as a runner who can bash defenses between the tackles and turn a corner. He describes him as a receiver who can run intermediate routes and stretch defenses vertically. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if Jones is able to play long enough to earn such an honor.
“He’s a true football player,” Modkins says. “He’s not a one-trick pony. He can do it all at a really, really high level, and if we can string together years like that, who knows?”
As our conversation with Jones winds down, he cites the exclusivity of the Pro Football Hall of Fame. The NFL’s been around for 106 years and there’s only 382 members.
Each enshrinee, he says, is given a number for life. You’re part of a true fraternity.
Jones thinks back to his initial dream of going pro. In first grade, he’d practice writing his autograph during church and tell Mom that he wanted everyone in the local mall to know him. Through force of will, this dream became a reality. So, as far as he’s concerned, this is Dream No. 2. Since the Packers made him that 182nd overall selection, it’s been his goal to be defined by a new number. A Canton number.
If he stays healthy? If he takes care of his body? Hell yes, Aaron Jones sees this as his next stop.
Adds Jones: “It’s something I truly think that I can achieve.”
Pressure’s on these Vikings. The next two weeks, they’ll host the Ravens and Bears at U.S. Bank Stadium. When Jones exits the home tunnel, he’ll look for family members wearing his No. 33 jersey in the crowd. He won’t find his father, no. But he won’t break down in tears.
Instead, there’s a good chance Aaron Jones will replay their final hours together, buckle his chinstrap, take the field and try to make his Dad proud once again.
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Fantastic work Tyler.
Great story of an amazing man. A true "good guy"Thank you for writing that Tyler.