"Ultimate competitor:" Michael Pittman Jr. and the 2025 Indianapolis Colts are on a warpath
Meet the man who's bringing this team's identity to life. (His team is only getting started, too.)
Twenty-four hours after pinning a football against his bicep in stupefying fashion for a touchdown, Michael Pittman Jr. moves on. Forgets it. Refuses to capitalize on a viral moment that’s more AI creation than reality.
The Indianapolis Colts wide receiver knew Daniel Jones would launch the ball vertically. So when cornerback Jalyn Armour-Davis stayed on top of his route, he kept pushing and pushing and Jones placed the ball on his back shoulder. Pittman felt Armour-Davis tug his left arm and says he was able to turn just enough to “bicep curl” the ball against his body.
All of those dumbbell curls in the weight room paid off, though he also jokes that if he had his father’s guns the ball probably would’ve boomeranged into the crowd. This is Catch of the Year stuff, the type of reception that’d make Stephen A’s head spin like a top if his name was Odell or CeeDee and this team resided in a bigger market.
And here’s Pittman, completely disinterested in feeding his own celebrity.
His celebration was muted. Indy proceeded to molly-whop another opponent. The only adjective Pittman uses to describe his catch is… drumroll please…. “cool.” He’s on to Pittsburgh.
“Now, I’ve got to go do it again,” Pittman says, “because you’re only as good as your last performance in this league. I’ve got to keep going.”
The more we chat, the more his nonchalance makes sense. Acrobatic catches are not what he takes most pride in. Not even close. Pittman is most animated when I bring up tales of his training camp scuffles.
Legend has it, you do not want to cross him.
Oh, he gets legitimately pissed from time to time. But mostly, the 6-foot-4, 215-pounder from Woodland Hills, Calif., doesn’t even want to start the scuffle. In his mind, he has no choice but to throw down the gauntlet because if he lets a defender hit him after the whistle? They’ll do the same to Alec Pierce, to Josh Downs, to Ashton Dulin, all of the Colts’ receivers. His team will become the prey… and he cannot allow that. Ever.
Pittman views himself as more hockey enforcer than downfield showman.
“I have to set a standard of what’s going to be allowed,” Pittman says. “There’s been many times where I’m getting up and I’m like, ‘Oh geez, here I go. I’m going to have to do something.’ And then I get up and start it. This is me setting a standard of what is going to happen and what isn’t going to happen.”
The result is fear. He sees it in your eyes. He sees it in your actions. Once Pittman asserts himself as the apex predator, defenders do not want the smoke. So you can have your bicep-curl touchdowns. These are the plays he loves most. With Jonathan Taylor shifting from third… to fourth… to fifth gear somewhere behind him, Pittman closes in on a defender to throw a shoulder and that player makes a conscious business decision.
He’s seen Pittman on film.
He chooses to quite literally quit.
“They jump out of the play,” Pittman says. “I’m like, ‘Oh yeah. You don’t want nothing.’”
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All of America is trying to make sense of the team with the best record in football. I was dead wrong. You were dead wrong. Somehow, the organization that signed Daniel Jones in the offseason — the Indianapolis Colts — are no-doubt-about-it Super Bowl contenders. Turns out, answers were staring us in the face all along. Landing a quarterback has been a transatlantic odyssey since Andrew Luck’s abrupt retirement, yet brick-by-brick GM Chris Ballard has constructed a roster devoid of glaring holes. Both lines are rock solid. There’s weaponry. Ballhawks. Two of the very best at their profession: guard Quenton Nelson and running back Jonathan Taylor. In the quarterback known as “Indiana Jones,” Ballard found an ideal triggerman for head coach Shane Steichen’s offense.
And the Colts are a punishing reflection of their No. 1 wide receiver.
A father who playfully throws his kids onto the bed in games of “Daddy Throw” off the field before then transforming into the bully intimidating defenders on it.
A college kid who couldn’t control his temper back at USC, but now plays with total equanimity.
A 28-year-old who’s never too high, never too low and determined to perform for this franchise’s late owner.
Yes, it’s time we all woke up and tasted the St. Elmo’s Cocktail Sauce. These Colts are for real. The best place to start is with the wide receiver who’ll make a circus catch one drive, then crack back on your defensive end the next.
Thus far, he has 43 receptions for 443 yards with six touchdowns. He’s got a pair of 1,000-yard seasons to his name. On this rickety Rivers/Wentz/Ryan/Ehlinger/Foles/Minshew/Richardson Tilt-A-Whirl, Pittman has managed to produce year-in, year-out as a receiver with a basketball frame to box out cornerbacks, ample speed and sure hands. He possesses the quintessential WR1 package. That’s why the Colts drafted him 34th overall in the 2020 draft.
Yet throughout our conversation, Pittman doesn’t mention his receiving ability once.
Given the floor to introduce himself to football consumers, Pittman Jr. first cites his obsession with the “dirty work.” He knows that sounds strange. But this WR1 sincerely enjoys the blocking and decoy work that 99 percent of his peers detest.
He wants to play a prominent role in Taylor shattering NFL rushing records.
He wants to go down as a force of consistency — the next Mike Evans. Through relative anonymity, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers wideout has strung together 11 straight 1,000-yard seasons. Only a broken clavicle this season will prevent Evans from breaking his tie with Jerry Rice. Calling him “Mr. Consistent,” Pittman points out that the general population didn’t even start giving Evans his flowers until last season.
“I never understood it,” Pittman says. “But people just get tired of consistency. They’re like, ‘Oh, he’s doing the same thing every single game.’ But that’s not a bad thing. That’s a very strong positive. If you have a guy that you know is going to go out and produce game after game after game? That’s a gem.”
An NFL season is the ultimate grind. Your body’s guaranteed to suffer, August to January. Your mental health is at risk, too. One loss can turn a legion of fans against you. Miscues will cost you millions of dollars. As one game bleeds into the next, and the next, and the next, it can be too much for anyone to handle. So, I ask Pittman to take us into his world of numbing consistency. He says that staying consistent is a matter of giving “constant effort.” He knows that sounds simplistic, but Pittman has seen countless NFL players take success for granted.
Those are the players who slip, who disappear.
“They don’t do everything possible to maximize themselves,” Pittman says. “I try to think and play individually from that last performance — or from that last day — because if you have a really good day, you might relax. Or if you have a really bad day, you might overdo it.”
Wide receivers yo-yo the most, and it’s understandable. So much is out of their control. Privately, they pine for targets. Publicly, they post cryptic emojis. Some eventually get traded and restart the cycle of exasperation somewhere else. A.J. Brown is the latest volcano on the verge of eruption. It seems as if nobody has a clue what will make the Philadelphia Eagles receiver happy — Brown included.
When all 17 games feel like life or death in today’s media climate, it’s not easy to stay even-keeled.
Pittman loves the ease in which fans and pro athletes interact. He’s made 1-on-1 connections with people that would’ve been impossible in other eras. (“You can provide inspiration.”) Yet, it’s also not fun to scroll through a timeline full of trolls informing you that you’re trash the second something goes wrong. Two quotes stick with Pittman. After a tough loss a while back, inside a meeting, Colts linebacker Zaire Franklin told teammates that the person who says you’re the best and the person who says you’re the worst are both lying. (“That hit me. That really stuck with me.”) This aligned with a famous analogy from a famous coach. Alabama’s Nick Saban has long referred to media discourse and rankings as “rat poison.”
Pittman doesn’t absorb compliments or negativity.
All of it helps him keep his cool through the course of a game. Not that it’s easy. Go stretches without seeing the ball or drop a pass and anger’s bound to creep in.
“Maybe you hadn’t got the ball the whole game,” Pittman says, “and they throw you a big time play and you don’t make it. You have to be able to control those emotions and fight the mental breakdown that goes on in your head with that disappointment. I feel like that’s what really separates players from reaching their full potential — those guys who can get out of their own head and have that next-play mentality.
“Forget about the bad play. Go out and make a bigger play.”
He didn’t reach this state of Zen overnight. Through high school and college, this sport felt like the only thing in his life. An imbalance that’d inevitably push Pittman over the edge when things didn’t go his way.
“If I played a bad game?” he recalls. “Nobody come talk to me. Don’t call me. I don’t want to see anybody for the next 48 hours. I’ll see you next week. I was a sore loser.”
One moment haunts him to this day. On Nov. 2, 2019, he played his brother’s No. 7-ranked Oregon Ducks. Both Mycah and Michael Pittman caught touchdowns that night in Los Angeles, but this wasn’t even a contest. Oregon demolished USC, 56-24. When the game ended, Michael was so pissed that he stormed right off the field. He left his brother to wander aimlessly on the field. Mom and Dad, too. His family flew in from Arizona for this game but he didn’t care. Pittman was the first player dressed, the first player out of the locker room and continued right to his dormitory to sulk and sleep.
All texts, all calls were completely ignored.
Nobody issued a wellness check with campus authorities This was par for the course.
“I was so angry. I was upset. I was out of my mind that we had lost the game. I wasn’t able to control my emotions the way that I should be able to,” Pittman says. “I was letting that result have too much power over my emotions.”
This turned out to be the last time he ever shared a football field with Mycah. He’s still pissed that he bailed on a special moment with his brother. The regret is immense.
Right then, Pittman realized his fire burned too hot and started to develop techniques that’d help him realize he’s more than a football player. He was a son, a brother, a boyfriend, an uncle, a student, an outdoorsman. “More,” he says. “than just the guy that wears that helmet.” Maybe he regrets that night, but it’s better to learn such a lesson in college than the pros. Because in the NFL, the sport’s most volatile position has a parasitical effect. It’ll eat you from the inside if you’re not careful.
“I am light years better than what I used to be,” he says.
Today, Pittman and his wife Kianna have three kids: 4-year-old Mila, 2-year-old Michael III and 2-month-old Selah. Yes, Pittman has been juggling diapers and sleep regressions with the Colts’ 7-1 start.
Nothing contextualizes football quite like having children. They’ve given him true perspective. If he’s livid over a bad play or a bad loss, he’s not going to let it out on his family. Mom handles most duties at home. (“We wouldn’t have nothing without her.”) But whenever Pittman is home, he’s genuinely present to constantly sharpen this perspective. He embraces all aspects of fatherhood on their sprawling 43-acre farm. Dad changes his share of diapers. Dad loves taking the kids outside to chase the chickens, feed the horses, play with the goats. Inside, they’ll watch The Lion King, Bluey, Wild Kratts and the Christian-based YouTube cartoon “Minno” is a go-to.
On his off day last week, the entire Pittman family went to a pumpkin patch.
Before school, he’ll take the two oldest to get donuts and spend an engaged 15 to 20 minutes.
The kids’ favorite activity is “Daddy Throws,” which is pretty self-explanatory. Pittman hurls ‘em onto the bed. Repeatedly.
“Once it starts,” he adds, “I’ve committed myself to an hour of throwing children on the bed.”
He has found true purpose in life. Pittman exudes an abundance of clarity. Of course, the sight of his family also gives him even more incentive to bury anything in his path. He’s as psychotic on the field as he is gentle off it.
On Sundays, his sole focus is the man in front of him.
He compares his desire vs. yours.
“I am the ultimate competitor,” Pittman explains. “And I have almost hypnotized myself into believing that nobody wants to win as bad as I want to win — and I am willing to go the furthest to win in any aspect. I know that I’m willing to give more effort, go harder and go further than you’re willing to go to get what I want.”
There’s no secret sauce. Go full tilt — “110 percent,” he says — and Pittman can forever live with the results. He’s been thinking this way as long as he can remember. He never leaves the field with regrets. He tells himself, every game, he’s willing to push himself harder than anyone else on the field. Whether that’s true or not is inconsequential. He’s weaponizing confidence.
And it doesn’t matter if this 215-pound receiver is tasked with blocking a 265-pound edge rusher/
Physically, he’s got zero business winning this matchup. He’s the one punching up in weight class vs. Tyson Fury in the ring. Yet somehow, Pittman usually manages to hold his own and create space for Taylor.
“I have a mental advantage knowing that I want to win more than he does because it means more to me.”
Specific pancakes do come to mind. Unlike many podcasting contemporaries, Pittman wants to show some chivalry here. He declines to offer any names.
Having a hardnosed running back of a father certainly helps as a foundation. Michael Pittman Sr. earned a ring with the Buccaneers in 2002 and finished his career with more than 9,000 scrimmage yards and 33 touchdowns.
So does life as a USC wide receiver. Pittman was part of an elite lineage that included JuJu Smith-Schuster, Amon-Ra St. Brown and Drake London from ‘16 to ‘21. Tee Martin, the group’s position coach (and current Ravens QB coach), set a different tone with “The Nice Guy Award.” Each game, he’d dub one of his pupils the nicest receiver in the game.
It was a grave insult. Nobody wanted this “award.”
“It was given,” Pittman adds, “to the softest receiver that game.”
Martin and his successor (Keary Colbert) awarded points for executing a point-of-attack block, driving a defender back or getting in the last shove. Running a DB over scored high. It was drilled into their collective skulls to be a maniac. We got to know Atlanta’s London and his dark side. St. Brown famously catches 606 balls a day at the JUGS machine. (“The dude is a monster before he even steps on the field,” Lions teammate Kalif Raymond said.) Smith-Schuster, for all of his cartoonish antics, has a nasty side. Before he was de-cleating Vontaze Burfict, a high school-aged JuJu was suspended an entire rugby season for clotheslining a kid. He grew up around Polynesians. (“That made me a more mean, physical person,” JuJu told me once.)
Ask Pittman if ever received the Nice Guy Award and he’s disgusted by the suggestion.
“No! I never, ever got the Nice Guy award. Never ever. Never ever. I was the mean guy.”
This temperament has translated to the pros. And then some.
Wideout Josh Downs cites Pittman as an exceptionally tough player who brings juice to the entire team.
“I’ve seen him take some of the craziest hits and get up like nothing happened and then he’s willing to block D-Lineman and D-Ends and linebackers every game,” Downs says. “So he’s a really good player, a really tough player, a really gritty player and it shows on Sundays. … He’s willing to make the tough catches in traffic and take any type of hit just to make a catch. That’s a testament to how tough he is.”
The moment that stands out to Downs is a deep reception in a 22-19 win over Baltimore in ’23.
Pittman toasts cornerback Brandon Stephens with a double move off the line, gets vertical, sees a safety waiting deep and thinks Oh, shit. Pittman wasn’t sure if Gardner Minshew would throw him the ball — the ball was launched his direction — and he vividly remembers seeing the facemask of safety Geno Stone before turning away. Pittman high-pointed the catch, absorbed the kill shot and hung on with one hand as his own helmet popped off. Downs was stunned.
These are the plays that become infectious. You want to put your body on the line next.
The result is a very real, very tough identity.
“A team,” Downs adds, “that’s hungry to make plays.”
A team with a Super Bowl-worthy formula brewing.
Pittman insists he’s been a big fan of this Colts roster for three years, but something was missing. He didn’t know what it was exactly — until now. “The piece we were missing,” he says, “was Daniel Jones.” The professionalism and preparation blows his mind daily. No quarterback Pittman’s ever played with has attacked the job quite like Jones. Both Philip Rivers (39) and Matt Ryan (37) were older, he reasons, so maybe they didn’t need to pour in as many hours. Jones’ “constant studying” has been on a completely different level.
“To where,” Pittman says, “it’s Week 1 and 2 and I’m like, ‘Bro, I don’t know how you’re going to keep this up as the last person in the building every single night!’ He’s the first one here and he’s the last one out. And he has maintained that. That’s why we’re really seeing those results that we haven’t seen before. Because of his preparation.”
In this sense, these two are kindred spirits.
From afar, Pittman saw the contract extension in New York. A quarterback isn’t getting that kind of money if he isn’t any good. He wonders if the Giants’ scheme didn’t fit Jones’ game and blames us in the media for portraying Jones as a bad guy when he’s “one of the coolest dudes I’ve ever met.” The two hang out off the field all the time. Colts players have gotten to the point of shortening the word camaraderie to “rod.”
“The ‘rod’ is flowing and everybody’s playing for one another,” he says. “Our confidence is at an all-time high.”
The amount of time Indy’s new quarterback spends working at the craft is obviously a jarring departure from the young passer Jones replaced. At no point does Pittman bring up Anthony Richardson’s name, but he doesn’t need to. Exactly one year ago, Richardson was benched after tapping out of a game due to fatigue. The 2023 third overall pick out of Florida might’ve had the best Combine performance ever at the quarterback position with a 4.41 in the 40-yard dash, 40 ½-inch vertical and 10-9 broad jump.
He wasn’t mature. He wasn’t ready for the pro game. Mainly because he was rarely ever in the fire. Richardson started all of one season in college.
Jones, conversely, has only known the fire as the starting QB in the NFL’s largest market for six years. In practice, Pittman will see Jones throw a good ball that’s completed for a first down and the quarterback will still cringe in disappointment because it’s not perfect. Jones wanted his ball an inch or two in a different spot. Since his training camp battle, his demeanor has not wavered.
“He’s focused on changing the way that people talk about him,” Pittman says, “and the way they think about him as a NFL quarterback.”
All the pieces are in place.
Indy’s offensive line, led by Nelson, is pile-driving linemen downhill. Taylor, the man who can complete 500-piece puzzles without looking at the box, is on pace for 1,806 rushing yards and 26 touchdowns. He could flirt with both the single-season yards (Eric Dickerson) and TD (LaDainian Tomlinson) records.
“I’m not scared to say it,” Pittman says. “I’m witnessing a Hall of Fame career in front of me. I know that Q is on that path. And now it’s great to see JT on that path, too. I’ll make that bold take: I’m playing with two Hall of Fame players right now. The things that they’re doing is just incredible.”
Factor in rookie sensation Tyler Warren, the Penn State tight end enjoying a debut season on par with Mike Ditka’s iconic 1961 season and it’s been nearly impossible for opposing coordinators to account for all moving parts. Steichen’s offense is averaging an NFL-best 33.8 points per game. Then, there’s the defense. Hiring Lou Anarumo has been arguably the greatest offseason coup. His unit has created nonstop havoc with 23 sacks, 61 QB hits and 10 interceptions. It’s no longer lunacy to suggest these Colts could reach their first Super Bowl since Peyton Manning patrolled the line of scrimmage. Whenever Pittman tells his kids that he’s going to work, he stops to think Am I really going to work? This year sure has not felt like a job.
Indy is one boneheaded Adonai Mitchell dropped football away from being 8-0. We’d be wondering if this team has a shot at challenging the ‘72 Dolphins.
Players have something else driving them this season, too. After every game, home or away, the first five years of his career, Pittman used to see the team’s owner seated in the same exact spot. On May 21, Jim Irsay passed away at the age of 65. Pittman has attended funerals for distant friends and relatives before. Irsay is the first person truly close to him who has died.
He misses the Colts’ larger-than-life presence — his booming voice, his infectious energy. Nobody was happier after wins. Seeing that empty seat is a weekly reminder.
“You walk in there and it hits you for a sec: He’s not there anymore,” Pittman says. “And every time that I walk in, I kind of just peek over there to make sure. We’re going to do everything that we can to win games for him and pass on his mission.”
This team leader sees no other choice. The Colts must stampede one direction at one merciless pace.
Some opponents may put up a fight.
Most others will likely bail in shame to avoid humiliation.