Jason Kelce wasn’t done bulldozing defenders. Picture a dusty diner showdown where the sheriff strolls in with a six-shooter of grit. Now swap the tumbleweeds for boardroom leather chairs. The Eagles’ owner, Jeffrey Lurie, walked into the NFL’s spring meetings in Minnesota this week with a retired center turned folk hero. The mission? Save Philly’s beloved—and controversial—Tush Push. The stakes? Higher than a fourth-quarter Hail Mary.
The NFL’s competition committee wanted the play gone. Health concerns, they claimed. But Lurie and Kelce had a counterplay sharper than a Vince Lombardi game plan. On Wednesday, May 21, 2025, the league’s owners voted 22-10 to keep the Tush Push alive—two votes shy of the 24 needed for a ban. Cue the Rocky theme. Philly’s signature play lives, and Jason Kelce’s fingerprints are all over the victory.
The Boardroom Blitz
Lurie didn’t just argue—he performed. “It’s the safest play in the history of the game,” he declared, slamming data on the table like a poker ace. "Whoever votes to ban this play is taking liability for putting risk on our quarterbacks.” When Lurie called the mission of banning Tush Push a “wet dream for a teenage boy,” even skeptics leaned in. Then came Kelce.
The retired center, whose bulldog tenacity defined Philly’s offensive line, calmly dismantled safety myths. “If I could run 60 tush pushes a game, I’d come back,” he said. His presence was a mic drop. Owners who’d shrugged at spreadsheets couldn’t ignore the man who’d anchored the play.
The Vote That Shook the League
Green Bay’s proposal aimed to ban pushing ball carriers—a direct shot at Philly’s sneak. But the Packers miscalculated. By broadening the rule to include all pushes, they alienated teams like the Ravens and Jets. “The Packers hurt themselves,” a source said. They made it about philosophy, not just the Tush Push.
When the final tally landed, the Eagles’ social team blasted memes like there's no tomorrow. The captions? “And push on we will,” "Push On."
Kelce’s Last Block: Defending the Tush Push Legacy
Jason Kelce didn’t need a podium. On his New Heights podcast, he shredded retirement rumors: “I’ll come out of retirement today if you tell me all I gotta do is run 80 tush pushes to run in the NFL.” Brother Travis joked about protest signs reading “PRO TUSH PUSH! KEEP THE PUSH! PUSH MY TUSH! PUSH MY TUSH!” But the message was clear: Kelce’s credibility swayed votes.
“There’s not any data to suggest that it’s unsafe,” Kelce stressed. His testimony wasn’t just technical—it was personal. Owners couldn’t ignore the man who’d turned the play into art. Besides, the Tush Push isn’t just a play
It’s identity. With Kelce retired, critics wonder if the Eagles can sustain its 87% success rate. But Lurie’s gamble proves Philly won’t back down.
Ultimately, the league’s oldest debate—innovation versus tradition—found its answer in a retired center’s stubborn pride. Or, as The Sandlot’s Smalls once said, “Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.” Will the Tush Push cement Kelce’s legend? Or will rivals finally solve the riddle?
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