Imagine walking into Cooperstown and asking to borrow Babe Ruth’s bat. Now, imagine doing it twice—only to be turned down both times. Welcome to Abdul Carter’s whirlwind introduction to the NFL, where even a top-three draft pick learns some legacies aren’t up for grabs. The New York Giants rookie faces a jersey-number limbo that blends comedy, caution, and peak football drama.

It’s like ordering a classic ’66 Mustang only to find out it’s already in Jay Leno’s garage. Abdul Carter, the linebacker with Penn State pedigree and a highlight reel longer than a Super Bowl halftime show, thought he’d kick off his Giants career by honoring icons. Instead, he’s confronting a truth as old as the Lombardi Trophy: some numbers aren’t just retired—they’re untouchable.

Rob Gronkowski didn’t hold back on the Dudes on Dudes podcast. “Was he [Carter] serious asking for LT’s number? Yeah, you were a high draft pick, but LT’s an absolute legend. The best to do it—one of the best offenders of all time!” Gronk said, mixing respect with disbelief. “You gotta prove yourself. Just crazy just asking for LT’s number, and I’m glad that LT shut him down like that.” Meanwhile, Julian Edelman piled on.

“That was such an LT response. Go make your own number, kid,” Edelman said, laughing with a sense of disdain. “The fact that he even asks that is crazy to me.” The message? NFL royalty isn’t a hand-me-down. Meanwhile, Carter’s quest began April 24, moments after the Giants drafted him. He eyed Lawrence Taylor’s 56, a digit untouched since LT’s 1993 retirement. Taylor’s reply? A firm no wrapped in sage advice.

“Get another number. I don’t care if it’s double zero, and then make it famous,” Taylor suggested. Carter shrugged it off like a missed tackle, tweeting, “The worst thing he could say was NO!!” But undeterred, Carter pivoted to Phil Simms’ retired No. 11. Simms initially played nice: “I told some of my friends and people around me, ‘I’d let him have it in a second. Can you just help it a little and make it better? I think it would be a lot of fun.” But his agent wasn’t having it.

“My wife, I don’t know if my family’s said anything. The boys didn’t say anything. But my agent, ‘Don’t you dare give up that jersey number!’” Simms admitted. By Friday, Giants writer Gary Myers confirmed the number would stay retired. Carter joked online, “Damn at this point imma be out there with just my last name.” The Giants’ retired list reads like a Hall of Fame roll call. Eli Manning’s 10, Michael Strahan’s 92, even Mel Hein’s 7 from 1931. Last year, Malik Nabers got Ray Flaherty’s No. 1 after family negotiations. But Carter’s requests hit a wall twice.

Carter’s no stranger to pressure, though. At Penn State, he inherited Micah Parsons’ No. 11 and dominated—24 tackles for loss, 12 sacks, and Big Ten Defensive MVP honors. Now, Giants fans await his next move. Will he take Taylor’s advice and grab “double zero”? Or revive his high school number, 23? Either way, the spotlight’s glaring.

The irony of unretirement

The Giants opened this Pandora’s Box in 2024 by unretiring No. 1 for Nabers. Traditionalists cringed. “Retired jerseys are ‘retired’ jerseys. They were taken out of circulation because a player had a remarkable career with a franchise,” argued columnist Ed Valentine. “That means the number should always be associated with that person. They should not be worn again.” Carter’s saga amplifies the debate: Should franchises preserve history or let rookies rewrite it?

Carter’s talent is undeniable. His 40-yard dash? A blur. His pass rush? A nightmare. But as Rob Gronkowski warned, “You gotta prove yourself .” The Giants didn’t draft him for numerology—they want QB sacks, not jersey sales. Meanwhile, Carter’s response has been all class. After the Simms rejection, he tweeted, “It’s all love. Just wanna play football!” That attitude might be his best asset. Besides, numbers don’t make a legend.

They’re forged on third-down stops and game-winning picks. In The Natural, Roy Hobbs famously said, “I coulda been better. I coulda broken every record.” For Abdul Carter, the path isn’t about breaking records—it’s about starting fresh. LT’s 56 and Simms’ 11 are museum pieces. Now, Carter must carve his legacy in a digit all his own.

As training camp looms, one question lingers: When fans flock to MetLife Stadium this fall, will they cheer for Carter’s number—or the man behind it?