Big Game: The NFL in Dangerous Times. Mark Leibovich
McNair said of the Cherokees. ‘‘They might not have respected the way they held their whiskey, but . . .’’ McNair laughed.
This not surprisingly drew criticism from offended Native American groups, anti–Redskins name protesters, and people who can appreciate the irony of headlines like this one, on Deadspin: nfl assures
fans there’s no tolerance for racial slurs at redskins games. But I had been told that McNair was mad since the “Redskins” name was not the designated topic of our interview (the unquestioned greatness of Roger Goodell was said designated topic). As for the commissioner, I had asked the Texans owner whether he was concerned about the volume of criticism Goodell had been receiving. With success comes scrutiny, was how McNair had replied, although once again he said it in a much more excellent way. “It’s like the old saying,’’ McNair said. ‘‘The higher up the palm tree the monkey climbs, the more of his ass is exposed.’’ McNair laughed. If the commish objected to being compared with a monkey’s ass by one of his bosses, he had about 40 million reasons this year to take it like a man.
MCNAIR, THEN SEVENTY-NINE, HAS A BALD OVAL HEAD AND A slight resemblance to Mr. Clean. I saw him standing with his wife at the reception looking clean in a pressed white suit. I surveyed the monkey’s ass in full. Everyone was dressed for leisure: Kraft in a too-unbuttoned dress shirt and his customized Nikes; Jones in a powder-blue blazer, no tie, and a glass (sorry, tumbler) of something; Ravens chief Steve Bisciotti in beautifully pressed jeans, white shirt with an open collar, and loafers without socks.
49ers coach Chip Kelly elbowed his way up next to me at the paella table. He had been talking to Rex Ryan, who was then coaching the Bills and whom I barely recognized after he had lost considerable weight following a lap band procedure in 2010 (Kelly might consider this). I had, for the record, never seen so much paella in my life. The league does know how to feed itself.
After a few minutes, I gravitated to a mountain of lobster meat, crab, and shrimp. And also to Woody Johnson. I was eager to discuss politics with the Wood Man given his longtime involvement with the Republican Party. He had been the national finance chairman of Jeb Bush’s ill-fated presidential campaign until it had been officially euthanized a few weeks earlier. Trump had taunted Johnson via a tweet, saying, “If Woody would’ve been w/ me, he would’ve been in the playoffs, at least!” The Jets owner was now slowly warming to Trump.
He gushed to me about how brilliant “build a wall” was as Trump’s signature theme. The phrase sent a simple, elegant message of what he stood for and what his campaign was about. Johnson was hopeful that Trump could act in a more restrained and presidential manner going forward—hopeful enough that Johnson would eventually raise nearly $25 million for the future president, much of it from fellow NFL owners.15
ESPN’s Herm Edwards, the former Eagles defensive back and Jets head coach, came over to say hello to Johnson. “Love you, man,” the owner said, greeting his former coach. Johnson had also professed his “love” for Herm following the 2005 season exactly six weeks before “releasing him from his contract” under mysterious circumstances. I excused myself from this discussion, walked about ten feet, and found myself face-to-face with Goodell. “Good to see you,” Goodell said to me, and I reminded him I had interviewed him two months earlier for a story he claimed not to read. Suddenly there was a loud pop. I turned my head to see that a kid’s balloon had burst and its poor owner had burst into tears. By the time I turned back around the commissioner was gone, escaping behind a wall of owners.
The highlight of the evening came about a half hour later. Cynthia Hogan, then the league’s head of public policy and government affairs, walked over and introduced me to Jane Skinner Goodell, Roger’s wife. Her Majesty is a former Fox News anchor and the daughter of Samuel Skinner, a former transportation secretary and White House chief of staff under George H. W. Bush. I felt immediately at ease with Mrs. Goodell, though it might have been the booze. I asked her if she could help get the Pats’ stolen draft picks back after the Deflategate travesty. She chuckled, and then I asked her how many Shields Roger insisted they display around their estate in Bronxville, New York. “Only one,” she said evenly. “It’s tattooed on his chest.” I had heard rumors that Mrs. Goodell had an actual sense of humor, despite her husband’s being the enemy of lightness in any form. This confirmed it. She had a friend in me for life at that point.
“It doesn’t sound sexy,” Mrs. Goodell elaborated on her husband’s Shield tattoo. “But there are times . . .” Her voice trailed off and everyone who was listening laughed. But then she appeared to become nervous. “Okay, the tattoo on the chest is off the record,” she insisted to me. No way, I replied, and so the Queen of the Shield doubled down: “I didn’t say anything about the tattoo on his ass,” she said.
No less of a genius than Bill Belichick appeared to be lost. I watched him and ESPN’s Trey Wingo passing each other twice down the same hallway. They then pivoted and changed directions and passed each other again. Belichick was wearing flip-flops, cargo shorts, and a trademark gray hoodie with big sweat blotches on the back. He also wore his trademark “I hate this fucking league” scowl, a few notches more grim than his usual default scowl.
This aloofness goes well beyond Belichick’s well-established commitment to “ignoring the noise.” “Ignore the noise” is one of the many anodyne phrases that get elevated to branded merchandise by the Patriots because it happened to emanate from the tongues of Mr. Kraft or Coach Fucking Genius (“one of the most active organizations in sports as far as trademarking phrases goes,” ESPN reported. When 345 Park is involved, Belichick has been known to ratchet his contempt to Hall of Fame levels. A few minutes after the Patriots defeated the Seahawks in Super Bowl 49, an NFL flunky assigned to the Patriots coach mentioned a few “league things,” like interviews and posing for photos, that were expected of the winning coach. “Fuck the league,” Belichick said at this moment of pinnacle triumph. They should trademark that, too, if they haven’t already.
The closer one works to a football field, the less use one would have for a league meeting. Conversely, these are crunch-time events for the parasites, support staff, and media eavesdroppers who can get a great deal done here. In the lobby I encountered the perma-tanned Drew Rosenhaus, who pimps himself as “the NFL’s Most Ruthless Agent.” Rosenhaus stood a few feet away from the NFL’s leading media busybody, ESPN’s Schefter.
These league powwows are like Adam’s bar mitzvah. He knows everyone here. He waves to passing GMs, coaches, and agents in the lobby, holds a phone to his left ear and checks a text on another in his right hand. This is the population that makes up the “per sources” that Schefter cites whenever he tweets out a nugget to his seven million followers. Schefter is the prototype of a sports media subspecies that has gained cachet: the NFL Insider.
“Dannon goes with Cowboys QB Dak Prescott after dropping Cam Newton, per source,” Schefter tweeted after the Panthers’ quarterback went off on a sexist riff at a press conference, costing him endorsements. Schefter did not specify whether his scoop came per football or yogurt sources. But take it to the bank (an insider catchphrase) the man has sources; or even more than sources, he has “relationships,” as Schefter described them to me. “There are some that are friends,” he said. Schefter mentioned that a head coach had invited him to his son’s wedding last summer. “My friends in the sport, they call me for advice, ask what I think,” Schefter told me.
But, I asked, isn’t the notion of “friend” a bit fraught in the journalism business? Maybe, but the nugget racket is its own distinct subset. The Schefters of the space do not play for the Pulitzer Prizes (the eight-part series and textured storytelling). He was named “Most Influential Tweeter in New York” by New York magazine is more like it.
Insiders have their own reward system and play by their own rules. I asked Schefter what would happen if he had to report a critical item about one