“?????” I wrote in my notebook.
I contemplated Jerry’s words. “Networks . . . broke dicks with their ass hanging out.” I honored his words. Respected them. Let them roll. Finally, clarity dawned: What I think Jones meant is that the class and grandeur of these gladiator palaces reflect what the NFL should be selling: bold dreams. Since AT&T Stadium opened in 2009, Jones set the standard for shock and awe. He offered the freshest of sushi and the highest definition of scoreboards and even a stunning collection of modern art. There is nothing halfhearted about Jerry’s World, no broke dicks. It feeds a leaguewide aura that should scream WOW, loud enough to come through the TV.
But on a more tangible level, big swinging projects like AT&T, and what Kroenke was imagining in L.A., bring the NFL closer to another magical number: twenty-five billion. As in, the number of dollars in gross revenue that Goodell said the league aspires to by 2027. The frequency with which NFL executives and owners mention the “twenty-five billion” target suggests a Holy Grail. You could conclude this goal represents a greater preoccupation than the priorities they swear by publicly, like health and safety. When these priorities collide, as they inevitably do, Team Revenue comes in as a heavy favorite.
By 2016, the league was about halfway to $25 billion. Stan’s Plan would bring it closer than anything Kroenke could ever erect in a broke-dick town like St. Louis. The venture would involve, certainly, a bigger risk. Who knows if anyone can pull off a project of this ambition? Or whether Los Angeles, despite its market’s size and cachet, could support it? The scale of the effort itself becomes a subset of the reality show. Can this all possibly work?
“I love ambiguity,” Jones told me. He was talking about his own bent for thrill seeking, the importance of “going balls out.” Jones made his fortune, originally, in petroleum. “Only God knows whether there’s oil under the ground,” he said. So ambiguous! Eighty-five percent of everything he does in oil and gas will lose money. It has made Jones less fearful of failure, he said. He’s seen sky-highs and also felt “about as low as a crippled cricket’s ass,” as Jones once described his mood after former Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo got hurt. “You don’t have to spend a lot of time going over and kind of circumcising the mosquito,” Jones added, in the vein of how he does not like to overthink decisions.
Jones hailed Kroenke as being “manna from heaven” for the possibilities of Los Angeles. While the people of eastern Missouri had less generous descriptions, Kroenke had moved on. He and Demoff had captured the only room that mattered, the Membership. There were powerful exceptions. Panthers owner Jerry Richardson had been vocal and stubborn in his support for the Carson project, in keeping with the preference of the relocation committee. He believed St. Louis had done its part to build a sufficient new home for the Rams. “When this is all over, I’d sure love to know what I did to piss off Jerry Richardson,” Kroenke told a small cluster of owners as the meeting dragged on.
In general, Kroenke’s ambitious project appealed to the newer guard of owners who had paid large sums for their franchises and were eager to see more aggressive revenue initiatives to recoup their investments. By contrast, older-line “establishment” owners—such as the Maras, Hunts, and Rooneys—had inherited teams that had been in their families for generations. They also were predisposed to a measure of loyalty to the Carson project, especially given that the Chargers had been in Dean Spanos’s family for more than three decades.
The Membership was united on one particular objective: to wrap up the meeting in one day, rather than the scheduled two. This was a crowded time of year in which many owners and executives were planning for postseason games or were in the process of hiring new coaches. Goodell called a vote at about six p.m. It was determined that the vote be by secret ballot, a measure typically reserved for matters such as the awarding of Super Bowl host cities or the electing of a new commissioner. This fostered a stronger consensus for the Rams since some owners had felt obligated to support Spanos. The secret ballot afforded owners a mask, Jones said, important when sensitive and personal matters are being decided. “When you are voting to remove the king, and the king can cut your head off, then I think it can help,” Jones said.
The Membership voted 30–2 to make Stan Kroenke king of L.A.—or at least the kingdom of undetermined size that still cared about football. By nightfall, the tired tycoons began coursing through the lobby en route to limos that would take them to private jets and the hell out of Houston. Jones held forth nursing a tumbler of Scotch, calling this “a cornerstone decision.” The Jets’ owner, Woody Johnson, strolled past wearing his trademark JanSport knapsack over both shoulders. He appeared agitated, little eyes quickly scanning the room like he was looking for a lost teddy bear.
‘‘Everybody wins in this deal,’’ the Miami Dolphins’ owner, Stephen M. Ross, declared to a bank of reporters as he trailed the Wood Man out the door.
‘‘What about the fans of St. Louis?’’ someone in the gallery cracked. Ross shrugged. ‘‘Well, somebody has to lose,’’ he said.
Goodell convened a hurried press conference upstairs. He emphasized that the Rams would be “returning” to L.A., as if they’d merely decamped to a temporary condo somewhere in the Midwest for twenty-one years. As part of the agreement, Goodell said, Spanos would have a one-year option to move the Chargers to Inglewood as the Rams’ tenant.
The commissioner was flanked by Kroenke and his two bridesmaids, Spanos and Davis. Roger kicked things off with an important reminder: “Relocation is a painful process,” he said, “painful for the fans, communities, the teams, and the league in general.” Goodell then pivoted to a grand promise of what could be in store in a future of limitless possibility: “A project that we think is going to change not just NFL stadiums and NFL complexes, but I think sports complexes around the world,” Goodell said. He ended on a more solemn note, dubbing this “a bittersweet moment.”
By the faces at the podium, the moment looked more bitter than sweet, even for the winner. Kroenke, the real estate magnate with a charm quotient as meager as the Rams’ win totals of the previous years, stared at the floor. Kroenke (rhymes with “donkey”) has a pale and jowly countenance, an unruly comb-over, and a seventies-porn mustache. He rarely speaks to the media—and you can see why. ‘‘We spend a lot of resources trying to make sure that we stay relevant,’’ Kroenke told the assembled press in a monotone mumble. Ray Ratto, a Bay Area sportswriter, observed via Twitter that Kroenke looked as if he were “overdue for his next baby wombat blood injection.”
Mark Davis looked about due for a swig of Drano. He tried to put on a good face but failed. He tried to be philosophical. “The good news is we came in third place,” Davis said of the owners’ vote. “The bad news is that it was a three-horse race.”
League people often delineate between “pioneers” and “settlers.” “Pioneers” are the owners who actually buy their teams while “settlers” inherit them. Like Davis, Spanos inherited his team from his father, Alex Spanos. He is generally well liked by his partners around the league, but no one would mistake him for a visionary or even that significant of a force. He seemed to engender greater sympathy than respect from his fellow owners, as if he were a hapless little brother. “Dino,” they call him. He generally kept his nose clean (well, except for that one unfortunate time back in 1990 when he reportedly got busted for padding his handicap at Pebble Beach—“sandbagging,” as the practice is known, a huge sin in Fat Cat golfer circles; Dino was not invited back to Pebble Beach the next year—just as the Chargers were not being invited to L.A. right now). While Goodell spoke, delivering the verdict, Spanos stared at a back wall, appearing shell-shocked.
There was, as always, a technocratic remove about the commissioner. Goodell tried to sell this as an “exciting day” for the National Football League. “We have a facility that is going to be absolutely extraordinary in the Los Angeles market that I think the fans are going to abso
lutely love,” he said. “We’re very proud and we’re very excited about the potential for Stan and the Rams in Los Angeles.”
By the time this painful process broke up, most of the Membership had fled the premises. I repaired to a bar downstairs at the Westin that had been taken over by a petting zoo of relieved Raiders fans. Lingering reporters filled their notebooks with quotes from Doctor Death and Co. about how the Raiders’ “destiny” had been respected on that day, meaning that the team would be staying in Oakland for the time being.
After a few minutes, who should walk into the bar but Mark Davis. He leaned against a couch and within a few minutes was holding court for a group of Black Hole transplants. Davis’s trademark bowl of a haircut had achieved a perfectly straight line across his forehead. He had changed into a powder-blue sweatshirt and black-and-white sneakers and wore a relaxed air of resignation. He might have been sedated.
Davis posed for photos and signed autographs with some of the same Raider Nation commandos who only a few hours before had threatened many unpleasant things about Al Davis’s kid. This temporary stay from losing their team had brightened their moods and refreshed their outlooks. The bartenders appeared to play significant roles in this, too.
I asked Davis, who does not drink, whether he was mad at Goodell. ‘‘Nah, I call Roger the pope,’’ Davis told me. I wondered why. ‘‘I like to bust his chops.’’ He bought another round of drinks for the Raider diehards, whom he remained very much committed to disowning.
Next door at an Italian steakhouse called Vallone’s, Jerry Jones and Stan Kroenke had reassembled with their families for a celebratory dinner. They drank red wine and looked pleased with themselves, the winning fat cats who swallowed the $3 billion canary. Bills owners Terry and Kim Pegula were there, too. They all kept toasting “to the Los Angeles Rams,” over and over like a mantra, honoring the words, respecting them.
14.
ROGER AND ME
January 19, 2016
Propaganda runs thick at world headquarters. Every corporate office celebrates itself to some degree but 345 Park Ave overwhelms, like you’ve entered a megachurch marrying NFL Films with Scientology. Shields show up everywhere, etched into desks and iced onto cookies and carved in a massive conference table shaped like a football. NFL Network resounds on a theater-size screen behind the reception desk. Hall of Famer Michael Irvin is screaming a sermon via the house organ on how “Victory is such an important thing! It soothes the soul! It lifts the spirit!”
Victory!
Beyond the slap of propaganda, paranoia also strikes immediately. On my first visit to NFL headquarters, late in the 2015–16 season, I had the strange feeling that I was being watched, or videotaped. People smile without making eye contact. They look at the floor and move quickly. You half expect that everyone should be wearing a uniform, something like Bolivian military fatigues.
Greg Aiello, the league’s longtime communications director, greeted me in the front waiting area when I arrived. Lanky and serene, Aiello worked as the head of PR for the Dallas Cowboys in the 1980s (and yes, he married a cheerleader). He had a slightly checked-out manner about him as he was about to be replaced as the Shield’s top flak catcher by Joe Lockhart, the former White House press secretary during the Monica-era Clinton years. He walked me through the nerve center, pointing out photos of various Patriots on the wall (Kraft, Brady). I had told Aiello before that I was a New England fan and convinced that the league had it in for us. “See, there’s Kraft again,” Aiello said, pointing to a photo on a wall—more proof that the Shield would never discriminate, that integrity is blind.
I noted the disproportionate number of Jets fans—based on desk decorations—who seemed to work in this place.
We ended up in the cafeteria, known as the Huddle. Aiello bought me an iced tea. He sat me down and told me good stuff about the commissioner, good things about the league, big and heady numbers—record ratings, rising revenues, flack things. He handed me positive fact sheets and articles and then, unprompted, summed up what was clearly the message of his campaign: ‘‘Roger wins.’’
During another visit to the Huddle, I met Tod Leiweke, a former Seattle Seahawks CEO who had been hired as the league’s chief operating officer the previous summer. Leiweke has brushed-back white hair and a beak nose that bore him a slight resemblance to an actual sea hawk. He first got to know Goodell during a climb up Mount Rainier with other executives for a United Way campaign Leiweke was chairing at the time. Over lunch, Leiweke unleashed on me an avalanche of mountain metaphors, one after another, by way of explaining his new mission on behalf of the Shield.
‘‘There are challenges to running the most successful league in the world,’’ he told me. ‘‘It’s like clouds on Rainier. Not everything’s perfect, but you fight through it.’’ He continued: ‘‘The league is trying to climb new mountains of its own.’’
Leiweke was hired in part to raise morale at 345 Park. Goodell had grown agitated and impatient with many of his deputies. He could become testy in meetings, challenging underlings, complaining in open settings that they made too much money—a glass-houses critique if there ever was one from a commissioner who had amassed more than $300 million in salary and bonuses during his decade in charge.
Goodell had a tendency to micromanage. His plummeting public image, a growing number of owners believed, was becoming a drag on the NFL brand. Several long-serving league officials were either leaving or seeking exit strategies. Leiweke told me his goal was to help lighten Goodell’s workload and brighten the mood at the place—including that of the increasingly downcast commissioner. Top executives who had been reporting directly to Goodell—Brian Rolapp, the CEO of NFL Network and executive VP of media, for example—would now be reporting to Leiweke. Some of these top executives were not happy about this (Brian Rolapp, for example), but Leiweke is a self-styled “people person” who believes he can make things work. He is also unthreatening, at least to Goodell, which was one of the main qualities that appealed to the commissioner in picking his number two. To have an understudy too strong is to tempt discussion that he or she is the heir apparent. “Roger wanted no part of having his replacement working directly under him,” one top league official told me, a theme echoed around the league.
Upon first meeting him, it is clear that Leiweke is a different bird. He had a sunny and even New Agey presence, like a proselytizing leader. “I have a unique perspective of management,” Leiweke told me. “I think of it as ‘servitude management,’ ‘servitude leadership.’” What does this mean? “I work for all the people in this room,” Leiweke told me, gesturing to the rest of the Huddle, which was now filling up for lunch.
“I have this ambition that they’re going to have better lives,” he went on, “and they’re going to feel even more proud to be part of the NFL.” Leiweke clenched his hands into two fists, demonstrating resolve. He patted the chest of his beige sweater that was embroidered with a big shield. “Together, we’re going to better serve the owners, the fans, and the players,” Leiweke vowed. “And it’s a beautiful thing.”
I remember making a note to myself that this guy wouldn’t last a year. (He wound up lasting two and a half.)
Leiweke kept describing Goodell to me as ‘‘convicted.’’ By this he appeared to mean the commissioner had strong convictions. ‘‘Roger is hardworking, dedicated, convicted, tenacious,’’ Leiweke said. ‘‘He is an amazing, convicted guy.’’ Leiweke closed by reinforcing the message of the day about the commissioner. ‘‘He’s a winner.’’
Reports of Goodell’s frustration with his staff were echoed to me by certain owners. One critique was that the commissioner needed a stronger team around him. This was a bit of a shield for Goodell, as it absolved him of responsibility for the serial public relations, legal, and football operations messes the league has suffered, or exacerbated, in recent years. It also overlooks that Goodell hired most of these people
himself or gave them their authority. “I think it’s been proven out over the past few years that maybe Roger didn’t listen to some folks as much as he should,” said Ray Anderson, the NFL’s former vice president of football operations. “Especially folks who didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. Goodell’s top deputy-piñata is Jeff Pash, a longtime league executive and general counsel who was criticized by several owners for the league’s “excessive tendency to lawyer up over everything,” as one club executive put it. After Goodell, Pash is the NFL’s second-highest-paid executive—he took home $7.5 million in 2014 and $6.5 million in 2015. Pash also was believed to have had the top job in his sights seemingly from the day he entered the league twenty years ago. He vied for the commissioner’s post when it last came open, in 2006, as did the league’s current executive vice president, Eric Grubman, a former partner at Goldman Sachs. Both were viewed as strong internal candidates to replace Paul Tagliabue but neither made it to the final round. In the end, Goodell, who was then the league’s chief operating officer, was selected over runner-up Gregg Levy, the NFL’s outside counsel.
Like Pash and Tagliabue, Levy had close ties to the powerhouse Washington law firm Covington & Burling. Legal acumen has always been a supremely valued trait among top NFL executives, no surprise given that many of the “existential moments” in the league’s history have involved megastakes litigation (losing the USFL’s antitrust lawsuit in the 1980s could have been devastating, for instance—as opposed to the NFL’s being forced to pay only $3 in damages). Even though Goodell won out in the end, he has empowered Pash as a kind of legal alter ego who, in the words of one owner, “plays on Roger’s insecurities over not being a lawyer.”
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