My tour guides were a pair of hard-hatted project managers from Legends, the stadium construction and hospitality firm co-owned by the Cowboys and New York Yankees. The project managers—Dale Koger and Scott Owens—kept tossing out fun facts about Shangri LA, mostly related to dirt: more than four million cubic yards, for instance, had been excavated thus far and they would eventually reach eight million cubic yards. Their construction vehicles picked up sixty yards of dirt per minute and seventy thousand yards in a day.
We were standing on a twenty-foot-high platform and surveying the grand gravel view, orange hued like Cleveland Browns helmets. Big machines zigzagged across the soil in jagged formations. “Look at that man standing out there in the middle,” Dale said, pointing out a single hard hat in the middle of the megapit. “He looks like an ant, doesn’t he?” Indeed he did, and with that my meter expired.
There was a better show down the road at the famed Forum, onetime seat of L.A. glamour, home of the Showtime Lakers, and now site of a debacle-in-the-making scheduled for eleven a.m.: a “Welcome to L.A.” pep rally for the team that had until a few days earlier been known as the San Diego Chargers.
The Rams’ coming “home” to Los Angeles party seemed to be going so well, too. But then the embattled Chargers owner Dean Spanos, peeved that San Diego’s government and taxpayers would not subsidize him a new stadium, decided to bolt for L.A., where he and the Bolts would effectively be crashing on Stan’s couch once his Football Vanity Village was complete.
There are many aspects to this particular pile of NFL turmoil, but start with this: No one wanted the “Los Angeles Chargers” to happen. Not the people of San Diego, who had supported their team for fifty-six years. Not the league or the other owners, who did not want to abandon a loyal fan base in one of the fastest-growing markets in the league. Los Angeles itself, at least the subset that cared about football, had made its position on the Chargers clear in a number of ways. The new L.A. Chargers logo was viciously booed upon its unveiling at a Clippers-Lakers game at the Staples Center. The team scrapped the logo and vowed to come up with a new one, but that wasn’t quite the point. MESSAGE TO CHARGERS: WE DON’T WANT YOU IN LOS ANGELES was the headline over a column by Bill Plaschke in the Los Angeles Times. There was no need to read further to understand where he was coming from.
The Rams, to quote Coach Obvious, were also not happy. When all is said and done—factoring in relocation fees and moving costs—Stan Kroenke would be spending close to $4 billion to realize his “vision” in Inglewood. Kroenke would have invested a decade of groundwork in the project and made himself a pariah in his home state of Missouri (where he was named for the St. Louis Cardinal idol Stan Musial), and also among a few of his business partners who came away bitter after he’d prevailed in the intra-owner bloodbath over L.A.
Spanos would have been one of the leading pissed-offees. He remained hurt that his partners had overwhelmingly opted for Brother Stan and the Rams project over the Chargers-Raiders combo platter in Carson. To placate Spanos, Goodell engineered this consolation arrangement in which the Chargers would own a one-year option to become the Rams’ tenant in Inglewood. No one thought Spanos would actually do this. “Dean just seemed so wounded after we voted for Stan, Roger needed to give him something,” an AFC team executive told me after the vote was taken in Houston. “We should have given him a puppy.”
Instead Spanos got rights to sloppy seconds in L.A. Goodell and the Membership figured Spanos would work out some deal in San Diego, because that’s what everyone wanted him to do and it made the most sense and the alternative made none. Yet here was Spanos calling Stan Kroenke to say, “Hey, I’m coming, dude, what can I bring?” (definitely paraphrasing here).
Kroenke, who had learned the news with everyone else—via ESPN’s Adam Schefter—was not happy. Spanos’s phone call went to voice mail. When I visited Inglewood about a week later Silent Stan had yet to return the call. They definitely had some repair work to do, Kroenke and Spanos did, perhaps a support group for socially awkward rich guys who have screwed over entire fan bases. Kroenke also managed to be out of town on the day of the Chargers’ “Welcome to L.A.” rally. I, however, was thrilled to be in Inglewood, as any connoisseur of NFL clown shows would be.
How do you stage a housewarming rally for someone nobody wants in the neighborhood—let alone your landlord? This even included the “someone” who was being “welcomed.” Philip Rivers, the Chargers quarterback for the previous thirteen seasons, was plainly unhappy. He choked up and stammered his way through a radio interview on the subject of having to uproot from (or commute from) his longtime home in San Diego to L.A. When the team held a news conference to announce its new head coach, Anthony Lynn, Lynn declared himself “so pumped” and “so proud to be the head coach of the San Diego—uhh, L.A. Chargers.” Lynn quickly acknowledged his mistake with a simple “Oops,” which, according to the Los Angeles Times, could also work nicely as the Chargers’ new slogan.
Dean Spanos, whose father Alex became majority owner of the Chargers in 1984, had said repeatedly that he did not want to leave San Diego. He loved the place, it was his home. He pleaded with the voters and public officials of San Diego to build him a new domicile. When that failed, he begged his fellow owners to help pay for one. He was now the most hated man in his hometown and an unwanted tenant in his adopted one. “Now I know how Art Modell feels,” he told one NFC owner, referring to the longtime Cleveland Browns owner who moved the team to Baltimore, became the most reviled figure in northeast Ohio, and then never set foot in Cleveland again. Dino got little sympathy from his fellow owners. They were miffed at him for turning what had appeared to be a somewhat elegant solution to the L.A. problem into a towering embarrassment.
This was something the NFL under Goodell had become quite adept at. If “Stan’s Vision” to build a transformational manor in the City of Dreams represented the pinnacle of NFL boldness and wherewithal, the deal that allowed the Chargers to storm the palace represented NFL politics, pettiness, and greed at its worst. If the Rams’ going to L.A. was akin to winning the Super Bowl, the Chargers’ following behind was Deflategate.
I drove about a mile to the Forum and pulled in behind two buses. The buses carried batches of “Charger fans” adorned in powder-blue jerseys, L.A. CHARGERS hats, and green-blue face paint. Where did they find these people? Were they bused in from San Diego? Did the Chargers offer $50 and a bunch of L.A. CHARGERS gear to the track workers at Hollywood Park if they were willing to run over to the Forum after their shift? I was dubious about this, as were others. “I have still never met a single Chargers fan,” Bill Plaschke wrote.
The “fans” filed off the bus and looked too perfect—the face-paint jobs, the newly printed uniforms. There was a bunch of reports, mostly on Twitter, that a casting call had gone out for people to play “Charger fans” and make a bunch of noise at the rally. None of these reports were confirmed, although I tried to interview at least three of these “fans” and they were strangely coy about where they lived and what they did for a living and what brought them here. When I asked, only one of the three could name the Chargers’ new coach.
San Diego Union-Tribune columnist Kevin Acee deemed the whole “self-welcome rally” to be a “wondrous metaphor” for the Chargers’ new history. “A fabricated event so perfectly Los Angeles,” he wrote. One of the rally speakers said it was “so fitting” that this party to celebrate the future of the NFL in L.A. would be held at the Fabulous Forum, one of the landmark venues of the city’s entertainment scene.
One could also say (as I will say here) that the Forum, opened in 1967, was also a fitting spot for this spectacle because who knew if it would even still be here in ten years?
Everything about this rally was bizarre, beginning with the metal detectors. Maybe this is standard procedure for any production that features high-profile scoundrels—in this case Dean Spanos and Roger Goodell—but it seemed like
an odd precaution for a “welcome rally” that would draw 150 people tops, a bunch of local dignitaries, and Chargers cheerleaders. A fair number of current and former Chargers also shuffled in. One was Rivers, who sat onstage as he waited to speak, not looking happy at all. He slumped in his chair and (poorly) hid a smirk. Goodell sat a few seats over, looking about as happy.
The commissioner was called up to say a few words. And the crowd did not even boo him properly (no way these were real NFL fans). It was more like courteous applause. Goodell did his fatherly pep talk routine with the sad-looking Spanos. “Dean, welcome, we’re proud of you, and welcome to your new home,” Goodell said. This was after Goodell twice mentioned “Stan’s Vision” that would “set a new standard for entertainment complexes in the whole world.” You had to figure Roger’s pilot was firing up the private jet at that point.
Spanos has slicked-back hair and a jowly face, resembling a short man’s version of ESPN’s Chris Berman or a rich-guy’s version of a brunette Barney Rubble. He appeared nervous and uncomfortable. That tends to be his public default mode, but his unease was conspicuous here. “Let me dispel the myth,” Spanos felt the need to insist, as he pointed behind him to Rivers. “Yes, he is happy to be here.” Rivers managed a cursory wave. Spanos aptly described this occasion as “surreal.”
To that point, the self-welcome had been a relatively polite gathering, if hardly raucous. There were a few “L.A. Chargers” chants and half-assed dancing along to blasted songs like “Uptown Funk.” Glitter showered onto the stage. But then, as Spanos spoke, a heckler went to work. “Way to screw over San Diego,” screamed a Chargers diehard, Joseph MacRae. He was in from San Diego, middle fingers raised. He said his profane piece while part of the crowd tried to drown him out with an “L.A. Chargers” chant. MacRae eventually headed for the exit but was shoved from behind by a burly Chargers “fan” in a vintage Lance Alworth jersey. MacRae spun around, as if we might see an actual fight—or the actors might be staging one for us.
But then MacRae thought better of it and San Diego stayed classy-ish. MacRae would be heard from again, raising money to pay for a billboard on I-405 near the Chargers’ temporary home in Carson. The sign featured, among other things, a cartoon likeness of Goodell in a clown nose next to the NFL’s “Football Is Family” slogan covered in dollar signs.
Spanos looked shaken by the interruption. His speech became halting and he rushed through the rest of it. Coach Lynn followed, managing to say “Los Angeles Chargers” this time. Rivers stepped up in the pocket and reassured the “home” fans, though backhandedly. “All I heard the last few days is that nobody wanted us up here,” Rivers said. He paused, and for a second I thought—hoped!—Rivers might actually finish the sentence with something like “Well, I don’t want to be here either.” That would have been so good. But it was not to be. Rivers spat out an “I guess we’re gonna be okay” and returned to his chair. L.A. already had enough actors.
22.
“I’M DRUNK, I’M STUPID, I’M A PATS FAN,” THE MAN TOLD POLICE
January 23, 2017
Before I left L.A., I stopped by the NFL Network studios, located in a warehouse park in Culver City, which also doubles as a human warehouse to dozens of former NFL greats who are now employed as on-air “personalities.” Introduced in 2003, NFL Network views itself as a quasi-journalistic enterprise. But many team officials and executives at the NFL—half of the league’s workforce is employed by NFL Network—would prefer a more quasi approach and less journalistic. Such is the dilemma built in to being a network that devotes 24–7 to covering its own workforce. Not only would it become understandably awkward when, say, a New England Patriots employee (Aaron Hernandez) murders someone or a Baltimore Ravens employee (Ray Rice) cold-cocks his fiancée or an actual owner (the Colts’ Jim Irsay) gets a DUI. It can rankle Park Ave and the individual teams when the network strays too far from its house organ mission.
The Culver City studio has a towel-snappy ambience. It is muscled with youngish-looking men who enjoy showing off their impressive recall of 40-yard dash times from the Scouting Combine. Rare here is the sight of gray hair, or many females. Being an NFL fan is obviously encouraged, so long as there’s no veering too far into fan-boy behavior. “On my first day at NFL Media I signed paperwork promising that I wouldn’t harass players for autographs,” wrote Diana Moskovitz in a Deadspin essay about what it’s like to be a woman employee at NFL Network. “That struck me as odd, given that I was a professional reporter being hired to work in a newsroom.”
As it is, the network does neither journalism nor propaganda that well. But I do spend a lot of time watching it, as I imagine any serious football fan with access to the channel would. If nothing else, the Pigskin Pravda offers plenty of highlights and the full library of NFL Films, a jewel of the league’s media empire. The network produces some solid original programs, like the A Football Life documentary series; and it also favors us (or used to) with such fine artwork as Behind the Pom-Poms, a show that asks actual NFL cheerleaders what they like about football—and just so we know they’re legit professionals, the cheerleaders are made to wear their skin-hugging uniforms on the show. (Behind the Pom-Poms appeared to be discontinued in 2014, a few years before several of NFL Network’s former player-employees would be suspended in a hail of sexual harassment allegations.)
NFL Network also reaps great material from the off-field reality shows that the teams and players generate. A few days before I visited Culver City, the network had managed to piss off the New York Giants PR department by tweeting out something about the Giants’ party boat scandal in Miami. On the afternoon I was there, the network was doing saturation coverage of another perfect installment in Real World—NFL. In the Steelers’ locker room following their playoff win over Kansas City, Pittsburgh’s star receiver Antonio Brown made a Facebook Live video of himself. In the background, Steelers coach Mike Tomlin can be heard delivering a postgame speech, with many of his words audible—including the part where he referred to Pittsburgh’s next opponent, my Patriots, as “those assholes.”
Few would be surprised that an NFL coach talked that way in a locker room speech, especially, in this case, about a team that much of the league would characterize the same way. The Patriots, who had defeated the Texans 34–16 in the divisional round, had been a particular bane to the Steelers on big stages, going back to the AFC Championship Game in 2002. So of course Tomlin has every right to call the Pats assholes, I probably would, too—and I root for the motherfuckers.
Antonio Brown was criticized for placing himself above the team, or placing other considerations above the team (i.e., Facebook, which, according to the Wall Street Journal, had paid him $244,000 to serve as a “social media influencer” on its site). But Brown’s more egregious sin was that he violated the sanctity of the locker room. He not only provided bulletin board fodder to the opposition but also created a distraction. Tomlin even extended the matter a couple days by refusing to let the distraction die, reiterating again and again how stupid and immature Brown was. Distraction is the bane of NFL coaches and locker rooms—or, if you’re the NFL Network, essential to your business model.
Social media swarmed over Brown with memes and ridicule. He was the fresh meat of distraction. Tomlin called Brown’s act “foolish,” “inconsiderate,” and “selfish,” among other things; he apologized not just in his capacity as head coach of the Steelers, but also “as a parent” and “as a member of the community.” Tomlin directed his apology to pretty much everybody in America, except the Patriots.
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In other news, the Oakland Raiders announced that they had applied to the league to relocate their franchise to Las Vegas. This meant that the two teams who had lost out to the Rams in the L.A. sweepstakes, the Chargers and Raiders, would be fleeing passionate NFL markets where they had enjoyed rich histories and loyal fans. As the gambling capital of America, Vegas
had always been avoided by the NFL like a Superfund site. Steering clear was essential to the NFL’s preserving its charade of rectitude, or “the Integrity of the Game” as Goodell would say. (Two years earlier the league put the kibosh on a fantasy football convention in Vegas organized by then-Cowboy quarterback Tony Romo because it was held at a place whose naming rights were sold to a casino.) But then Sin City happened to flash a near-billion-dollar stadium deal in front of Mark Davis like a high roller dangling a C-note at a strip club. So never mind the city’s crumbling roads and swelling class sizes. “Las Vegas Raiders” had a certain ring to it all of a sudden.
Would Roger finally show up in Foxborough? This was another storyline that presented itself before the league championship games. Goodell had avoided the Patriots’ home since he attended a January 2015 playoff game two weeks before Deflategate got rolling. He could have just shown up, maybe unannounced, at some innocuous regular-season game and that could have ended this quietly (Goodell’s home in Bronxville is just 186 miles down Interstate 95 from Gillette). But by staying away for the next two seasons while visiting every other league venue at least once, Goodell constructed a slow-building embarrassment for himself—one of his better skills.
The NFL’s PR geniuses compounded things by concocting cover stories for the commissioner’s absence. They claimed, for instance, that Goodell wanted to be in Atlanta for the first-round game between the Seahawks and Falcons because it might turn out to be the last game the Falcons ever played in the Georgia Dome. Yeah, this would be the absolutely hallowed Georgia Dome, certifiable Lambeau-of-the-South. The Falcons were vacating this never-beloved bubble after the season. Opened in 1992, the Georgia Dome’s most memorable event might have been its own implosion just twenty-five years later. Roger just needed to be there for Seahawks-Falcons in case this was indeed (choking back tears) good-bye to the fucking Georgia Dome. He is apparently sentimental about certain things.
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