Roger Goodell's 'A Christmas Carol'
A Christmas Carol, in Prose, Being a Ghost Story About Football
Chapter 1
Deputy NFL Affairs Clerk Bob Cratchit scurried from his drafty basement office into a service elevator, blowing into his cupped palms to ward off the cold as he rose to the executive penthouse of Ebenezer Goodell. He found his boss hunched over his flowcharts as usual. Cratchit knew his boss hated to be interrupted when he was deciding unilaterally, but the circumstances left Cratchit little choice.
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"Mister Goodell, sir. If you please, there are some inquiries that require your attention," Cratchit said in a nervous mutter.
"I suppose they require my attention whether I please or not," growled Goodell. "Very well. Who expects my charity this time?"
"The lawyers for the retired players are requesting a response to their queries about the proposed concussion settlement, sir. And some domestic violence activists are seeking a more thorough response from you in regard to the…you know…"
Goodell tossed his fountain pen to his desk and slammed the cover on the inkwell. "Lawyers and activists, you say? Of course. Have the retired players no savings? Are they dissatisfied with the pension I am forced to provide? And surely the domestic violence activists know that I had all the offenders shipped to the Botany Bay colony. What more do they want?"
Cratchit, still standing in the doorway of the expansive office cluttered with accordion folders and mysterious boxes labeled "London Jaguars 2017," lowered his voice even further. "I suppose, sir, that they want more evidence that you are motivated not by an urge to bury controversies, but by your social conscience."
"Social conscience? Bah, humbug. The social conscience is an advertising gimmick, Cratchit. It's the first thing you learn from a long career in public relations. 'Tis enough to appear moral and upstanding, young man. There is no need for such foolishness as to actually think that way. Send the beggars on their way with some strongly worded on-the-record statements, then fetch me Sunday's television ratings."
"Yes, sir," Cratchit said, but he lingered in the doorway.
"Oh, don't stand around like a backup quarterback, young man. Tell me what else you want."
"Well, sir, my basement office is awful cold."
"Have you burned everything I gave you?" Goodell asked.
"Yes, sir."
"All of the videotapes? All of the transcripts?"
"Yes, sir. And the Christmas card from DeMaurice Smith."
"Tell me, have you prepared samples of the 18-game schedule?"
Cratchit nodded vigorously. "Of course, sir. And the 16-team playoffs, and the six-day draft."
"Well, I suppose I cannot have you dying of frostbite before the next scandal." Goodell pushed a stack of documents off his desk. "Here is some concussion research. It should keep you warm for a few days."
Cratchit fell to his hands and knees to retrieve the furnace fuel. "Oh, thank you, sir! This is most generous! And one last thing: Would it be terribly inconvenient for me to have the full day off for Christmas?"
Goodell groaned. "Christmas. If we didn't sell so much merchandise, I would do away with the holiday. It wreaks havoc with late-season scheduling, and fans spend so much money on their families that they cannot afford wild-card tickets. But I suppose that is not your fault, Cratchit. As usual, you can have your extra day, though each year it is exactly as inconvenient as the last."
Chapter 2
That night, Ebenezer Goodell fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming once again that he was Emperor of Rome, bringing the meddlesome Senate to heel, crushing rebellion beneath his boot and basking in the cheering affection of the plebes in the coliseum. He awoke to a sound like chains rasping against his hardwood floors. Removing his sleep mask, he saw the ghastly image of a lean, desiccated specter with jet-black hair, wearing sunglasses and a white warmup suit.
"Just wake up, baby," said the ghost.
Terrified, Goodell drew blankets around himself and cowered in the corner of his bed. Looking closer, he realized that he recognized the apparition: It was the image of a longtime coworker, years deceased. "Al? Al Davis? Is that you?"
"It ain't Elvis Presley, sunshine," the ghost replied. "Yes, it's me, your old friend and foe Al Davis, making a commitment to haunting excellence."
Goodell gripped his beddings tightly and steadied himself. "I suppose you have been consigned to roam the Earth forever, dragging heavy iron chains behind you, as punishment for your greed and ruthlessness."
"No, baby. This is heaven for me. You think I would be caught playing harp and singing songs all day with the goyim? I have to keep doing what I do best: scaring the pants off NFL commissioners. The chains are just my old medallions from the 1970s. Those things get heavy."
"Oh, what a relief," Goodell said. "I thought you were here with a warning about eternal damnation."
Davis' ghost rattled its medallions and loosed an unearthly shriek that Goodell felt within the marrow of his bones. "Of course I come with a warning about eternal damnation, you incredible nitwit," Davis said as the echo of his shriek subsided. "Look, these hauntings are as predictable as my vertical offense was after the 1980s, so I will cut to the chase. Multiple ghosts are coming after me; we are going to do a little intervention, and you can decide to be a mensch or keep doing all the stupid stuff that leads to getting your eyes pecked out for all eternity."
"A council of specters, you say?" Goodell said. "Well, if they are all as easily cowed as you and your fellow owners, or the players union, or the sponsors or fans, then I welcome them. Some strong language, a carefully crafted policy with lots of flowcharts, and a healthy dose of procedural procrastination are all I need to bring the spirit world into line."
The Davis specter shrugged. "Suit yourself, shortcake. But keep in mind it's not just your soul that's at stake. Professional football itself is in jeopardy."
Goodell scoffed. "You know better than that, Al. The sport is healthier than ever, because I give fans and advertisers exactly what they want."
"If you say so, rainbow. It's no skin off my back, since I don't have a skin or a back anymore. The first ghost will get here when he gets here." With that, the Davis ghost vanished from sight.
As the final wisp of his visage faded, Goodell heard a peculiar bell. It was not a Christmas bell, nor a funerary church bell, nor the cathedral bells he could hear peeling each hour over the Manhattan street noise.
It was a boxing ring bell, Goodell realized as sleep overtook him.
Chapter 3
The cathedral bell struck one, but the ghost Davis promised did not appear. Then it struck two, with Ebenezer Goodell tossing and turning instead of sleeping. Finally, a gust blew open the curtains at 2:30. A tall, muscular man with a tight blond haircut stood at the foot of Goodell's bed, wearing a red-and-blue jersey with the number 99 on his chest. He somehow looked both menacing and jolly as he waggled a finger at Goodell.
"I am the Ghost of Football Present!" the astral form declared theatrically. "Don't try to get out of bed yet or I will swat you back down!"
Seeing what appeared to be one of his football players, Goodell concealed his fear. "Why are you late?"
The ghost cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you of all men know that unnecessary delays are a powerful tool for exerting control. Think of the last 90 minutes as an indefinite suspension."
A man with little patience for irony, Goodell let the remark pass. "Very funny. If you are a ghost, then why do you look like J.J. Watt?" he asked instead.
"I take many forms," the Ghost of Football Present replied. "I can be seen in Cam Newton's smile and Richard Sherman's sneer, Odell Beckham's leap and Brett Keisel's whiskers. I am the spirit of the game: a mixture of brutality and brilliance, talent and technique, grunt work and showmanship. I am fun to root for and just as much fun to root against." Then the ghost's voice deepened into a thunderous growl that shook the floorboards. "I AM THE SPIRIT YOU ARE SWORN TO DEFEND, EBENEZER GOODELL," the ghost rumbled.
Goodell shivered. "Surely, you know I am doing my best to protect your spirit. I am working to make the game safer and more exciting. I make tough decisions to keep players off performance-enhancers and encourage good behavior. I protect the shield!"
The ghostly Watt laughed so hard that it echoed through the room. "A fine speech. No doubt Nike and Anheuser-Busch would be impressed. But we both know that there are things that can be done to make football better, and there are things that can be done to make it appear that football is better."
"A semantic point, humble spirit," Goodell protested. "What difference does it make if I increase punishments and settle lawsuits to appease sponsors, improve public relations or act on my own conscience?"
"No difference at all," said the ghost. "And all the difference in the world. Take hold of my jersey and grasp tightly, as if you were trying to block me. It will enable us to fly together."
With two hands clutching the ghostly J.J. Watt, Goodell flew above the skyscrapers of Manhattan, then across the Hudson River to the endless suburbs of New Jersey. They landed in the front yard of a tiny townhouse.
"This is the home of your faithful assistant," the Ghost of Christmas Present said.
"Greg Aiello?"
"No. Your even more faithful assistant, Bob Cratchit!" the ghost said, shaking his head.
Goodell attempted to ring the doorbell, but his finger passed right through the button. Shrugging his shoulders and accepting the usual ghost-story rules, he slid through the wall knowing that the family inside would not notice him.
Cratchit's wife, whose name Goodell did not know (Charles Dickens didn't bother to give her a name either. Look it up!), busied herself in the kitchen, laboriously cutting takeout pizza into individual slices. As she worked, the door swung open, and Bob Cratchit lit into the house, shaking off the wintry chill.
He gave his wife a peck on the cheek. "You would be very proud of Big Tim today at church," he said.
Mrs. Cratchit turned to her doting husband. "Did he donate all of those old jerseys?"
"Not only that, but he made sure that the Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson jerseys were sent to the overseas charities. He said that he did not want any poor children in America to feel awkward or get picked on."
"That was very mature and sweet of him."
"Not only that, but he bragged to all of his friends before the service about how we are cutting our cable."
Mrs. Cratchit wiped her brow from the grueling pizza cutting and turned her attention to a bag of potato chips. "Bragged? I thought that he would be embarrassed!"
"Oh no," Cratchit said. "He told me afterward that if the other families saw a strong, popular fellow like him making do with antenna service, Hulu and Netflix, it might inspire others to save money and be more selective about their television choices."
Ebenezer Goodell turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present in confusion. "The Cratchits are cutting cable?"
"It costs them thousands of dollars per year," the ghost responded. "Most of the programming is available for much less money from other services."
"But football is different," Goodell said. "Cratchit has a son. How will the lad watch football?"
The door swung open again. A young man, not more than 12 years old but already well over five feet tall, broad-shouldered and burly, bounded into the room. Beneath his heavy coat, he wore a vintage bowling shirt and a long plaid scarf. He did not remove his fedora when he entered the room. "Merry Christmas, mom and dad," Big Tim exclaimed.
"There is the strapping young fellow now," Goodell said. "He looks like the star lineman for the Pop Warner team. But tell me: Why is he dressed so oddly?"
"You have not yet figured it out, have you?" the ghost asked.
Goodell watched as the Cratchit family exchanged pleasantries and ate pizza. He focused on vigorous Big Tim, who spoke excitedly about vinyl records, Japanese cartoons and organic potato chips, but mentioned football not once, even though his father worked for the NFL. Goodell wondered why he had never been asked for even the slightest favor for the boy. Sure, he could be a surly employer, but Goodell would not begrudge loyal Cratchit an autographed Eli Manning football to give such an impressive lad.
"Can I open grandma and grandpa's gift now?" Big Tim asked his parents after supper.
The Cratchits turned to one another with expressions of worry. "Now Tim, you know grandma and grandpa could not afford to fly here from Minnesota this year," Mrs. Cratchit said. "Grandpa is trying to quit smoking, but the cigarette tax really hammered him this season. And grandma got a little carried away playing those electric pull-tab lottery games …"
"… It is nothing to worry about," Bob Cratchit interrupted. "And when you think about it, both are doing their part to fund the new Vikings stadium."
"Yes," Mrs. Cratchit said, "both making sure Old Man Goodell and his zillionaire cronies get their new stadium. But they cannot afford a really expensive gift."
Big Tim told his parents that he did not care how much the gift cost, only that it came from grandma and grandpa. The Cratchits gave their son a garment box to unwrap. "It's a football jersey!" he shouted, shaking the package.
Goodell held his breath. Was the boy a Vikings fan or Giants fan, or even a Jets fan? Teddy Bridgewater? Odell Beckham? But the jersey that emerged from the box was strangely colored, oddly cut and somehow…European.
"Real Madrid! How did they know? How did they know?" shouted an elated Big Tim.
Goodell's jaw fell. "He's…a soccer fan. That big linebacker of a lad is …" his lips quivered as he uttered the words. "… a hipster."
"Uninterested in football," said the Ghost of Christmas Present. "Doesn't like it. Thinks it's unhealthy. Doesn't respect the professionals who play it. It doesn't fit his post-millennial values and interests. He cannot even be bothered watching it on television."
"Tell me, oh wise spirit," Goodell asked. "Does Big Tim ever grow to like American football?"
The Ghost of Christmas Present shook his head grimly. "I see a stadium seat unused, a DirecTV package unpurchased and a fantasy league short one owner."
Goodell's eyes moistened. He watched young Big Tim squeeze into the tight soccer jersey. He thought about all of the entertainment choices young people now have, about how they now make selections based on their social values more often than their whims, about international sports, YouTube, social networks and the general awareness of the upcoming generation. If burly boys like Big Tim reject football, if they never even watch it, where will the players come from? Where will the advertising revenue, cable fees, ticket sales or even the political muscle come from?
"Hark!" exclaimed the Ghost of Christmas Present. He held in his arms two little children, a boy and a girl, each wearing tattered jerseys, each crying and huddling against the spirit's barrel chest. "This boy is the Spirit of Football's Affordability. This girl is the Spirit of Football's Integrity. They cling to me for protection, because you have failed them. Pray that no more evil befalls either of them, particularly this girl!"
Shaking in his slippers and gasping for breath, Goodell could barely respond. "I…I shall!" he finally cried, but before the words left his lips, he found himself lying within the sweat-soaked blankets of his own bed.
Chapter 4
Three cathedral bells brought another spooky gust through the curtains of Ebenezer Goodell's penthouse. Goodell thought he could detect a faint aroma on the unearthly wind: the scent of cologne and the unmistakable gin-and-olive tang of a classic martini. He thought he might have even heard the naughty giggling of flirty girls. A form materialized in the moonlit glow of his windows: a man with rugged features and piercing blue eyes, wearing a long fur coat like a playboy of a bygone era.
"This haunting is going to be special," the ghost said. "I guarantee it."
The spirit appeared so tipsy and harmless that Goodell managed a meager smile. "The Ghost of Football Past, I take it."
"That's right, buddy. Ready for some groovy time travel? I don't usually say this to dudes, but touch my fur so we can go on a wild ride!"
Goodell touched the ghost's coat, and the pair hovered through the ceiling and floated over Manhattan. As they crossed the Harlem River into the Bronx, Goodell realized he was also traveling backward through time: High-rises became newer, then dissembled; Yankee Stadium looked again like it had in his childhood. As they passed into Westchester County, Goodell realized that they really were returning to his childhood: his high school days, specifically.
The pair came to rest beside a football field. The ghost breathed deeply of the wintry air and smiled broadly. "Can you dig it, buddy? The bell-bottoms! The pot smoke! The liberated ladies: I keep getting older, but they stay the same age!"
Goodell shook his head. "It was a libertine time. Everyone broke rules for the sake of breaking them, with me trying to maintain law and order. What's a senator's son to do when everyone is anti-government and anti-establishment? I hated it."
The ghost pointed to the game taking place on the nearby field. "You didn't hate all of it."
Goodell's eyes widened as he turned to the action. A running back broke through the line of scrimmage for an apparent touchdown, but a square-shouldered young safety wrapped him up and drove him to the ground. "That was me!" Goodell gasped. "I made that tackle! This is my senior year!"
"Team captain in three sports," said the ghost. "Student-Athlete of the Year. You were pretty popular for an 'establishment' guy."
Goodell ran toward the field as if he hoped to hug his former self, or grab a helmet and join the defensive huddle. But the scene suddenly changed around him. Instead of a field, they were in a doctor's office. A nurse wrapped the young Goodell's knee tightly.
"Knee injuries are a bummer, aren't they?" the ghost asked.
Goodell's face sank. "This was a sad day. I planned to play football in college. Oh sure, it was the D-III level, but the game was such a big part of my life."
"Don't get too down in the dumps," the ghost said. "You made it to the NFL anyway."
Goodell turned angrily. "Why are you showing me all of this? To cast me as a jealous, disappointed wannabe player? To make it appear that I rule the NFL out of spite?"
"Mellow out, buddy," the ghost replied. "We are all shaped by many things. Sometimes our love for something can grow cold and hard. It can change, and it can change us. C'mon, let's float back to Midtown."
Eager to leave the scene of his younger self receiving terrible news, Goodell took hold of the ghost's fur coat and they floated back to Manhattan, now with time creeping forward a few years. Goodell thought the ghost might be taking him home, but instead they floated down Seventh Avenue and into the conference room of a luxury hotel. Goodell noticed that Central Park was in full bloom and that teenagers carried giant boom boxes against their ears. It was spring, and it was the 1980s.
"It cannot be …" Goodell said as he looked around the conference room. "The old Sheraton?"
"April 1983," the ghost answered. "The NFL draft, before it became a three-day television spectacular. Recognize that young intern over there?"
Goodell searched through the fog of cigar smoke and saw himself, older than in the last vision but still young, sorting through a large pile of green-and-white daisy-wheel printouts. He turned to the ghost in awe. "If this is the draft, and I am here, then that means …"
A balding man with a broad smile and a sensible suit strode to the front of the room. "Gentlemen, we have one hour until the draft. Keep in mind that there are television cameras from some goofy cable outfit here, so please don't pull each other's pants down!"
Goodell's face lit up. "Old Roziwigs!"
"Huh?" asked the ghost.
"Oh, that was a pet name the interns had for Commissioner Rozelle," Goodell explained.
Goodell turned as he heard another familiar voice. "Television cameras are great, baby," he said. "They will capture the magic when one of you brain donors passes up all of these great quarterbacks to draft that Eric Dickerson kid."
A thick-drawled Texan responded. "That's funny, Al. Why don't you draft that John Elway kid so we can drive him straight over to Yankee Stadium to get away from you?"
Another Texan perked up, this one wearing thick glasses. "You're just mad that we won't let you draft Herschel Walker, Tex. With their pick in the draft, the Dallas Cowboys select five more cheerleaders who look like Farrah Fawcett!"
The first man answered back: "And the Chiefs draft a Rhodes Scholar and rocket straight to last place, baby."
The room erupted with laughter and wisecracks. Commissioner Rozelle tried hopelessly to restore order, then he chuckled and left the room. The younger Goodell hunched over his paperwork. The older one bounded around the room, looking straight into the faces of men he knew were now much older or long deceased. "Pete Rozelle, Tex Schramm, Lamar Hunt, Al Davis: Look at all these rascals!"
"They sure are having fun, aren't they?" asked the ghost.
"We always had fun back then. Oh, Al and Pete were at each other's throats all the time. These guys made their share of mistakes, and they didn't always do the right thing. But Rozelle really cared about players, owners, fans and the game."
"He didn't exactly rule with an iron hand," the ghost said.
"He never pretended to. It was never about the appearance of being a tough guy or a moral leader." Goodell stopped himself, wisdom dawning in his eyes. "It wasn't even always about making the most money. It was just about doing business the best way possible and putting on a good show."
"But then everything changed."
"Yes," Goodell said grimly, as the images quickly passed before them. Davis leading a charge of owners moving historic franchises to new cities in pursuit of top dollar. The NFL crushing the USFL, then the labor union. Rozelle stepping down, exhausted and disillusioned. A bitter free-agency war and a hard-fought peace. The league grew more powerful and profitable, ignoring worsening problems and social changes. All the while, Goodell watched his younger self age and rise to prominence, climbing the ladder through ever-expanding echelons of power.
"By the time you became commissioner, you forgot about Rozelle and that old fraternity," the ghost said. "You could have been the Safety Commissioner or the Socially Responsible Commissioner. You could have placed yourself at the vanguard of the concussion problem, used your power and resources to become proactive about issues like player violence."
"But I became the Conduct Commissioner," Goodell said slowly. "I made it all about the punishment, not the people." He looked back across the mists of past images, searching for one more glimpse of Rozelle and that rogue's gallery of owners. They were scoundrels, egomaniacs and drunks, but they never sold themselves as anything else, and they all loved their sport. "I am not protecting 'the shield,' just profit margins and perceptions."
"The shield doesn't need protection," the ghost said. "It's a shield, for God's sake. It protects. It needs to be wielded by someone who can hold it firmly and figure out just who and what needs to be protected. Are you really the one who can wield it?"
Goodell turned to answer the ghost, but the past images suddenly blinked away, and he was back in his bedroom, too weary to move but too frightened to fall asleep.
Chapter 5
The cathedral bell struck four, and Ebenezer Goodell's penthouse suite grew dark and still, darker and stiller than a Manhattan December night could possibly be. Goodell longed for the dramatic wind and pyrotechnics of the previous ghosts. He cowered and shivered in a corner of his bedroom, all lights mysteriously extinguished, his cell phone dead, no whir from the heater, not even the faraway drone of city street noise.
The final ghost appeared out of the inky blackness, bathed in clouded, unearthly light. He was huge and muscular, more in the mode of a beast than a man. Long, braided cornrows hung to his shoulders. He wore a dark blue jersey with the bright number "24" emblazoned across the front. Over his mouth he wore a bright green mask.
"Y…you are the Ghost of Football Future," Goodell stammered.
The ghost nodded almost imperceptibly.
"And I take it you do not speak?"
The ghost gravely shook his head.
"Oh, I fear you more than any of the other specters who have visited me tonight. Now that I have relived the mistakes of the past and opened my eyes to the sins of the present, I tremble before what terrors the future may hold. So let's get this over with!"
Goodell reached to take the fearsome ghost's jersey, but the spirit instead grabbed Goodell and lifted him off the floor. The massive ghost turned Goodell sideways, wrapped a meaty arm around his waist, raised his right arm before him stiffly and hurtled forward. Instead of slipping silently through the penthouse walls, they crashed through them, leaving a splintery hole as they reached Park Avenue in a single bound.
The hulking specter lowered his shoulder and crashed through more obstacles. Goodell shielded his eyes. He could not perceive his surroundings, but he understood that they were crashing through both space and time, muscling through the barriers that separate weeks and months.
They came to a stop on a New York City street both familiar and unfamiliar. Styles had changed, and cars appeared to hover, but the bustle of the city, its clamor of languages and cooking smells, had not changed. Sports tavern decor also rarely changes, and Goodell recognized the beer advertisements and shouts of happy revelers from the pub to which the Ghost of Football Future ominously pointed.
"You want me to go inside?" Goodell asked, and the ghost nodded.
Not much about the tavern was futuristic. Clusters of dudes with beer bottles, fetching waitresses, some happy couples, tables of fatty appetizers: Nothing had changed, except that the televisions were larger and clearer.
The televisions! They displayed basketball, hockey and soccer, zombie television shows and cricket. Zombie television shows? Cricket? At the sight of a soccer goal, half of the bar erupted, while the other half groaned and cursed.
Someone had left a copy of the New York Post on the bar. Goodell read the date: Monday, Dec. 22, 2044. If it was Monday night, where was Monday Night Football?
Then he read the back-page headline: Red Bulls Rock Revolution. A soccer headline? In the Post? In December?
A hunched-over fellow in a brown trench coat brushed past Goodell. He was in his 50s, yet he looked somehow familiar: pointed features, an athletic build despite his posture, a devilish gleam in his eyes that time had not quite dulled. The stranger approached the bartender. "Hey, buddy, it's almost midnight. Can we put on the football game?"
The bartender frowned. "Football game? Does this look like a place that pays $500 for pay-per-view? Try the topless joint down by the wharf."
"I just came from there. They ain't showing it either," the stranger replied. "C'mon, I just want to watch the game."
"Nobody around here wants to watch a bunch of criminals beat themselves into an early grave, buddy."
"But…I used to play!"
The bartender raised his eyebrow and glanced briefly toward the door. Goodell turned to see some beefy bouncers slowly work their way to the bar. "Lots of guys used to play. Then the game got worse and worse; the jerks who ran the league didn't do anything to make it better. Get with the times, buddy."
Bouncers grabbed the stranger by each arm. He squirmed to break free. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked. He shouted to the whole bar. "Doesn't anyone recognize me? I'm Johnny Football!"
"That's just one more reason to throw you out. Anybody who would go by a name like that has to be a troublemaker. Go watch your cock fights someplace else, you rummy!"
The bouncers dragged the ranting, pathetic stranger past Goodell and through the crowd. Goodell reached out to help, but his hands were still incorporeal. "Johnny? It cannot be? Your family used to hobnob with former presidents! You could have done anything with your life, but you became…this. Granted, your first few games stunk, but you should be famous, celebrated."
Goodell turned to the Ghost of Football Future. "Do all players of the mid-2010s become forgotten and disrespected like this?"
The ghost nodded.
"Cam Newton? J.J. Watt? Russell Wilson? … Marshawn Lynch?"
The ghost nodded again.
"I can bear no more. Surely I have seen enough. Wealth and power may have corrupted me, but I always wanted football to be a source of pride and esteem for the players. I have clearly learned the error of my ways. Take me home, specter!"
The Ghost of Christmas Future picked up Goodell and tucked him sideways under his arm. "You are not taking me home, are you?" he asked as space time again began to splinter like dry kindling.
Goodell kept his eyes open as the ghost rumbled through future history. He saw a generation of young fans turn away from football, perceiving it as dangerous, corrupt or simply "dad's sport." Soccer and other sports expanded their schedules to fill the void. Television ratings sagged. New player scandals alienated some fans, distrust in the NFL's response pushed others away.
Goodell saw his successors turn to pay-per-view to generate revenue and patch aging stadiums when taxpayers balked at new building proposals. Every partition the Ghost of Football Future crumbled brought a slight but noticeable cultural and demographic shift. When the ghost finally stopped, Goodell caught a glimpse of his Park Avenue headquarters. It loomed like a foreboding fortress over a city that had moved past the era of castles and citadels.
Goodell realized that he was somewhere in Midtown: 52nd Street, to be precise. "The Paley Center for Media?" he asked the ghost. "Thank heavens. I thought you were going to take me to my gravestone. Which would be a little overdramatic because, let's face it, even if I become a saint I know I am going to croak sometime. This place is just a museum for obscure, forgotten television programming. Why would you…oh no."
The ghost shoved Goodell into the empty, darkened museum. Goodell looked around and saw the ghost rematerialize in front of one exhibit. He pointed solemnly: Once-Popular American Sports of the 20th-21st Century.
"All of these sports still exist in one form or another in the United States," read the sign in front of the entrance. "But none retains the impact of the long-ago eras when they stood at the center of American popular culture."
"No…no, specter. Please don't make me go in!" But Goodell knew he had no choice. Lights suddenly flickered on within the exhibit. Goodell walked past the displays. Prime-time televised bowling from the 1950s. Open-wheel racing. Men's tennis from the days of John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors. Poker from the turn of the 21st century. Boxing: brutal, beautiful boxing, the sport that captured the imagine of a nation from Jack Dempsey through Evander Holyfield, on display as a forgotten relic, a pastime America rejected as too violent and corrupt to be anything more than a fringe spectacle.
There was one exhibit left. Goodell paused, took a step forward, gasped and fell to his knees at the sight of a Lombardi Trophy.
"Oh, terrifying specter, are these the images of what must happen, or are they images of events that can still be changed? I understand what I have done wrong. I know what I must do now. Take me back! Take me back so that I can make things right!"
Chapter the Last
Ebenezer Goodell woke to the sight of pale December sunlight streaming through his penthouse windows. Nothing was amiss. There was no hole in the wall from the Ghost of Christmas Future, no evidence of the night's hauntings. He checked his cell phone and realized that it was Christmas morning. "The spirits did it all in one night!" he exclaimed.
Remembering that he promised Bob Cratchit a day off, Goodell immediately called Greg Aiello. "Contact DeMaurice Smith and tell him that we will reopen the Personal Conduct Policy to give the union more input," he said. He contacted the domestic violence activists at NoMore.Org. "I will give you two 30-second commercial slots during the Super Bowl," he said. "No…make it four! And we will talk soon about more robust outreach and intervention programs!" He arranged meetings with lawyers for retired players and with neurologists. Then he hastily arranged a press conference in Central Park.
"There will be no 18-game season," he announced. "There will be no playoff expansion. Women will be allowed to carry real handbags into games. Player discipline will be handled through a clear, fair process that gives everyone a voice. And most importantly, from now on, whether I am explaining the rationale for a player suspension or itemizing the real taxpayer costs of stadium financing, I promise to actually tell the truth!"
A roar came up from the crowd. Even the press pool cheered. The spectators parted, and Goodell got the surprise of his life when Big Tim Cratchit appeared, now wearing a vintage Fran Tarkenton jersey, and he lifted a copy of Time magazine declaring Goodell the Person of the Year. "Merry Christmas!" Big Tim exclaimed. "God bless us, every one!"
Goodell then shook violently and rubbed his eyes. He looked around the sparsely decorated, anonymous boardroom. He turned to Aiello. "What's going on?"
The NFL's media relations chief poured a glass of water for the commissioner. "You dozed off during the fact-finding for a lawsuit over an appeal of a suspension."
Goodell quenched his thirst. "Oh thank heavens. I dreamed I was the main character in one of those awful parodies of A Christmas Carol."
"You mean the predictable kind you see in every bad sitcom? Where the ghosts are all played by familiar characters and the 'Scrooge' learns some silly, obvious lesson?"
"That's the kind."
"I wasn't Tiny Tim, was I?"
"Nope. You were barely in it at all."
"Oh. That's actually somewhat disappointing." Aiello slid a manila folder across the desk. "You want to get caught up on this case?"
Goodell reached as if to push the folder away, then reflected for a moment and slid it in front of him. "You know what? Maybe I will take a second look at some things."
Merry Christmas!
Mike Tanier covers the NFL for Bleacher Report
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