Big Game: The NFL in Dangerous Times
From the No.1 bestselling author of This Town comes a thrillingly raw and hysterical account of the billionaires, crooks, charlatans and scoundrels that own and run the NFL.American Football – with its celebrity players, billionaire owners, and cheerleaders with flawless teeth – is more American than apple pie. Which is why the celebrated New York Times journalist, Mark Leibovich, has chosen football as the vehicle through which to examine the troubled state of Trump’s America.Big Game chronicles a four-year odyssey that has taken Leibovich deeper inside the NFL than anyone has gone before. From the owners' meeting to the draft to the sidelines of crucial games, he takes in the show at the elbow of everyone from Tom Brady to big-name owners to the cordially despised NFL Commissioner, Roger Goodell.Ultimately, this is a story of what may come to be seen as ‘peak football’ – the high point of the sport’s economic success and cultural dominance, but also the moment when the dark side began to show. It is an era of explosive revenue growth, as deluxe new stadiums spring up all over the country, but also one of creeping existential fear. Football was never thought to be easy on the body – players joke darkly that the NFL stands for ‘not for long’ for good reason – but as the true impact of concussions become inescapable background noise, it’s become increasingly difficult to enjoy the simple glory of football without the buzzkill of its obvious consequences.And that was before Donald Trump. In 2016, the NFL slammed headlong into America's culture wars. Big Game is a journey through an epic storm. Through it all, Leibovich always keeps one eye on Tom Brady and his beloved Patriots, through to the 2018 Super Bowl. Pro football, this hilarious and enthralling book proves, may not be the sport America needs, but it is most definitely the sport it deserves.
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First published in the US by Penguin Press 2018
This UK edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
FIRST EDITION
Text © Mark Leibovich 2018
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photographs © Kwangmooza/Getty Images (background); Darren Haggar (badge)
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Mark Leibovich asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Brief portions of this work, some in slightly different form, first appeared in The New York Times and The New York Times Magazine
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Source ISBN: 9780008317614
Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008317645
Version 2018-08-17
In loving memory of great friends:
my father, Miguel Leibovich, and brother, Phil Leibovich
Contents
Introduction FOOTBALL, IN SPITE OF ITSELF
Chapter 1 THE SUPER BOWL WITHOUT JOCK STRAPS
Chapter 5 “BEWARE THE PISSED OFF PRETTY BOY”
Chapter 6 GARISH FIST ORNAMENTS
Chapter 9 NO ONE BUYS TICKETS TO WATCH A MORALITY PLAY
Chapter 12 “WE PAY HIM DAMN WELL TO BE NEUTRAL”
Chapter 16 IMMORTALITY GETS OLD
Chapter 17 “START BLOW- DRYING TEDDY KOPPEL’S HAIR ’CAUSE THIS ONE’S DONE”
Chapter 21 “WE DON’T WANT YOU IN LOS ANGELES”
Chapter 22 “I’M DRUNK, I’M STUPID, I’M A PATS FAN,” THE MAN TOLD POLICE
Chapter 23 THE TV REPORTER IN THE BELICHICK UNDERWEAR
Chapter 26 THIS MAN’S LIVER BELONGS IN CANTON
Chapter 27 “FAITH, FAMILY, AND FOOTBALL . . . PROBABLY NOT IN THAT ORDER”
Chapter 28 “WE NEED A BLACK CHARLTON HESTON”
February 4, 2018
It fell to the Brazilian First Lady to settle the punch-drunk scene. She strutted in with the self-assurance of someone who knew her aura preceded her, even in defeat. “Great game,” she said, not aware of the player’s name (he was out of his jersey, a lineman by the size of him). He knew hers. Gisele Bündchen was working the big game after chaos in a back hallway of U.S. Bank Stadium in Minneapolis, seeking out Philadelphia Eagles to stun with her classy attaboys. I watched them flinch—“Uh, thanks, thanks very much.” Super Bowl 52 had just ended in a hail of confetti and an unanswered Hail Mary from her husband, New England quarterback Tom Brady.
He was already being criticized across the Hot Take Village for not sticking around the field long enough to congratulate his Philly counterpart, Nick Foles. So his supermodel wife, in Brady’s stead, was taking on his celebrity grace duties. She moved from Eagle to sweaty Eagle, representing Brady both as a sportsmanship ambassador and—in a sly way—as a killer consolation trophy to brandish over the new champs. She was the last power play in his playbook. And the Eagles had no answer for Gisele. She caught another one leaving the locker room. “Good game,” she said, startling him. “Uh, your guy’s amazing,” the Eagle muttered back.
Brady himself was behind a curtain dealing with the media. “Losing sucks,” he confirmed. “But you show up and you try to win, and sometimes you lose and that’s the way it goes.” The game had finished only fifteen minutes earlier, he reminded everyone.
Brady is an empire, like the league he plays in. Empires fall eventually, but one of their best moves is to sell the illusion of timelessness. Normal limits don’t apply. How many more big games did Brady have left? He kept getting asked this question, in so many words. “I expect to be back but we’ll see,” he said.
Four years earlier, in the Almighty’s den, Brady and I had discussed the “How much longer” question too: issues of age, mortality, and the actuarial tables that he knew were running against him in the NFL, or “Not for Long” as players call a league where the average career lasts 3.3 years. Barely anyone still plays in these big games—much less excels—past forty, Brady’s present age.
