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.
"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.""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."
Source http://bleacherreport.com/articles/2305112-roger-goodells-a-christmas-carol
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