The first thing I notice about Mr. Irsay’s office is the smell; leather, stale human sweat, spilled beer. It reminds me so much of the fraternity houses in Palo Alto, places that my roommate Coby Fleener would venture into for an occasional “big night out” but I avoided as much I could, preferring to stay home curled up with an architecture book. His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern mahogany desk that eight normal people (or three locals) could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is paneled wood – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall behind his desk, where a mosaic of guitars hang, six of them arranged in a horseshoe shape. Individually, each is exquisite. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.

“One of those belonged to Jerry Garcia. Another to Elvis Presley,” says Irsay when he catches my gaze.

“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the guitars. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.

“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Luck,” he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.

Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the man who sinks gracefully into one of the leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”

“Take all the time you need, Mr. Luck,” he says. “I’m fully aware that this is a dark path I’m leading you down, which is why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions.”

I do. But where to start?

Why me? Why are these teams so fascinated with an ungainly, oafish creature like me?

“If you already have Peyton Manning under contract, why am I here?”

“There’s no guarantee that Peyton will return from surgery at anywhere close to his previous level of talent. And even if he does, he will be unable to absorb the levels of punishment this franchise requires.“

“Punishment. You’re a sadist?”

“I’m an Owner.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

“It means that I control your future as a football player. It means that as a member of this team, you would willingly surrender yourself to the franchise. In all things.”

I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea.

“Why would I do that?”

“To entertain us.  To entertain me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a ghost of a smile.

Entertain him! He wants me to entertain him! I think my mouth drops open. Entertain Jim Irsay. To do what innumerable rock concerts, mountains of powders, and entire pharmacies’ worth of pills have evidently failed to do. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted with me. It’s a revelation.

“How do I do that?” My mouth is dry, and I wish I had more Gatorade. Do I want to know the answer?

“The team has rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will learn,” he whispers.

Jim rakes his hand through his hair as he gazes at me.  Coby had said he was dangerous, he was so right. How did he know? He’s dangerous to my health, because I know I’m going to say yes. And part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to run screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my depth here.

“Okay, and what do I get out of this?”

He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.

“To play in the NFL,” he says simply.

Oh my.