In the past, Mike Zimmer’s high regard for discipline had been a byword in various parts of Minnesota and Ohio. In 2016 it was once again in evidence, in Charlotte, during the disaster which followed the injury to Adrian Peterson.

When orders came through from team headquarters to give up the season as lost and play with draft position in mind, a group of young players in his secondary had planned to make their way up to the coast of Lake Norman, get hold of a boat, and have themselves a little fun. Although admiring their zeal and appreciation for franchise history, Mike Zimmer had hindered their scheme with every means at his disposal.

To begin with, he had tried to win them over by pointing out that this venture was a direct contravention of the NFL’s personal conduct policy. Since the Commissioner-in-Chief had signed the collective bargaining agreement giving himself unilateral power over players’ personal lives, not one of His Majesty’s subjects were permitted to do anything “fun” without prior approval and express written consent from the league. As far as Coach Zimmer could see, there was only one line of conduct possible: to coach to the best of his ability until the Green Bay Packers sorted out their various issues on defense and assumed their standard position atop the division.

“A fine example it would be for the players,” he had exclaimed, “if their coaches failed in their duty!”

His argument had been rendered additionally forceful by the piercing look of resolution which he always assumed in moments of crisis. His eyes were the colour of the Indian Ocean on a calm day; and his features, which were always in repose, were the clear reflection of a guiltless conscience. His steel-gray hair carried the distinguished sheen of an unruffled hero; and his ruddy complexion was evidence of a sound heart regulating a smooth, easy circulation perfect in its efficiency. George Edwards, who had served under him throughout their years in Dallas, never ceased to wonder at this living example of “the head coach of a team in the National Football League”, a type which he had always considered legendary, but whose reality was now proclaimed so loudly every day that it invariably caused him these alternating bouts of anger and affection.

Edwards had pleaded the young players’ case. He approved of it and said so. It would be good for team morale, he claimed, especially if a coach such as himself went along to chaperone the group. Coach Zimmer had taken him to task and declared himself painfully surprised to see a middle-aged man in a highly responsible position sharing the wild aspirations of a lot of hot-headed youngsters and encouraging the sort of thoughtless escapade that can cause nothing but sexually transmitted infections and crippling hangovers.

Having explained the reason for his attitude, he had issued strict and definite orders. All coaches, medical staff, and players were to stay put at the team hotel until after the Panthers game. Their circumstances were not of their own choice; none of them, therefore, should feel in any way humiliated. He, and he alone, would shoulder the responsibility on behalf of the whole team.

Most of the players had given in to him; for his power of persuasion was considerable, and his authority immense, while his unquestionable personal courage made it impossible to attribute his conduct to any motive except sense of duty. Some of them had disobeyed orders and lured prostitutes to their rooms via Craigslist and Backpage. Mike Zimmer had been genuinely grieved by their behaviour. He marked them as deviants, and vowed to restrict their playing time on Sunday.