INT. NFL HEADQUARTERS – DAY

A man sits in front of a gigantic NFL Shield.  He is wearing an orange jumpsuit, and speaks into a microphone.

NARRATOR: [testifying] It all started back in Minneapolis four weeks ago. A kicker with a chance to move his team through to the divisional round badly shanked an easy field goal. The kicker didn’t see anybody, but somebody fucked up. He heard a voice. Sometimes, if the kicker is a delicate little flower princess who apparently can’t handle the slightest hint of pressure, that’s all you need.

Montage of men getting arrested.

NARRATOR (V/O): It didn’t make sense that I’d be there. I mean these guys were hardcore hecklers. But…there I was. At that point I wasn’t scared. I’d bought the tickets off of StubHub, so all the idiots at the NFL could do was punish some poor sap of a season ticket holder who wasn’t even there.  Besides, it was fun. I got to make like I was notorious.

NFL SECURITY AGENT 1: All right, you all know the drill. When your number is called, step forward and repeat the phrase you’ve been given. Understand? Number one, step forward.

AMARI COOPER: [sighs, vaguely annoyed] You’re gonna miss, you fucking cocksucker.

NFL SECURITY AGENT 2: Number two, step forward.

BOLTMAN: [leaping forward and pretending to hold a gun, with exaggerated energy] YOU’RE GONNA MISS, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKER AAARRGGGHHHH!

AGENT 2: Knock it off, get back. Number three, step forward.

MIKE MCCOY: [looks down, mumbles] You’re gonna miss, you…is this language really appropriate?

AGENT 1: Just read what’s on the card, dipshit.

MIKE MCCOY: I will do what you think is best.

AGENT 1: ON THE CARD.

MIKE MCCOY: You’re gonna miss, you fucking cocksucker…[trails off]

AGENT 2: Number four, step forward.

NARRATOR (V/O): It was bullshit. The whole rap was a setup.

JEFF FISHER: [with intensity] You’re gonna miss, you fucking cocksucker.

NARRATOR (V/O): It was all the league’s fault. You don’t put guys like that in a room together. Who knows what can happen.

AGENT 2: Number five.

NARRATOR (in lineup): [steps forward with a twinkle in his eye] You’re gonna miss, you fucking cocksucker.

Cut to interrogation scenes.  The pair of NFL Security agents – faces unseen – grill the suspects.

NARRATOR (V/O): They went after Boltman first. Top notch crowd motivator.

BOLTMAN: BOLTMAN WAS NOT PRESENT AT THIS PARTICULAR SPORTING EVENT!

NARRATOR (V/O): He was a good guy. Crazy, though.

AGENT 1: Don’t give us that shit. We know your season is over. What the fuck else are you gonna do, go fishing?

BOLTMAN: BOLTMAN WANTS TO TALK TO HIS LAWYER. BOLTMAN IS GOING TO HAVE YOUR FUCKING BADGE.  AND THEN BOLTMAN SHALL FEAST UPON THE ENTRAILS OF YOUR UNBORN CHILDREN!

AGENT 2: Oh, yeah, I’m real scared, buddy. You wanna know what your buddy McCoy told us?

Hard cut to interrogation of McCOY.

MCCOY: Who?

AGENT 2: Boltman. He told us another story altogether.

MCCOY: Oh, he told you the one about how, uh, people thought the Chargers had dysentery? Cause of the quality of the on-field product?

NARRATOR (V/O): McCoy always worked with Boltman. He was a real milquetoast. But he didn’t rattle. I’ve seen two thirds of the men on his crew go down, and he’d just stand there on the sideline looking at his play sheet, as calm as if he was ordering a Moon Over My Hammy at Denny’s.

AGENT 1: So how’d you get the tickets, jerkoff?

MCCOY: We believed it would be most appropriate to order them through one of the NFL’s officially licensed resale outlets.  [peers at one-way mirror]  Are your supervisors observing this process so that they will be able to evaluate your performance?

AGENT 2: This ain’t a Chargers game, buddy.  Yes, somebody’s watching.

Hard cut to interrogation of COOPER.

NARRATOR (V/O): Amari Cooper. Good route runner. Explosive. Without a doubt the one guy who didn’t give a fuck about anybody. Or anything. I mean, he might have. It was hard to tell.

AGENT 1: So, talking’s not your thing, huh?

COOPER: [sits silently]

AGENT 2: Come on, kid. Just tell us what you know and we’ll make sure these charges get…dropped.

AGENT 1: [guffaws]

COOPER: [glares at COPS]

Hard cut to interrogation of FISHER.

AGENT 1: We can put you in TCF Bank Stadium the night of the heckling.

FISHER: Oh really? My divisional rivals were playing in that game. You think I was gonna miss it? So did you put that together yourself, Einstein? Or maybe you got a team of monkeys hammering away at typewriters until they come up with something that sounds plausible.

AGENT 2: Ian Rapoport tweeted it.

FISHER: [moustache twitches] Like I said.  Did you ever think to ask me?  I’ve been walking around with the same name, the same moustache, the same mediocre 7-9 record year after year…I’m a football coach, fellows.  Now let’s get back to that shanked kick.

A fist snaps into the frame, striking JEFF FISHER above his right eye.  He grunts and his head snaps back.

NARRATOR (V/O): …and that was how it started.  The five of us being brought in on a trumped-up charge to be leaned on by half-wits.  What the NFL never figured out – and let’s face it, it wasn’t really in their interest to find out, so they really half-assed the investigation – and what I know now, was that these men would never break*, never lie down**, never bend over*** for anybody.  Anybody.

…to be continued.

—

*For those of you playing along at home, clues like this will help you eliminate potential guesses as to the Narrator’s true identity.  In this particular case, you can cross off Napoleon McCallum.

**So long, Jim Everett!

***Yeah…not gonna go there.