The October sun poured in through the windows of Conference Room 13 on the 13th floor of NFL Headquarters.  The lovely weather stood in start contrast to the expressions on the faces of most of the gathered owners, who collectively sat in grim silence.  Only two individuals bucked the trend. Commissioner Roger Goodell, whose neck muscles had been carrying as much tension as the cables of the Williamsburg bridge until he began counting the votes for removal, had allowed himself to succumb to his feelings of smugness and a tiny smile was beginning to play at the corners of his mouth.  This came as little surprise.  The hint of mirth showing on the face of the second man, however, was entirely unexpected by anyone except for himself.

“Well, that’s 23 votes for removal so far.  Just one more and it’s the end for you, Dan,” Commissioner Goodell said, glancing at Snyder.

Dan Snyder, however, wasn’t looking at the commissioner.  His eyes were fixed upon Jimmy Haslam, who was trying to look nonchalantly out the window, but kept glancing nervously back at Snyder.  Snyder’s mouth opened gently. No sound emerged, but his lips moved and a single word was formed:  “Toffee”.

Jimmy Haslam swallowed as Goodell opened the folded note that contained his vote.

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“Jesus.  Fucking hell, Dan.  You gotta help me.” Haslam’s voice had taken on the rising tone of a man whose sanity had put on its coat and hat and already had one foot out the door. 

“It’s okay, Jimmy.  I’ve got you.  I can help.  I will help.  But first you gotta tell me what happened.”

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“And that makes…” Goodell began before glancing back down at the note.  “Wait,” he said, frowning.  His gaze turned to Jimmy Haslam.

“Jimmy? Is this right?”

Haslam looked Goodell in the eyes.  “Yes, Roger.  It’s right.”

“But…you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Haslam said.  He looked back out the window, focusing on the waters of the East River, flat and distant and silent.  “It’s the way it has to be,” he whispered.

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“His face, Dan.  His fucking face!  It’s gone.  Just…gone. HIS FUCKING FACE IS GONE!”

Dan Snyder worried that Haslam was about to dissolve into gibbering nonsense, that he was caught in a steadily building feedback loop of his own horror. A simple distraction was needed to disrupt the resonance. “All right, let’s start at the beginning.  Lunch.  Where did you go for lunch today?”

“I…lunch?” Haslam paused, then swallowed.  “You want to know what I had for lunch?”

“That’s right, Jimmy.  Where did you have it, and what did you eat?”

“I…had a club sandwich.  Same thing I usually get, at the Mid-Day Club.”

“That’s the one in downtown Cleveland, right?”

“Yeah…yeah.  Just had them go light on the mayonnaise, like always.”

Snyder evaluated that Haslam had calmed down sufficiently that they could proceed. “Okay Jimmy,” he said, “that’s good.  Now tell me how you ended up on First Avenue.”

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The shock amongst the other NFL owners was palpable.  Even Mark Davis’ familiar happy grin had turned into an expression of surprise.  “Then something happened that Mark Davis did not expect…” he murmured, too low for the other owners to hear.  Virginia McCaskey’s murmuring continued as well, though if any of the words she used could be deciphered they would not be fit to print within these pages.

“This vote decides whether Dan Snyder will continue to be able to operate his franchise as a member of the National Football League.  You understand that, Jimmy, do you not?”

“Of course I understand that, I’m not a child!” Haslam snapped.

“If there’s something the other owners should know about…some kind of leverage that someone is using to force your hand…” Goodell implored.

“It’s my own decision to make.  Not anyone else’s.  It’s mine, and I’ve made it!”

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“I was just walking the dog and then I saw him.  That very same guy.  And I don’t know if he read my mind or what, but Swagger just started growling at him.  And I thought it was funny at first, you know? I thought, serves you right for telling me draft that bum.  God, he looked so scared, and I just couldn’t stop laughing.”

“You ever have a draft pick you wish you could redo, Dan? Just turn back time and try again?”

“Of course, Jimmy.  We all do.  None that were suggested by a vagrant, but I certainly do have some regrets.”

“But then Swagger…well…he decided he wanted to more than just growl at that poor sap.  And once a bull mastiff gets it in his head to put his jaws on something, you’re not stopping him.”

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Goodell was speechless.  He set down the final piece of paper, his lips set into a thin line.  They were pressed so tightly together they looked white.

“This concludes the vote,” he said.  “By virtue of needing three-fourths of owners to vote for removal, the motion fails.”

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Jimmy Haslam sat behind his desk, regarding the contents of Snyder’s package.  It contained only two items: a bottle of veterinary pills, and a note that read, simply “These should keep him from acting up ever again.”

A glimmer appeared in the corner of Haslam’s eye.  After a moment it resolved itself into a single tear.  He thought of a winter’s night, six years ago.

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The owners stood up and began filing out of the room.  Few words were exchanged.  Jimmy Haslam was the first out the door.  He stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.  Dan Snyder, on the other hand, remained in his seat.

“It was a valiant effort,” Snyder said to Goodell.  “But if I’ve learned nothing in all my years as a businessman, it’s this: you have to plan ahead.  Once you’ve done that…everything else just seems to fall into place.”

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“‘Only temporary,’ you said,” Haslam smiled into the phone. “‘Just hang onto him until Christmas,’ you said. ‘I want it to be a surprise.'”

“I know, I know,” Snyder replied.  It was evident from his voice that he was smiling, too.  “She had said over and over and over how much she loved dogs, I thought he would be perfect.” 

“I can’t believe she doesn’t want him.  How anyone could not want this fella is beyond me.” Haslam reached down to pet the wriggling bundle of joy that sat in his lap. 

“I hear you,” Snyder said.  “He’s just too big.  She’s worried he’ll grow up and chew somebody’s face off.”

“This little angel?”

“You’ll see that he gets a good home?”

“I will.  In fact…the team could use a mascot.  Gonna have to come up with a new name for him, though.  Something that suits his new job a little better. Like ‘Swashbuckler’. Or ‘Hercules’.”

“But his name already suits him perfectly!” cried Snyder. 

“I know, I know,” Haslam said.  “I’ve heard it before.  ‘He’s the sweetest creature you’re ever gonna meet. That’s why we named him Toffee.'” 

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Happy Halloween, everybody!  This concludes our annual Halloween extravaganza, and shall serve as tonight’s open thread.  Enjoy the game!