In this world, nothing is certain, except death, taxes… and algorithms. Before I’ve even typed the first letter on Google, the single press of my index finger on my phone is enough to trigger an avalanche of useless and captivating information, a screenfilling from a seemingly endless variety of sites and sports blogs compete for a fraction of my attention.
Before, I started to take an interest in the activities of the NFL in January, season of one-night games. Last year, the specialty channel subscription was taken in September, and all 18 regular season weekends appeared on our calendar with their promise of beautiful fall Sundays crowned by a big plate of nachos.
This winter, my pain was made even worse when I discovered that the NFL planet never stops spinning after the Super Bowl, that telecommunications satellites never set on the empire of all that teems, frog and scribble around American football. Draft, hunt for free agents, trade market, restructuring of contracts: somewhere in this brouhaha in the form of media fog has lost the very idea of an off-season. What ex-Buccaneers coach Bruce Arians summed up perfectly, as his relationship with his semi-retired star quarterback, a certain Tom Brady, recently fueled the hyperchronic “ Somebody’s got to write a story every day about something “. It’s exactly that.
Exegetes dissect each tweet written by a Brady or an Aaron Rodgers with all the seriousness of a Vaticanist scrutinizing the fumes spit by the old cast iron stove of the Sistine Chapel during the conclave. The Green Bay Packers quarterback is a case in point. At 38, Rodgers, the reigning Most Valuable Player, is also a great master of suspense and soft focus, whose slightest frown leads to Kabbalah-like interpretations on social media. In the “will be back, won’t be back” kind of way, he really has nothing to envy his old Bucs rival and future tournament golf partner The Match — scoop that I owe to the unstoppable gossip columnists of The Pewter Plank site.
At the end of February, the anti-vaccine Rodgers panicked the twittosphere with the revelation of his Panchakarma, a twelve-day detox treatment based on laxatives, ghee (clarified butter) and complete abstinence from sugar, sex and alcohol. Two weeks later, as I began to collect my tax slips like the mere mortal that I am, I learned that Rodgers, who had been sulking since the January evening when his march to the Super Bowl was halted by a blizzard and an improbable punt blocked in the division final, would finally be back with the Packers, for 150 million US dollars stretched over three years.
It’s 50 million a year to play ball.
I apparently wasn’t the only one making this calculation, since some sites were already shouting about the highest annual salary in the history of North American professional sports. After all, the NBA’s highest earner, LeBron James, doesn’t that 41.2 million per year – plus, it is true, a comfortable 70 million in “extra-sporting income”, sponsorships and co. And Major League Baseball’s highest-paid player, Max Scherzer, earns just $43 million. However, the need for major league teams to deal with a salary cap has meant that the long-term contracts of their highest-paid players have become exercises in financial aerobatics of Byzantine subtlety.
Thus, Aaron Rodgers will pocket, in 2022, a guaranteed sum of 41.95 million, including 40.8 million in the form of a signing bonus (just to free up some space under the ceiling), for a base salary of only 1.15 million. His 2023 salary, 59.465 million, is also guaranteed, but the 49.25 million due in 2024, when he will be 41, would not be in the event of injury… Result: by a retirement which will be well-cushioned ad, the guy is still guaranteed to receive nearly 34 million per year.
And my phone announces to me in great scoop that the young prodigy of the Chiefs, Patrick Mahomes (503 million over ten years), could become the first athlete billionaire professional sports. As for Deshaun Watson, who has not yet proven anything in this league and that about twenty young women are threatening to sue in civil court for sexual misconduct, the Cleveland Browns have just granted him a handsome 46 million a year. Apparently, the word “inflation” does not have the same meaning for everyone.
I console myself, my nose in my tax slips, remembering that money does not buy happiness, and that it does not even ensure victory. Shortly after breaking the bank, Aaron Rodgers learned that his best receiver, Davante Adams, had gone to see if the dollar was greener in Las Vegas. And if Mahomes wants to return to the Super Bowl, he’ll have to do so without his explosive deep-court confidence man, Tyreek Hill, who has set his sights on Miami.
Brady is the opposite. He’s a magnet that attracts the best to his camp, then helps his CEO pay them by demanding a few less peanuts for himself. And it still smells of the championship. Because Tom doesn’t want to make more money. He just wants to win.