Chapter 357 - 232: A Great Victory
"...Just have them wait outside. The boss has his own ideas," Don Quixote said, then hung up the phone. "I still need to handle some things. I’ll deal with it when I come down. Protect yourself."
After hanging up, Don Quixote casually slipped the phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, turned around, and redirected his gaze toward the VIP owner’s box.
Unlike the jubilation of the Giants fans, an air of decay permeated the box.
Judging by the look on the Philadelphia Eagles’ owner, Don Quixote had no doubt that if John Mara hadn’t been there, the man would have picked up a chair and smashed the television to smithereens.
Besides the Eagles, who were being nailed to the pillar of shame, the broadcasting company’s vice president also had an ashen face. He didn’t even dare to think about how he would explain the second half’s plummeting viewership curve to the board of directors.
The head of the online casino had bloodshot eyes, staring at the data on his phone after the betting market collapsed and massive funds were forcibly liquidated by the system. The pain was so great he could hardly breathe.
Don Quixote admired the beautiful scenery before him, leisurely pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
’Ah, why is this whiskey so delicious? Smooth on the tongue, and slides right down the throat.’
John Mara sat on the leather sofa in the host’s seat, leisurely swirling the whiskey glass in his hand. The ice cubes clinked crisply in his crystal glass.
Gone was the dejected, near-death persona he had put on earlier.
His cloudy eyes now glinted with the cunning and sharpness of a victor as he triumphantly surveyed the defeated dogs before him.
"Gentlemen," he said with a smile, raising his glass. "That was a truly wonderful game, wasn’t it?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the Eagles’ owner, the broadcaster, and the casino representative in turn, before downing the last of his whiskey in one gulp.
"Now, the show is over. Shall we sit down again and have a proper talk about our future ’cooperation’?"
Don Quixote walked up right on cue, pulling a business proposal from his briefcase, ready to tear a chunk of flesh from the fattened lambs before him.
He placed three copies of the business proposal in front of the NFL Alliance’s broadcast vice president, the representative from the online casino, and the agent from Las Vegas.
He placed them just far enough away that they would have to get up and stretch to reach them.
Everyone present was a sly old fox; they naturally saw through Don Quixote’s little trick. No one stood up to take a proposal.
"Cooperation? You Fack call this cooperation?" The Philadelphia Eagles’ owner completely lost his mind. "John, you old bastard, did you do this on purpose?!"
"On purpose?" John Mara said languidly. "Whatever do you mean?"
"You pretended to agree to rest your starters and play the backup squad, but in reality, you told Li Wei to do this, didn’t you?!" The head of the online casino also stood up, his face grim. "You deliberately let him run up the score by himself, using him to wreck our betting lines and slap us in the face!"
"You’ve misunderstood, gentlemen," John Mara said, spreading his hands helplessly. "I acted according to our previous understanding and put all my starters on the inactive list. Weren’t you all praising me for doing a good job just before?"
The men froze, suddenly feeling a rush of blood to their throats, like they wanted to spit it all over Mara’s face but couldn’t.
"Besides, I’m just a team owner," John Mara continued with a smile. "I can’t control a young man’s pure desire for victory."
"You gentlemen here have families of your own. When these players put on a Giants jersey, they’re like my children. As the head of this big family, I have to respect my children’s wishes. Li Wei simply wants to win."
John Mara leaned forward slightly, looking at the Eagles owner’s face, which had turned a deep purplish-red, and asked with a smile:
"Are you suggesting, gentlemen, that the NFL Alliance should issue a new rule tomorrow prohibiting players from scoring on the field?"
The Eagles owner’s chest heaved violently and his lips trembled, but he couldn’t force out a single word.
The broadcaster and the casino representative already wanted to leave.
’I just make a few million a month. Why do I have to put up with this crap?’
"Fack you! You’re full of shit!" The Philadelphia Eagles owner slammed his palm on the table. "Don’t think you’ve won! I’m telling you, it’s impossible for a yellow man to play a full game in over 20 pounds of pads and still run at Bolt’s speed!"
Don Quixote’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
"The Alliance’s surprise drug testing team is already waiting for him downstairs! Blood, urine, hair—the whole set, the strictest standards! He’s definitely on some new type of performance-enhancing drug that isn’t on the list yet! Once that test report comes in, we won’t be talking about some bullshit business cooperation, but his lifetime ban!"
The broadcast VP and the head of the online casino exchanged a look and both sat back down on the sofa. They didn’t join in the Eagles owner’s roaring, but they didn’t argue against it either.
If Li Wei really tested positive for drugs, then the abnormal betting lines and the ratings collapse would have a legitimate excuse. All their losses could be covered by a special exemption from the Alliance, or even reversed.
This was their only hope for a comeback.
"Then let’s wait," John Mara said, calm and unconcerned, knowing Li Wei was clean. "The results should be in soon."
About 20 minutes later, just as the Philadelphia Eagles’ owner was checking his watch for the 17th time, the head of the Alliance’s independent testing agency—the very same senior official Jin Heon had just chewed out—strode in with a stony expression.
"This is the expedited test report," he said. "Do I need to explain it to you gentlemen?"
"No need, Allen, thank you," said the NFL Alliance’s broadcaster. "I’m sure Jeffrey (the Philadelphia Eagles’ owner) can read a report."
"Of course I can! I’ve run this team for 30 years, and I have a PhD," the Philadelphia owner snorted. "Steroids... stimulant residue... abnormal fluctuations in masking agents... Wait a minute! Did you grab the wrong one?!"
He crumpled the paper in his hand into a ball and threw it violently to the ground.
"Why is everything negative!" he demanded. "And why isn’t there even any trace of ibuprofen or hydrocodone?"
To maintain such a high level of intense competition, many players get potent analgesic injections or use ibuprofen or hydrocodone for pain management. Yet, Mr. Li Wei’s test report was as clean as a blank sheet of paper.
"We ran the tests twice, and the results were identical each time," the official explained patiently. "As for physical pain, Mr. Li Wei stated that he rarely participates in contact drills and has never been sacked in an official game. Since he’s never been injured, he hasn’t had any reason to use such substances."
With his last lifeline extinguished, the Philadelphia Eagles’ owner’s defenses completely crumbled.
"It’s fake! It has to be fake!" He tore the report on the ground to shreds and pointed at the official’s throat, cursing. "You took John Mara’s dirty money! You corrupt fat rats! I’m going to file a complaint with the NFL Alliance’s top brass and the Disciplinary Committee! I’ll have your lab’s testing certification revoked! I’ll send you all to Federal Prison!"
Don Quixote suddenly let out a soft chuckle, drawing everyone’s attention.
"Oh, no reason. I was just admiring his vocabulary. Truly befitting a PhD," he said. "He even used the term ’great rats.’ So elegant. Someone who hasn’t taken the GRE might not even know what that means."
Don Quixote’s banter did manage to diffuse the tense atmosphere a little.
The official also collected himself, adjusted his tie, and pushed the pressure right back:
"First of all, we are an independent laboratory protected and regulated by both the NFL Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA) and the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA). We are not on any team’s payroll, and we are certainly not your personal employees. You can’t threaten my livelihood."
He began with a cold smile, "Second, if you have any doubts about our professionalism, the accuracy of our instruments, or the legality of our report, you are of course welcome to file a formal complaint with the Disciplinary Committee."
"However, to prove our own competence, we could begin a ’highest-level surprise blind test’ on the Philadelphia Eagles’ current 53-man roster tomorrow morning at five a.m. Twice a day, blood and urine," he said, staring into the Philadelphia Eagles owner’s eyes. "If we find that more than half your players are using prohibited substances, I wonder if you’ll still want your draft picks for next year?"
The Eagles’ owner immediately sounded like a castrated pig, letting out a meaningless grunt.
He knew all too well what his own team was made of.
"Do not shout at me, sir," the official said coldly, then turned and walked out the door without a backward glance.
As the heavy oak door of the VIP box clicked shut, completely sealing off the noise from the hallway, a dead silence once again fell over the room.
The Philadelphia Eagles’ owner collapsed back onto the sofa, as if all the bones had been drained from his body. His final trump card, the ace he thought would nail Li Wei’s coffin shut, had not only been torn to pieces but had also turned into a sword of Damocles hanging over his own team.
Don Quixote put down his whiskey glass and spread his hands. "Alright, gentlemen. Are there any other plans? If not, I believe we can start discussing compensation for my client?"
He exchanged a look with John Mara. "I’m sure that all of you came here today to get a result. My client has no intention of destroying the NFL’s ratings, and in fact, he hopes to contribute to expanding its audience."
Everyone in the room remained silent, watching Don Quixote’s performance.
"Now," Don Quixote said with a smile, "if you gentlemen would please look at the business proposal I’ve placed before you."