Chapter 358 - 233: A Complete Victory
The owner of the Philadelphia Eagles had calmed down a bit by now. He sat silently in his chair, watching his temporary allies get fleeced by Don Quixote and John Mara.
At this moment, he actually felt a sense of relief.
’As the saying goes, better a friend dies than I do. When you’re being chased by a bear, you don’t have to run faster than the bear; you just have to run faster than your friends.’
At least the Philadelphia Eagles had only been forced to grovel at Li Wei’s feet. If the others didn’t satisfy Li Wei and John Mara today, their seasons would probably be well and truly over.
The NFL broadcaster, the Las Vegas representative, and the online casino executive looked at each other.
Finally, the online casino executive glanced left and right, then was the first to stand up. He grabbed the business proposal, sat back down heavily, and began flipping through it without a word.
With someone taking the lead, the others followed suit, picking up the proposals and starting to read.
"First demand," Don Quixote said, holding up a finger and clearing his throat. "If Li Wei’s sports drink brand goes into production, we require Coca-Cola to handle all contract manufacturing for us. Furthermore, the NFL must give us the green light on distribution channels."
This very first demand was enough to make the NFL broadcast VP lose his composure.
"Coca-Cola is an NFL sponsor," he yelled. "They have their own intricate business empire! How could we possibly interfere with the internal production lines and channel scheduling of a Fortune 500 company?"
"That’s not my concern," Don Quixote said coolly. "Second demand: I want 120 seconds of prime advertising space during next February’s Super Bowl broadcast to air the global premiere commercial for this sports drink."
"Are you insane?! That’s absolutely impossible!"
The broadcast VP shot up again. "Do you think Super Bowl ads are some late-night infomercial on a local station?! Super Bowl ads are sold in strict 30-second units! The average market price in recent years has been 7 million USD per 30 seconds! You’re asking for 120 seconds out of nowhere—that’s not just a direct cost issue of nearly 30 million USD!"
"If you take 120 seconds, what about the other advertisers? The other brands?" He waved his hands frantically. "This is about the league’s rules and the dignity of all our sponsors!"
Don Quixote didn’t speak. He just folded his arms, watching the frantic broadcast VP before him with an air of relaxed confidence.
On the side, the owner of the Philadelphia Eagles felt his brow unfurrow.
Seeing them in such distress brought a measure of peace to the Eagles owner’s heart.
Meanwhile, on another sofa, the Las Vegas casino partner, who had been staring down at his tablet, suddenly snapped it shut. He took a cigar from the box on the table and lit it for himself.
He took a long drag, then let it out in a cloud of smoke.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes closed. "Las Vegas will handle the Coca-Cola matter," he said.
"Are you crazy?!" The NFL broadcast VP turned his head in astonishment. "He’s just jacking up the price on the spot!"
"We lose hundreds of millions of USD in hedge funds on the betting lines every week because of this uncontrollable monster! That’s hundreds of millions in cold, hard cash!" The casino magnate pointed a finger at the broadcast VP’s nose and cursed him out. "We’ve fucking accepted our losses! And you’re over there crying about your pocket change! A twenty or thirty million dollar ad slot! Do you have any idea how much money we’ll lose if he plays like this for two more weeks?! Your ratings—do you think those viewers will ever come back once they’re gone?! Who gives a fuck about your goddamn dignity!"
"Give him what he wants! Solve this problem now! If we keep bleeding money because of him for the rest of the season, I’ll be the first to pull all of our under-the-table sponsorships for the NFL!"
The power of capital crushed the rules without reservation.
The Vice President, who had been trying to maintain the league’s pathetic dignity, turned deathly pale in the face of the casino’s fury and threats to pull funding.
John Mara watched the drama unfold with leisurely amusement. The fragile alliance they had formed fell apart in just two minutes, much like the Philadelphia Eagles’ defensive line.
"120 seconds is really impossible... We’ll trigger a chain of lawsuits!" The VP gritted his teeth. "90 seconds! My authority extends to a single, complete 90-second ad block at most. And I give you my personal promise that it will be in the most prime slot right before the halftime show."
Don Quixote put on a show of frowning, as if wrestling with a difficult decision. Then, he glanced over at John Mara, who had been smiling and enjoying the show all along.
"Fine," he shrugged. "I’m sure my client doesn’t want his athletic career to be cut short, either. He’ll stop trying so hard and will provide the audience with some more... suspenseful games."
"Is his demand still to win?" the online casino executive suddenly asked.
"Yes, that’s right," Don Quixote said. "My client’s only requirement is to win."
"On my own behalf, I’d like to personally offer Mr. Li Wei a commercial endorsement worth 20 million USD, with no mandatory exposure," the online casino executive said suddenly. "My private request is that for the remaining games of the regular season, Li Wei needs to be trailing in at least two of the first three quarters. Is that possible?"
This was blatant match-fixing.
Don Quixote couldn’t help but glance at the NFL broadcast VP, and then at the other tycoons. He saw that no one was questioning the proposal.
"I’ll need to discuss this with my client," he said. "After all, he’s the one who makes the final decision."
"If he can give me an answer before next week’s game," the online casino executive nodded, "I will personally send him another gift."
"By the way," Don Quixote said, obligated as an agent to vet Li Wei’s endorsements, "about that commercial deal you mentioned—"
"It won’t damage Li Wei’s own brand value, and it has nothing to do with casinos," the online casino executive shook his head. "You can rest assured on that point."
Seeing the online casino make such a request, the Las Vegas partner suddenly slapped his forehead in regret.
Since Li Wei had demonstrated the ability to control the score, Las Vegas could have absolutely partnered with him to make their business bigger and stronger. He never expected a young online casino to swoop in and steal the opportunity.
Don Quixote nodded in satisfaction. Just as everyone thought it was all over, John Mara slowly poured a glass of wine. "Gentlemen, Li Wei’s personal tab is settled. Now, let’s talk about the New York Giants’ bill."
The broadcast VP closed his eyes in despair. "John, what the hell do you want?" he said. "You might as well just take a revolver and shoot me dead."
"My demands aren’t excessive," John Mara said with a slight smile. "Next year, our Giants need permission for two overseas exhibition games. This would be a huge benefit for developing the NFL’s overseas emerging markets, wouldn’t it?"
Hearing this condition, the VP’s frayed nerves relaxed slightly.
Although overseas games were highly profitable—involving expensive tickets, premium broadcast rights, and massive merchandise revenue—it was all completely within the rules and not particularly difficult to arrange.
"Fine, I agree." Allen gritted his teeth, his agreement surprisingly quick. "As long as Li Wei can keep the suspense high in the upcoming games and save the ratings, I’ll push the competition committee to approve two high-priority overseas slots for the Giants next year."
"A pleasure doing business with you." John Mara raised his glass in a toast but didn’t bring the rim to his lips. "Now then, let’s discuss the second small matter."
Allen’s heart skipped a beat. He could almost feel his blood pressure skyrocketing.
"Next February’s Super Bowl," John Mara said, the smile slowly fading from his face. "I want the hosting rights to be in New York, held at MetLife Stadium."
"You’re fucking crazy—OW!"
The broadcast VP shot to his feet so abruptly that his knee knocked over the coffee table in front of him, making him cry out in pain and stumble to the ground.
"John! You’re an old madman! The Super Bowl host city is decided three years in advance by a vote of the 32 team owners! Next February’s location has been set for ages! You voted on it too!"
"But rules can be bent, can’t they?" John Mara looked down at the VP, who was on the floor rubbing his knee. "MetLife Stadium is equipped to host any world-class event. Everything is ready to go. And with three months left, there’s more than enough time."
"This is blatant blackmail!" Allen clutched his hair in despair, his voice cracking. "This is beyond my authority! Even if you threw me off this building today, I couldn’t make this happen! This requires special executive approval from the league commissioner and the owners’ committee! You need to talk to the NFL Commissioner yourself!"
Seeing that Allen had been pushed to the brink of a mental breakdown, John Mara knew his high-pressure tactics had reached their peak.
He wasn’t trying to drive the man to his death, but to get a seat at the table.
’Li Wei’s performance today was just too spectacular. So spectacular that it would be a disservice to myself not to use it to squeeze the NFL for everything they’re worth.’
"No problem," John Mara said, suddenly flashing that kindly smile again. "I’ll call the Commissioner myself."
He glanced around the room at the other tycoons, whose expressions had all soured, and suddenly continued, "Of course, I, John Mara, have never been one to eat alone. If the Super Bowl is held in New York, the center of the world, think of the incredible premiums, the black market for VIP boxes, the epic traffic for peripheral betting... We can carve up all that terrifying, incremental profit. As long as the Commissioner agrees, I guarantee every single one of you in this room will have a February in New York so profitable you’ll be swimming in money."
At this, the expressions of those present finally softened, the anger and resentment in their eyes gradually replaced by greed.
"Fine..." The VP clambered back onto the sofa, groaning. "I’ll coordinate a meeting."
Whether it was Li Wei and Don Quixote, who had secured epic commercial resources, or the shrewd John Mara, who had conjured something from nothing and strong-armed the Super Bowl to his own backyard, they had all won a resounding victory in this game.
Now that the business was settled, once they were away from the negotiating table, everyone was friends again.
John Mara slung an arm over the Philadelphia Eagles owner’s shoulder, laughing as they agreed to go play some Texas Hold’em with the Las Vegas partner later.
After their chat, he suddenly called out to Don Quixote, who was about to leave.
"Nice work," he said, looking Don Quixote up and down, his eyes practically overflowing with satisfaction. "You little bastard."
At 70 years old, John Mara certainly had the right to call the 45-year-old Don Quixote a "little bastard."
"Pleasure working with you," Don Quixote smiled. "You old bastard."
"I heard you left JPMorgan Chase quite a while ago," John Mara said, extending an olive branch to Don Quixote. "Want to join us for some Texas Hold’em later?"