In a departure from our normal analysis, and as a change up to the ways we pass the time leading up to the NFL Draft, I would like to share with you all a fictional short story I’ve been working on. I originally started writing this after the game between the Carolina Panthers and Denver Broncos last season, but felt the desire to finish it now during the offseason. This is the final chapter in the eight part series, and is the longest of them all. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it.

Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

Super Bowl 73

A short story by Erik Sommers

Chapter Eight

Somberness washed over Roger’s entire demeanor. You could see a wave of past emotions overtake him. He walked slowly over to a chest that sat beneath the shelves that Peyton had pulled the photo off of. He unhinged the latch, and pulled an old newspaper out from the depth of the box. He walked back over to Peyton and handed it to him, then walked over to stare out the large windows facing the Catskill Mountains.

Peyton read aloud…

“January 25th, 2026, Charlotte, North Carolina – 25 year old Carolina Panthers quarterback Sean Westmont was killed during the fourth quarter of the NFC Championship game against the Dallas Cowboys. Westmont absorbed a blow to the head from both sides as he tried to extend the play with an improvised run off of right tackle.”

“Cowboys defensive end Charlie Brazier came off his block just as Westmont came around the edge, making contact to the upper chest area of Westmont. Westmont did not go down, however, remaining on his feet with his momentum halted. At that moment, defensive tackle Kion Jones made contact to the back of Westmont’s helmet with a large amount of force, knocking the quarterbacks head and chin forward into the crown of Brazier’s helmet which slid up underneath Westmont’s facemask. Westmont then fell motionless and limp between the two players, and fell to the ground, bleeding from the mouth. He was airlifted to Carolina medical center, but was pronounced dead on arrival.”

Peyton lowered the newspaper from his view slowly, his face made of stone, lacking his usual animation and expression. He gently tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table.

“I re-live that headline every day,” said Roger. “It haunts me like a specter. Seeing young Sean laying on that field motionless, watching the helicopter land in the middle of the stadium to airlift him out… the scene was a first for all of us. Play resumed… but… no one on either team felt like continuing. Dallas and Carolina agreed to kneel out the game giving the Panthers a 24-13 victory and Super Bowl berth for the second straight year. News about Westmont’s death broke after the game. New York was in a frenzy… we didn’t know what to do. Less than 24 hours later, the FBI announced they would be investigating Kion Jones on manslaughter charges, and congress decided that would be a great time to review our operations. Both teams stood together in refusing to play the Super Bowl, so we cancelled it. I lasted just one more season as commissioner, and your hiring as you know, was part of a deal struck with the DOJ to allow us to continue operating.”

Roger leaned his forehead against the glass, eyes shut and swollen.

“Why did we even bother? We all knew that was the end. The league’s reputation was damaged beyond repair for repeatedly failing to enforce rules against hard contact to a player’s head, and the negligence lawsuits began to flood in. We paid out hundreds of millions of dollars to Westmont’s family in the wrongful death settlement, and we couldn’t replace those funds by playing games in front of mostly empty stadiums. The larger market teams that were still barely making a profit circled the wagons and voided the revenue sharing agreement, freezing out the smaller market teams. Those teams, led by Carolina, formed the NAFL to instantly great success. People who still wanted professional football flocked in droves to the new league untainted by the stench of the NFL. Before we knew it, they had competing franchises in the largest markets. There was nothing you could do, Peyton.”

Roger pulled himself back from the glass window, leaving a blemish of skin oil where he had leaned on it. He then skulked back over to his recliner and plopped down hard into it. He stared into the fire with wide and shell-shocked eyes, remorseful for the actions he failed to take, and filled with regret. Peyton collected his belongings and prepared to head out.

“I know Roger. But at least we can end on a high note today.”

Peyton grabs the new Super Bowl LXXIII mug he had brought for Roger and took it into the kitchen. Once there, he fills it up with coffee and a small amount of sugar and cream. Carrying the mug in his left hand, he then walks up to the mantle and takes hold of the old remote. He points it at the TV, and amazingly, the box comes to life with a bit of a crackle and creak for coming out of its long slumber. He sets the mug of coffee down on the table next to Roger, and switches the channel to where the game and festivities will be on later before setting the remote down beside the mug.

“I know you’re not a TV guy anymore… but do yourself a favor and don’t miss this one. We’ve got a great show planned for today, and it ought to be a love letter to the game. Despite all of the problems, there are literally thousands of magical moments the NFL created over the years, and mine and the committee’s goal for today was to focus on what made this league special for so long. At the end, I’ll present the Lombardi trophy to whoever wins between the New York Giants and the Miami Dolphins, then it will be shipped off to the Smithsonian to be preserved for good. The NAFL will take possession of everything that is left, merge our Hall of Fame with theirs, and life will go on.”

Roger sits silently, still somewhat in a trance, but finally snaps out of it and gives a nod to Peyton, who responds with a nod in kind and a firm pat on the shoulder. They’ll not exchange another word this day, and probably never will again for that matter. The pages that bind them will bear their final ink by the day’s end, as the NFL’s memoires will be written in front of one final crowd and on one final broadcast.

For hours, Roger sits quietly in front of the television, unable to move and hardly able to think. Some of the Super Bowl’s pre-game festivities are beginning with the usual cutaways to tailgating, enthused fans, and babbling analysts. The sun’s glare peeks through the large windows and alternates between reflecting light off the TV and the framed picture of Sean Westmont. Each shift burns his weary eyes, and makes it more difficult to focus.

The eighty inch screen shows football, while the eight inch frame depicts a promising football player. Big picture, small picture, it makes no difference to him, because he can’t see either one. He decides instead to retreat to his bedroom, tablet in hand, to read a bit more about the commercial development on route 23 before bedding down for a nap. He turns off the television, and sets the remote down in the outline of dust that Peyton removed it from, but leaves the picture of Sean Westmont where it is… for now. His feeble body is just too tired to deal with that this moment, and he can’t bear any more steps than he has already taken.