The Owners' Room

Atlanta, early spring 1999.

The cars began arriving at Georgia Tech's conference center in the afternoon. A month earlier, cameras had followed Nolan Callahan from the Super Bowl field to the team bus. Here, only a handful of business reporters waited beyond the doors. The people inside could determine where he played next, and almost none of them would speak on the record about it.

Nolan and Michael Ovitz arrived three hours before the expansion presentation was due to begin. Commissioner Paul Tagliabue was already there, talking to a man who crossed the room when he saw Nolan.

"That comeback is going to follow you for a long time," the man said. "I'm Taylor Smith. My brothers and I own the Falcons."

Nolan shook his hand. Since the game, NFL Films had replayed Mike Shanahan's remark about God having to stand with Dallas. The line, the fake-kick call Nolan had pushed for, and his speech on the sideline had become one story. A new nickname had taken hold: the Son of God. He disliked its weight, but it made him hard to overlook in a room of owners.

Smith did not ask for an autograph. He asked about the third-quarter huddle, and Nolan explained that the play had mattered less than convincing eleven tired men to run it together. Smith listened as an owner assessing a quarterback, not as a fan reliving the game.

Smith offered to host him and Ovitz after the meeting. Then he came to the point.

"Jerry may trade you. If Los Angeles doesn't get this franchise, Atlanta would like a conversation."

Ovitz stood close enough to hear the answer.

"I'm committed to the new club," Nolan said.

"And if there is no new club?"

"Then I retire."

Smith studied him. "You're serious."

"I wouldn't bring Michael here if I weren't."

It was a stronger answer than Ovitz had asked for. It was also the truth. Nolan wanted more than a contract and another season on someone else's terms.

Wayne Huizenga arrived a few minutes later and greeted Ovitz with a familiarity Nolan had not expected. Ovitz had dealt with him during the Blockbuster and Viacom years; whatever they thought of that business now, Huizenga promised to hear the Los Angeles proposal fairly. He owned the Dolphins and knew what an NFL franchise could be worth beyond its Sunday receipts.

"You've known him for years?" Nolan asked after Huizenga moved on.

"Long enough to know he never stops at one business," Ovitz said. "He owns the Dolphins and the Panthers, and he sold the Marlins earlier this year. He understands what television can do for a team."

"And what does he want from us?"

"An owner who will bring viewers back to Los Angeles. He'll ask if we're serious about the football part."

Nolan glanced at the folder under Ovitz's arm. The team budget had been moved ahead of the property plan for exactly that reason.

The room filled in stages. Bob Harlan came on behalf of the Packers. When Ovitz asked for his support, Harlan did not offer a polite yes.

"Green Bay has no single owner who gets to indulge a whim," he said. "Show me what you're building for the football team, not just the property around it."

"You'll see the operating budget," Ovitz said.

"I'll be listening for it."

Harlan took a seat without waiting for another pitch. Nolan liked him for that, though Ovitz looked as if he would have preferred a handshake.

"He was rude," Ovitz said.

"He told you his terms. That's useful. Green Bay answers to a community, not a family looking for an exit price. If we give him a sound football plan, he may vote for it."

"If he stops scowling long enough to read it."

"Give him the budget. Let him scowl over numbers."

Georgia Frontiere, representing the Rams, was warmer. She asked where the proposed club would train while a permanent stadium was developed, and Nolan admitted that the plan was still being negotiated. Jerry Richardson of Carolina asked what the bid would do for the league's television map. Those were questions they could answer. Neither owner was handing over a vote.

Richardson had built a franchise himself. He wanted to know who would handle the thousand unglamorous decisions between winning an award and playing a game. Ovitz named the operations team he intended to recruit. Nolan asked what Carolina had most underestimated in its first year.

"How fast a temporary arrangement becomes your reputation," Richardson said. "A practice field, a ticket office, a medical room. If one fails, nobody remembers that you meant to replace it."

Nolan wrote down the answer. He had been thinking about the temporary Rose Bowl lease as a bridge. Richardson was telling him that bridges could collapse in public.

Dan Rooney and the Giants' delegation arrived together. John Mara was there with his father, Wellington. Across the room, Lamar Hunt greeted several AFC representatives before turning toward the commissioner. Clark Hunt stayed beside him, taking notes. Nolan saw how easily years of common business pulled people into clusters. He also saw how many of those clusters were already watching Bob McNair.

Jerry Jones came in with Stephen and Charlotte. Charlotte glanced at Nolan, then went to her seat. Jerry gave him a nod that did not promise anything.

Nolan had not forgotten their last negotiation. Jerry stood to benefit if Los Angeles became a home for the quarterback who had just made Dallas a champion: the Cowboys would command a return for releasing him, and Jerry could say he had helped the league reclaim a market. Nolan needed his support. That did not make them friends again.

"That's the friendliest he'll be until the ballots are counted," Ovitz murmured.

"A nod is better than a lawsuit."

Bob McNair entered with the mayor of Houston. Ed Roski arrived last, accompanied by a younger man Ovitz did not recognize. The man stayed near Roski's presentation materials instead of sitting with the spectators.

Tagliabue called the room to order. Under the procedure adopted for this expansion vote, a bid needed a two-thirds majority of the voting clubs. With three bids on the table, the lowest would be removed if nobody cleared that threshold on the first ballot. The remaining groups would have a final interval to revise their offers before another vote.

Nolan counted the seats while the commissioner spoke. If only a handful abstained, a few owners changing their minds could determine everything. The bidder presentations would be public to the room, but the conversations that mattered had already begun in corridors and over breakfast. Ovitz had spent weeks courting them. Nolan had been able to lend his fame, not a vote.

Roski presented first. His Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum proposal had not changed enough to alarm Ovitz. Then his companion took the lectern.

"I'm speaking for my father, Marvin Davis," he said. "Our group will provide financing for the stadium and adjoining development. The total commitment is at least seven hundred fifty million dollars."

Chairs shifted. A bid that had seemed thin now had a partner with money and property experience. Ovitz leaned toward Nolan.

Roski resumed the presentation with a plan for the Coliseum and the district around it. Nolan watched the owners' reactions rather than the screen. The football facilities drew little movement. The promised adjoining commercial development drew people forward. Davis's money had made the same site look different without changing a yard of it.

"I didn't know he was coming in."

"Neither did I."

When Ovitz's turn came, Nolan took the lectern with him. He walked the owners through an operating plan first: facilities, staff, a football budget, and a temporary venue while the stadium work proceeded. Then he gave them the revised number.

"Our total commitment is eight hundred million dollars. The financing documentation and the milestones are available for review."

He did not call a bid a check. Both men knew that a promise without an executed financing plan could cost them the franchise later. Katherine's family trust had agreed to invest if they won; the rest had to come from partners and a bridge arrangement they could actually document. Nolan was counting on Jerry Jones to help make the latter possible, though he had not asked him yet.

Harlan asked how much of the eight hundred million was committed to running the club through its first seasons. Nolan gave him a figure from the schedule and pointed to the separate reserve. Richardson asked whether a delay in stadium construction would touch that reserve. Ovitz said no; Katherine would write that separation into the closing documents. The answers cost them flexibility, but they left the owners with something firmer than a skyline rendering.

Ovitz smiled when Nolan sat down. "You found another fifty million."

"I found a reason to make a call to Dallas."

"Jerry might say no."

"Then we find someone else before we sign anything."

Bob McNair removed the good humor from the conversation. Houston's mayor described land and infrastructure support. McNair followed with a one-billion-dollar package.

Ovitz stared at the figure on the screen. "Where does he get the extra capital this late?"

Nolan recognized the shape of the municipal concessions. He had heard a similar approach during the discussions with Katherine's family. Their trust had pledged a substantial investment to the Los Angeles group after a successful award. Nothing in that pledge had prevented its principals from financing a rival before the award.

"Someone may be backing both sides," he said.

"Walker?"

"I don't know yet. Katherine would have told me if she knew."

He looked across the room. McNair was composed. His numbers had turned the choice into a test of how much money the owners were willing to leave on the table for Los Angeles.

The first ballot brought no two-thirds majority. Rooney supported Ovitz; several NFC representatives also backed him. Huizenga sided with Los Angeles. Harlan abstained. Houston drew a strong AFC vote. Roski, even with Davis behind him, finished last and was eliminated.

Tagliabue gave the remaining bidders half an hour.

Ovitz drummed his fingers on the table. "I have no room to go over a billion."

"You shouldn't," Nolan said. "Not without knowing where every dollar comes from."

"Then what are you watching?"

The younger Davis had crossed to speak with Lamar Hunt. After a short exchange, he left the room. McNair received a message and followed him into the corridor.

"That," Nolan said.

He thought again about the two offers, the trust, and the family conversation he had left unfinished in Miami. If the same money was moving between bids, the highest number in the room might be the least secure.

"Michael, give me ten minutes."

"For what?"

Nolan rose. "To find out who really put that billion on the board."