As the sun rises, Brady, Goodell, Antonio Brown, Ricky Williams, and Drew Bledsoe come out the door of The Wild Thing Bar on the Daytona Beach strip.
It’s been a long night in there dancing and hollering and whatnot. Tom Brady is a Tampa Bay Buccaneer.
His phone rings.
“Hey Tom, it’s Jameis Winston. I’m getting a vibe that your signing for $30 million a year with my team means I am no longer the starting quarterback of the Bucs.”
“You’re perceptive,” Jameis. “I’ve won six Super Bowls. Last time I checked you’ve won none. So that would mean I’m the starter.”
“You think they’re gonna trade me?” asked Winston.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Brady. “But if I were you I would be looking around for another job on another team.”
“Do you think this has to do with me stealing those crab legs and crawfish from the supermarket in 2014?”
“No, I think it has to do with breaking the NFL record for most interceptions thrown in a single season. You can’t throw pics in this league and expect to stick around. Good luck finding a new job when no one in the country is working.”
Brady hangs up. His phone rings again. It’s Robert Kraft.
“Hey Tom, Bill and I just go out of the hospital for the broken bones and bruises we suffered falling out of the air balloon. We’re still in Montana. Can AB come get us in the balloon and fly us back to Foxboro?”
“No can do. We crashed the balloon off of Daytona Beach then swam ashore. Then the balloon drifted out to sea.”
“Is there any weed in Daytona?” asked Kraft.
“Tons, but we smoked it all last night.”
“So how are supposed to get home? There’s a pandemic. All the airports are closed. All car dealerships are closed. We’re hobbled. Bill needs to get back to Foxboro and start figuring out ways to cheat next season because he won’t have you to pull out games for him in the last second.”
“Start walking,” said Brady. “Or stay there forever for all I care. The world doesn’t really need you guys. You may think they do. But they don’t.”
“Come on, Tom,” said Kraft. “After you announced you’re leaving the Patriots this week, Bill and I both wrote in our Tweets that we loved you.”
“Nobody believes that. If you loved me you would have paid me for the six Super Bowls I won for you. For all I care, you guys can rot in Montana forever.”
Click. Brady hangs up.
“So where’s the party this morning?” he said.
“I scored some weed,” said Ricky. “We can hang out on the beach and burn some joints.”
Suddenly two police officers come towards the group.
“Are you Roger Goodell?” they ask.
“That’s me,” said Roger.
“Come with us. We’ve been reading on Sammy Sportface that you’ve been smoking weed with former and current NFL players. You can’t do that as the Commissioner of the league.”
They put handcuffs on Goodell and stuff him in the backseat of the patrol car.
“The rest of you guys go ahead and get stoned on the beach,” the officer said. “We’re psyched to have Brady down in Florida. He’ll make us a winner. Welcome to the Sunshine State.”