But I don't think this fully explains the verve, the ardor, the brow-furrowing relish which Goodell had for this fourth-rate scandal, a passion even more cartoonishly rendered by the mainstream sports media. In short, as with the specter of piped-in crowd noise, or dastardly in-game text messaging, Deflategate is a "
perfect little scandal" over which Goodell (and
Troy Aikman and
Michael Wilbon and the rest) can pontificate over without affecting the bottom line of a business unrivaled in sports history. The only nerve Deflategate touches is the national hatred and resentment of the Patriots as cheaters, which, besides being almost universally relatable, is catnip for any producer in Bristol who needs
an hour of fresh shouting every morning.
It's a safe scandal, because it is a small spectacle burnishing an enormous spectacle; there is a sense of unreality, reading
text messages complaining about Tom Brady as if he's the office Lumbergh, or catching the ball boy
unsure whether he used a urinal or a stall. In wrestling terms, prosecuting a patently silly and weird Deflategate would not be breaking
kayfabe; it would be the strutting, grandiose Mr. McMahon levying the punishment, not actual corporate titan and billionaire Vincent K. McMahon. A sideshow—of fevered investigations and Masshole personality crises and interminable debates over "legacy"—that is good for business, at least when your business is entertainment.