He came to see me again. "This is good," he said, with a demonic gleam in his eye, "but I want it all. "
So, in 2005, I gave it all to him. And as he was being carried off the field—the youngest quarterback ever to win the Super Bowl—I yelled up to him, "Happy?"
"Yeah, dude! Thanks for everything!"
"You still have the devil to pay," I mentioned.
And this is when he started to get weaselly.
"You know, Mr. Siffer, I checked with the players' association, and they said that a contract like that isn't legal."
And he disappeared, leaving me very unsatisfied.
Of course, right then and there, I could've sent him swimming for eternity in a river of boiling blood, or had crows gnaw on his head forever, but I didn't. Call me a softy. Besides, I wanted him on my team for a few years, sewing discontent, selfishness and greed. (We're very happy with Mr. Owens on that score.)
So I started with some subtle stuff. You know, gave his cell number to Larry King, put Ben-Gay in his jock, threw a new red shirt in with his whites, things like that.
Still, Mr. Roethlisberger wouldn't come around. So I took it up another notch and had his girl break up with him. And I made sure two of his best teammates—Mr. Bettis and Mr. Randle El—left the team.