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Holmgren’s office was the size of a small resort, and slightly better decorated. He offered me a glass of Old Patera — the ’76 vintage, “of course”. This was a man who knew the better things in life.

“Let me be honest, Chuck,” he said. “I’d have preferred not to go through this unseemly process. Dead seasons don’t come back once they’re gone. Especially seasons that go so bad along the way. We have a new season coming up, and a way to protect history by letting it go. I was told you were a wise man, so I’m wondering whether you might have some sympathy with such a view.”

“Mighty generous of you,” I replied. “The more that people forget, the fewer questions get asked about what happened. And why.”

His ample face reddened slightly. “There’s no need to conduct this conversation like a badly-written detective novel. There are larger interests involved here, and it’s sometimes necessary to put any personal feelings aside for the greater objective. And besides,” he said with a wry smile, “it’s not as if you have any real ideas to go on, other than your resentment at being thrown out of Lambeau Field like a fifth round draft pick.”

So the news had travelled. “I’m sure you’d be willing to explain where you heard that story if I asked nicely,” I said.

“Unfortunately, some things are better left unexplained,” he said calmly. “This season must be one of them.” And he stood up to show me the door.

Now I was in a real pickle. Holmgren was on the ball, of course: apart from a gibbering quarterback and a few disappearing players, I didn’t have anything to work with. Except the knowledge that the best time to start gambling is when you have nothing left to lose.

“Quite right,” I said, staying in my chair. “All I know is that seasons don’t kill themselves. Players don’t disappear by themselves, and teams don’t lose by themselves. That season was pushed, and there aren’t that many hands strong enough to do the pushing. The trick is to know who has the hands.”

“You’re stalling,” he said, “but I’m amused by your presumption.” He picked up a folder from his desk and walked across to me. “Here’s all I can do to help you. These are the game plans for Lambeau. A quarterback-heavy attack, lots of audibles, all driven from the huddle.”

He sighed. “Don’t be so sure about who’s being protected around here. The day always belongs to whoever understands the main game. You can never go back again, you know”

And with that, I was dismissed.