Remember your old summer jobs? Mowing Widow Kittyhoarder's lawn for $10 and a bottle of cream soda left over from the Eisenhower administration? Babysitting the Spencer-Parker brats while their doctor mom and lawyer dad went to marriage counseling? Scooping Italian ice for the construction workers and hungover mobsters on Passyunk Avenue? Lifeguarding the wave pool at Tsunami Mountain before that incident the locals still call the actual tsunami?
Most of us grow out of summer jobs once we reach a certain level of maturity, success and financial security. But NFL owners aren't the kinds of multi-millionaires who are willing to let a few football-free summer weeks go by without turning a smidgen of extra profit.