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I BelieveGovernance and Philosophy in America A Top 10 Apple Philosophy Podcast Author: Joel K. Douglas
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The Social Responsibility of the NFL is to Make Money
Monday, 16 February, 2026
An eternity ago on a Sunday night. But it was never about Sunday night.Unseasonably warm in Dallas. Blue sky, few clouds. February but it doesn’t feel like it. Feels like a gift after the recent ice. The kind of morning where you leave the door propped open and let the air in.It’s gonna be a big day. The biggest day, actually, if you’re in the business of cold beer and television sets. Championship Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday. After tonight, there’s no more football until September. Seven months of nothing. Sure, there’s the draft, and some exhibition games, but those don’t draw eyes. Nobody can fill a Sunday the way the NFL does, and everybody in the bar business knows it.Marco knows it, too.He showed up at noon. Early for a dishwasher, but Super Bowl Sunday isn’t a regular Sunday. Double prep. Endless plates. The noise from the dining room sounds like a stadium even before kickoff, and by halftime, the dish pit looks like something you’d need a building permit to fix.Marco’s been washing dishes at The End Zone for three years. The busboys bring back tubs. They say they scrape the plates, but they don’t. He sorts through the mess and puts the plates and silverware in the slotted trays and sprays them down and feeds them into the machine. They come out smoking hot, and he burns his hands stacking them. The assistant manager tells him to go faster. There are no breaks. There is no time to take out the trash.He’s nineteen years old, and he’s never once called in sick. He doesn’t care who wins. The game matters because it brings the people, and the people bring the money, and the money is the whole point. If the Seahawks win, good. If the Patriots win, good. If the halftime show is in English or Spanish or Mandarin, good. Ray is the owner. He pays Marco time-and-a-half on Super Bowl Sunday. As long as the dining room stays full and the checks stay open and Ray keeps the kitchen running past the fourth quarter, Marco’s good.Ray has owned The End Zone for eleven years. Thirty-two TVs, a smoker out back, and a lease he’d rather not talk about. He got into the bar business the way most people do. He thought it would be fun. It was, for about six months. Then it became a job. Then a religion. Show up early. Stay late. Pray a lot.Ray’s been up since four. Briskets went on at four-thirty. Ice delivery at seven. The produce guy shorted him limes again but that’s a Monday problem. Today is not a day for problems. Today is a day for solutions and the solution is simple: keep the TVs on, the beer cold, the tabs open. The NFL does the rest.He’s expecting three hundred covers tonight. Maybe more. He’s got two extra bartenders, a barback he borrowed from his buddy’s place in Deep Ellum, and enough wings to feed a small army. He’s run the numbers. If tonight goes the way last year went, he’ll clear enough to cover the entire month. The Super Bowl doesn’t just end the season. It pays for the hangover.By four o’clock, the lot’s already filling up. By five, the noise is right. That good noise. People are spending money and feeling good about it. Ray’s behind the bar and he’s moving, and he’s got that feeling that the whole machine is working. The kitchen’s not backed up. The taps are flowing. Nobody’s complaining.Then his phone buzzes. It’s Hutch.Hutch is Ray’s oldest friend. They go back to Plano, to high school, to a time when neither of them had to worry about anything more complicated than Friday night. Hutch is a good man. Loyal. The kind of guy who helps you move and doesn’t even ask for pizza. He’s also the kind of guy who’s been getting his news from places that make him angry.The text says: You better not show that halftime garbage. I’m serious.Ray doesn’t respond. He’s got tables to turn.Act I. PregameHutch doesn’t text again. He just shows up.Five-thirty, first quarter crowd settling in, noise building toward that pitch where you have to lean in to hear the person next to you. He’s wearing his Cowboys jersey. Aikman, now an announcer. Had it since they were kids. He’s got that look on his face. Ray’s seen it before. He’s been in the truck listening to something that got him wound up, and now he needs someone to agree with him.He doesn’t sit at his usual spot. Stands at the end of the bar where Ray’s pouring and waits.Ray sees him. Nods. Pours a Shiner and slides it down without asking.Hutch doesn’t touch it.“You see my text?”“I saw it.”“And?”“And I’ve got three hundred people in here, Hutch.”“That’s what I’m saying. Three hundred people who don’t want to watch some — ““Three hundred people who are buying beer and eating wings and watching the game. That’s what they’re here for.”Hutch leans in. Lowers his voice like he’s being reasonable. Like he’s helping.“All I’m saying is flip it over to the other show during halftime. The real one. American music. Fifteen minutes. Nobody’s gonna complain.”“Half the bar’s gonna complain.”“No they won’t. They’ll thank you.”Ray keeps pouring. A four-top near the window flags him for another pitcher and he fills it without breaking stride. The kitchen bell rings twice. A busboy passes behind him with a tub and heads toward the back. Toward Marco and the machine.“Hutch. I love you. You know I love you. But I’m not turning off the Super Bowl halftime show in a sports bar on Super Bowl Sunday. It’s the show the NFL is broadcasting. What Apple paid for. A hundred and thirty million people are going to watch. And those people in my bar are going to watch it here, on my TVs, with a beer in their hand that I sold them.”Hutch picks up the Shiner. Takes a drink. Sets it down a little too hard.“You sound like a company man, Ray.”“I sound like a man who owns a company.”“You know what they’re doing, right? You know what this is? This is them shoving it down our throats. The whole thing. The Spanish, the flags, the — “Ray cuts him off. “Hutch.”“What?”“Who’s ‘them’?”Hutch doesn’t answer that. He looks up at the nearest TV. Highlights. Graphics. The machine that prints money.“You know what your problem is?” Hutch says. “You don’t care about anything except the register.”Ray almost laughs. Almost. Because that’s the first honest thing either of them has said.“Yeah,” Ray says. “That’s my job. That’s the whole job. I care about the register. The NFL cares about the register. Apple cares about the register. Every business in America cares about the register. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s supposed to work. You taught me that.”“Don’t turn this around on me.”“I’m not turning anything around. I’m telling you what you already know. The NFL isn’t a public service. It’s not the government. It’s not a church. It’s a business. And it made a business decision. The most popular artist on the planet is playing the halftime show and a hundred and thirty million people are going to watch it and my bar is going to be full when they do. You want me to turn that off because you don’t like the guy? Because he sings in Spanish?”“It’s not about the language.”“Then what’s it about?”Hutch finishes the Shiner. He looks at Ray. His eyes turn distant.Act II. The Boardroom We leave the bar for a minute and head to the boardroom.In 1970, an economist named Milton Friedman wrote an essay for the New York Times. Title, eight words long: “The Social Responsibility of Business Is to Increase Its Profits.”Eight words that became the bedrock of American conservatism for the next half-century. They were framed in offices. Quoted in boardrooms. Taught in business schools. Used to justify every decision a corporation ever made that somebody didn’t like.You don’t like that we moved the factory overseas? The social responsibility of business is to make money. You don’t like that we cut your pension? The social responsibility of business is to make money. You don’t like that the CEO makes four hundred times what you make? The social responsibility of business is to make money.It’s a beautiful argument if you’re the one making the money. Brutal if you’re not. For fifty years, conservatives loved it. It was the answer to every question the left ever asked about corporate behavior. You want the company to care about the environment? Diversity? Social justice? That’s not what companies are for. That’s what government is for. Companies are for making money. The market decides. The customer decides. Not the protestor. Milton Friedman has been dead since 2006. Let’s bring him back for a minute. Put him somewhere he never was. In a conference room with Roger Goodell.It’s October. Five months before the Super Bowl. Long table. Too many chairs. A screen on the wall with a presentation somebody spent two weeks building. Marketing people and sponsorship people and content people and executives.Roger’s at the head of the table. Milton is in the corner. Nobody invited him. He just showed up. He’s not here to help. He’s here to observe. He’s got a legal pad and he hasn’t written anything on it yet.The question on the table is simple. Who plays halftime?Someone pulls up a slide. Three or four names. Analytics. Global streaming numbers. Social media reach. Demographic penetration. Sponsor alignment. The usual.One of the names is the most-streamed artist on the planet. Five billion streams in a single year. Sold out stadiums on four continents. Won Album of the Year at the Grammys a week before the game. Young, global audience. The Latino market is the fastest-growing consumer demographic in America, and Apple just wrote a check for fifty million dollars to put their name on whatever this halftime show becomes.The name is Bad Bunny. The Puerto Rican rapper who’s outsold everyone since reggaeton went global.Somebody clears their throat. You can feel it before they say it. The hesitation. The careful language. The words that mean one thing and say another.The group debates. What about the core audience? Milton looks up from his legal pad.“Define core audience,” he says.“Traditional NFL viewership. Older. Domestic. English-speaking.”“And what percentage of your revenue growth do they represent?”Silence.“What percentage of your new subscriptions on NFL Plus came from international markets last year?”Silence.“What was the median age of the audience for your three highest-rated broadcasts last season?”The marketing people look at each other.Milton puts the legal pad down. He hasn’t written a single thing on it.“Your core audience,” he says, “watches the Super Bowl every year regardless of who performs at halftime. They watched when it was The Rolling Stones. They watched when it was Shakira. They watched when it was a marching band. They are not going anywhere. They have nowhere to go. The question is not whether you will lose them. The question is who you are not reaching yet.”He looks at the screen. At the streaming numbers. At the five billion.“You are not a cultural institution,” he says. “You are a business. Act like one.”In Dallas, in a sports bar called The End Zone, nobody knows any of this. Ray is restocking the cooler. Marco is checking the schedule to see if he’s on for Tuesday. Hutch is at home watching something on his phone that’s making him angry.Act III. Back in the BarIn the kitchen, the machine hisses. Marco feeds another tray in. His hands are red.Ray puts both hands on the bar. He doesn’t look at the TV or the dining room. He looks at Hutch.“This bar exists to make money. People getting mad because a business made money in a way they don’t like is DEI with a country music playlist.”Neither of them says anything for a while.Hutch puts the glass down. Doesn’t slam it. Just sets it on the bar with the kind of care you use when you’re trying not to break something that’s already broken.He gets up. Walks out. Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t make a scene. Through the door and into the parking lot where it’s still warm and the sun is going down and his truck is right where he left it.Ray watches him cross the lot. Just for a second. Then a two-top flags him down and he turns back and starts pouring.The lot is full. The tabs are open. The machine keeps running.The second quarter ends and the broadcast cuts to the field and the lights change and there he is. White jersey. His last name across the back. Ocasio. The number sixty-four.Three hundred people watch. Some of them know every word. Many don’t know a single one. It doesn’t matter. Nobody switches the channel or asks Ray to turn it off.Sugar cane. Palm trees. Color. A piragua stand. Someone’s memory of a place most of the people in this bar have never been. Every word in Spanish. And the bar stays full. Lady Gaga. Ricky Martin. The room gets louder. A wedding on the field, an actual wedding, and a table of women near the pool tables lose their minds.Ray pours. The kitchen fires. Marco runs the machine.Hutch’s stool is empty. No one is saving it for him. They move on. There are other seats. The bar is full, and Hutch’s seat is empty.Act IV. Friedman’s SoliloquyMilton Friedman walks back into the conference room.It’s Tuesday. Two days after the Super Bowl. Presentation screen still on. Coffee cup on the table. Marketing people gone. Roger is still there.Milton sits down. A single sheet of paper. He puts it on the table.The official Nielsen numbers. One hundred and twenty-eight million viewers. Fourth most-watched halftime show in Super Bowl history, behind Kendrick Lamar, Michael Jackson, and Usher.Not a record.Milton pauses. He knows the people who wanted this to fail are going to say it wasn’t even the biggest. They’re going to call it a disappointment.He turns the paper over. There’s more to the story.Four billion social media views in twenty-four hours. Already, the NFL’s three most-viewed social posts of all time are from the Bad Bunny halftime show. A single Instagram clip became the most-viewed piece of content in NFL social history. Over fifty-five percent of all views came from outside the United States.Most-watched Super Bowl in Spanish-language broadcast history. Telemundo peaked at four point eight million during halftime alone.The counter-programming halftime show peaked at somewhere between five and six million viewers on YouTube. Peanuts in comparison. Nielsen didn’t measure it. Milton sets the paper down.They’re reading the wrong scoreboard.The number the critics are using is the American television number. They’re right. On that scoreboard, it wasn’t a record. But that’s not the game anymore. Four billion views in a day. Fifty-five percent international. Apple didn’t pay fifty million dollars a year for American living rooms. Apple paid for the planet, and the planet watched.People spent fifty years telling corporations to stay out of politics. Out of social causes. Out of culture. Now these same critics want the halftime show to play to a room that gets smaller every year. That is not a business strategy.The social responsibility of business is to increase its profits. Not to wave a flag. Not to take a side. Not to make anyone feel represented or unrepresented. To make money.This group demanded that the NFL and Apple sacrifice profit to protect their feelings. One hundred and twenty-eight million watched the show. Four billion saw it on their phones the next day. Five million watched the alternative. The market chose.If they don’t like it, they could use government to regulate the NFL. Of course, compelling businesses to represent social values is “pure and unadulterated socialism.”He leaves the room. Economists never look back.Back in Dallas, it’s almost midnight. The End Zone is closing down. The lot is mostly empty now. A few trucks. The cleaning crew’s van. The streetlights are doing that orange thing they do.Inside, the chairs are up on the tables. The kitchen is dark. The fryers are cooling and the grill is scraped and the floor is wet where somebody mopped too fast.Marco is finishing. The last tray went through the machine ten minutes ago. The water is draining. He wipes down the steel around the pit and hangs the sprayer on its hook and peels off the rubber gloves.His hands are raw. They’re always raw after a Super Bowl shift. He runs them under cold water and dries them on his jeans.There it is on his forearm. A line of ink. Small. Black. Spanish.He didn’t see the halftime show. He was seven feet from thirty-two screens and he didn’t see a single second of it. He’ll watch it later, on his phone, in his apartment, with the sound up. He’ll watch it the way a hundred and twenty-eight million people already watched it. But right now he’s just tired and his hands hurt and his shift is over and he’s getting time-and-a-half.He clocks out. Walks through the empty bar. Past the dark TVs and the stacked chairs and Hutch’s empty stool that nobody sat in all night.The door is propped open. The air is still warm.MusicArtist: Manuelo JerseySong: Mental Get full access to I Believe at joelkdouglas.substack.com/subscribe
