I saw Paul Tagliabue cry once. It was five days after the attack on the World Trade Center in Manhattan; Tagliabue was in the league office on a Saturday afternoon. This wasn’t a weepy kind of cry, but a bottom-lip-quiver, moistened-edge-of-eyes, handkerchief-out, stop-talking-to-compose himself kind of cry. You don’t expect the NFL’s Margaret Thatcher (maybe not the best image, but you get the Iron Lady idea) to cry, but you also don’t expect 9/11 to happen, to change our world forever, to be the most infamous day of our lives, to change the way the NFL operates.