Thursday, April 22nd, the National Football League commenced its 75th Annual Selection Meeting, more commonly known as the Draft. For the first time in its history, the Draft was televised in primetime, breaking a long standing weekend afternoon time slot. In light of the move to primetime, the following is a dramatization of the Draft's first round on its opening night.
"In thirty seconds, sir."
The man wearing the headset has his arm stuck straight out across my midsection like a police barrier. Like I'm dying to go charging out on stage in front of this peanut gallery. Like I'm unable to contain my urge to do a power slide in front of representatives from every team. Like I'm going to flip the bird to the ESPN cameras behind Chris Berman's bulbous head. Christ almighty.
"Twenty seconds."
*Sigh*
I have to do it. I have to say it again. I have to kick off this comical cycle anew. There's no squirming out of it now. I am the most powerful man in sports in this country. My word is law to hundreds of millionaires. I am the Gingah Ninja. Yet I feel... trapped? No, that's not the right word.
"In ten, nine, eight..."
Oh, finally, headset moves his arm... is it okay for me to spring into action now? Am I walking? Is that the sound of my John Lobbs smacking violently against the hardwood floor in regular, measured intervals? The podium's edge feels the same as any other in my hand. Am I talking? God, how I hate the sound of my own voice. Why couldn't it boom and rumble like James Earl Jones's? But, no, I am just Roger Goodell, emperor of this circus.
"Welcome to the 75th NFL Draft..."
...
"Janet! Janet! You've got to come help. Sam Bradford's just been selected by the Saint Louis Rams but hasn't moved from his chair. He's just sitting there with a stupid smile on his face and a vacant look in his eyes. The cameras are waiting!"
"Be right there!" I hear myself say as I grab the crowbar and wonder why I took this job in the first place. I mean, I don't blame the poor kid, being shipped off to that travesty under the Arch is something I don't wish on any of these kids. It's just that I hoped working for the League behind-the-scenes would lead to more than being a babysitter to a bunch of jockstrapped millionaires.
"Janet! Janet! Ndamukong Suh just crushed another phone. Detroit's on the line, they're trying to let him know they picked him second overall, but every time he picks up the receiver it crumbles in his hand!"
"Just have someone hold up a phone to his head. Don't let him break the bill on the Lions draft hat either, he'll snap it in two."
I'm trying to climb a ladder here, but I don't see any rungs... just more hallways to run down...
"Janet! Janet! The brightness of Eric Berry's salmon shirt and tie just blinded Bryan Bulaga. He's, he's stomping around the green room, ruining everything in his path. It's a stampede!"
I grab the tranquilizer gun and get Bulaga in my sights. I take him down cleanly, but my heart just isn't in it. Do I need to start thinking about, gulp, another job? This has been my life for the last five years. Is that supposed to all go to waste?
"Janet! Janet! Russell Okung is trying to one-up Gerald McCoy's bear hug of the commissioner on stage! He's squeezing the life out Roger! Come quick!"
"I'm on my way!"
...
"Mort, the camera's rolling. The main desk wants a break down of the Raiders selection of Rolando McClain. Berman's glaring into the camera and waiting for your analysis."
McClane? McClane? I knew a McClane once, saved my life. No wait, that was a movie... what was that movie called. Die Trying! No... Hard Things! No... damn, this is going to bug me.
"Mort, say something... anything."
...
C'mon, Mel, you can do it. You can do it. I believe in you. We didn't spend $50 on pomade and two hours in front of the mirror styling me so regally on your head just to say something bland and factual about the Bills selecting C.J. Spiller. Lay into them! Tell the entire world that Buffalo doesn't know what the Draft is about! Tell them they needed a tackle before taking a skinny 5-foot-9 running back! Shout down that pipsqueak McShay. Make him fear the Kiper!
What, what? He's a good value? That's the best you can do? Where's the fire? Where's the vitriol, Mel baby? Gruden's beady little eyes are shooting lasers into Steve Young's curly-headed soul, and the best you can do is talk about solid value?
Mel, I've been your hair for, well, a long time now. C'mon, man. Summon the famous Kiper dragon from the fiery Kiper chasm! You and I both know that it's not your sterling analysis that keeps us in this gig. It's the trademark Kiper crazy! Draft expert?! That isn't even a job, Mel! It's like saying "bomb catcher" or "clown farmer," it means nothing!
Oh, thank God, the Jaguars reached for Tyson Alualu with the tenth pick. That's it! Stick it to those overall wearing, Tang drinking hicks in Jacksonville!
...
"And with the 15th selection in the 2010 NFL Draft, the New York Giants select... Jason Pierre-Paul, defensive end, University of South Florida."
All I remember was me and my buddies started shouting. I was in the middle of a mass of Giants blue and red. Someone in a Bavaro jersey wouldn't let go of my neck while he was shouting in my ear the entire time. But I didn't care. I was shouting, too. Finally, yes, finally, maybe our Giants can become a sack machine again! That's what I was thinking. That's all I cared about. Who cares if the guy didn't even play an entire season of college ball. Who cares if the guy's a classic workout warrior. The name just rolls of the tongue: Jason Pierre-Paul. JPP. I just remember that feeling. That - what's the word? - euphoriar.
Yeah, I don't remember much after that. Except, of course, waking up this morning and looking over to the other side of the bed and thinking, "Oh, no, not again."
...
"Thank you, Ms..."
"You can call me Janet, Mr. Goodell."
"Well, thank you, Janet... a second or two longer in that embrace and Okung might have busted my rib."
"Hazard of the job, I suppose." God, I'm smiling like a plastic bimbo. I feel like an idiot. Say something!
"You don't have to worry about Bryan Bulaga, sir."
"Bulaga?"
"The elephant from Iowa. He was stampeding in the green room. But I took him down with our emergency tranquilizer gun."
"Took him down?"
"Took him out. He was about to rip Joe Haden in two."
"Well, thank you, again, Janet. You certainly seem adept at dealing with a crisis."
"Thank you, sir. I've been meaning..."
"Listen, let me ask you something. What does my voice sound like to you?"
"Sir?"
"My voice. Does it soar like a Harpy Eagle? Perhaps it sounds like an icebreaker ship smashing floes in the Arctic? Or maybe! Maybe it reminds you of a machete chopping through the Amazonian underbrush?"
"Uh... sir?"
...
"Mort! Where are you going? The Draft's over but our coverage goes on for another three hours!"
I know I'm forgetting something... am I supposed to meet someone? Maybe it was Snoop? I think I have plans with Snoop. To do what though? Just to chill. It's never anything structured with Snoop. It's just chillllling. No golf. No antiquing. No Balderdash. Just chilling.
"Mort! Get back here! Berman is demanding to know what the ramifications are for Tim Tebow putting on that Broncos hat prematurely, you know, before the Broncos officially made him the pick!"
"Tell Berman it won't be the first time that virgin does something prematurely..."
"Huh?"
Yeah, I'll give Snoop a call and see where we're chilling...
"Hey, Mort, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, Roger. But make it quick, I got to catch up with Snoop."
"Okay, what does my voice sound like to you?"
"Your voice? I dunno, like too many people rushing down a narrow hallway, I guess.
"Damn."
"Gotta run, Roger."
"Yeah, see ya, Mort... Damn."
[Cian is writer and editor based in Brooklyn, New York. If you like the magazine, he suggests subscribing for free. To read more by Cian, check out his profile.]
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