This piece was originally printed in the Pioneer Press.
April 23, 2005. The first day of the NFL draft. All across the country, hundreds of anxious young men wait eagerly in front of their televisions, eyes locked onto the ticker-tape scroll feverishly racing across the bottom of the screen, ears straining to make out the next name announced, hearts pounding as time drips by, molasses-syrupy slow.
Some of these eyes light up with excitement and glee as the commissioner declares, “And with the [fill-in-the-blank] pick, the [one of thirty-two NFL teams] select—” Screams fill the air, backs are slapped, kisses bestowed upon teary-eyed mothers; all is right in the world and we’re movin’ on up to the East Side.
Others—well, others aren’t so lucky. Slowly, the party balloons sink down from their once-ebullient positions against the ceiling as the guacamole grows warm and rancid. Guests and family members exchange awkward glances, mouth empty platitudes: “They’ll definitely call your name tomorrow,” or “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time,” until suddenly there is no more time, and you’re not even Mr. Irrelevant.
If you’re lucky, you then begin the lonely road of the undrafted free agent, hoping a team will call you up and at least give you a chance in training camp, at least give you one step on that green field with all its pageantry and flash that now seems so far away. Signing bonus? Here’s two grand, kid, and, oh, aren’t you glad to see it because hopefully it’ll pay the rent for a month or two while you desperately try to prove your worth to unsmiling men in mirrored glasses, their busy hands constantly timing, testing, summing up your entirety on brown clipboards filled with neat rows of numbers, and here comes the Grim Reaper to collect your playbook.
Some don’t even get that option. The phone never rings, the channel switches over to the evening news (filled with the grinning faces of fresh new millionaires), and the dream is over, stillborn on the vine. Oh, you’ll keep working hard at it, maybe even get a lucky break if someone goes down to an injury early on and they need a body and somehow you can make the most of that tiniest of opportunities, but don’t kid yourself, kid, it’s the longest of long shots.
Hey there, put the pills down, it’s not all doom and gloom. Most of the people getting drafted are in the same boat as you. All the preparation leading up to the draft, all the pro days and game film and endless interviews—only for a lucky few is it the golden ticket into the factory. Unless you get stuck in the chocolate pipe, like JaMarcus Russell, or fall down the squirrel hole, like Ryan Leaf, a first- or second-round pick guarantees you at least three years in the league. You see, you’re someone’s investment, you’re someone’s job, and if you flame out, then it’s his or her livelihood on the line, and no one likes looking a fool. And if one team gets rid of you, well, you were a first-round pick, so you must have some sort of potential—hey, boys, let’s kick the tires on this one and see if he can work over here.
Third round? You’ll get two years to prove your case. They’ve put some money into you, but if you don’t pan out then, they’ll cut their losses and move on to the next guy (who just might be an undrafted free agent who’s working his ass off to make the team, and he knows this is his only chance). You’ve got a little leeway as a third-rounder, but it’s just enough rope to hang yourself. Use it wisely.
Fourth round or later? They like your potential but you’re going to have to earn your spot. You’ll have an advantage over the undrafted guys, but it’s not much; the depth chart will have your name higher than theirs for a day or two, but if you don’t bust your butt, it’s not going to stay that way. Save that signing bonus for a rainy day and don’t get sucked into the veteran’s lifestyle; they’ve got cash to burn because they’ve collected that game check, but until you suit up on Sunday, you’ve got nothing but hollow promises.
You see, what no one will tell you, what no one can tell you, is that the draft is a total crapshoot. You might run forty yards in a straight line like Usain Bolt; you might jump higher than Superman and knock college linemen around like bowling pins; you might have the world’s most impressive highlight reel that gets two million hits on YouTube a week. Conversely, you might bomb your Pro Day, throw the ball backward during the Senior Bowl, or even spell your own name wrong on the Wonderlic Test.
It doesn’t matter. Sure, you might jump up to the first round or slide all the way out of the draft, but that isn’t what earns you your money. What earns you your money, the only thing that earns you your money, is suiting up on Sunday and showing you can play out on that field. That you have what it takes to be among the best of the best, day in and day out, year after year, and NO ONE knows who’s going to flash that talent. Oh, people can make a guess at it, but that’s all it is—a guess.
Me?
I was playing video games during the draft. What the hell do I know about football?