MAY
Even though I’m a proud NFL player, I love it when the crowd boos the commissioner as is the tradition during the draft. I heard that it started after a Super Bowl team got caught cheating and their fans booed at the next draft, and then everyone else just jumped in.
This year it’s being held in Detroit, and Jaden, Mack, Colin, Noah, and I are watching it at Colin’s house. It’ll go on for about three days, but we’ll just watch the first couple rounds. As someone just one season out of their rookie contract—and currently without a contract at all—it’s interesting to look at all the new young faces who are having their dreams come true right now. We’re all curious to see what new talent is going to be joining us for the next season. I do find it harder to watch than it has been the last couple years. I used to be that kid waiting to hear his name called, desperately hoping that I would get drafted at all, and underneath that hoping it was the team I dreamed of playing for. The me who’s watching rightnow is a bit worried that it’s May, and I still don’t have a contract signed and delivered for next season with the Hurricanes. I might not have wanted to play here, but I would rather play literally anywhere than not play at all.
Wings are piled high on plates in front of us, overflowing with different flavors, carrots, celery, ranch, and bleu cheese as well as fries, onion rings, and potato wedges.
“I bet Trenton Wilder goes in the first round,” Jaden says, smacking his lips as he licks garlic parmesan off his fingers.
“No way,” Colin snorts, “his completion to interception ratio was way too close as a quarterback.”
“I think it’ll be Jason Amara,” Mack adds. It seems like every year the guys coming out of college get bigger and faster. In today’s world, you basically have to be a freak athlete to play in the NFL.
When the special ding that signals the start of a team’s time to put in their draft pick plays, we all stop shooting the shit and pay attention. I’m not surprised to see that the Cheetahs are picking first since draft order is determined by how good a team does during the season, and they went four and thirteen. The Hurricanes will be toward the back since we made it to the playoffs last year, and the Butchers should be somewhere in the middle. They didn’t have a great season, but they didn’t have a horrible one either.
“With the first pick in the draft, the Jacksonville Cheetahs select Deondre Harris, cornerback, University of Connecticut.” We watch as the selected player stands from where he’s seated with his parents and walks toward the hall that leads to the stage. On the way up he stops and is given a hat for his new team. The crowd goes wild when he puts it on and confidently steps foot onto the stage. Confidence that is not misplaced seeing as he just went first overall in this year’s draft. It’s goodcompany to be in. He accepts the jersey handed to him by whoever the team sent to represent them and holds it up for the cameras. The cheering continues after he says how excited he is and walks off stage, and the next team is on the clock to make their selection.
And so it goes. We watch as name after name is called. Some seem like they expected it, others seem surprised. A particularly controversial quarterback is often shown when he is not drafted. He’s supposed to be a favorite to go early because of the recognition he brought to his college, and the fact that his coach is also his dad and an ex-pro. So far, he sits uncalled.
Finally, it’s the Butcher’s turn. I’m on the edge of my seat, but trying not to show it. I don’t think that many guys keep up with their old teams the way I do, and I don’t want it to seem weird that I’m so interested in who they draft.
The sound rings again. “With the twenty-sixth pick in the draft, the Green Bay Butchers select Jason Amara, quarterback, University of Utah.” The TV cuts to a scene of Jason Amara in his living room surrounded by his parents. I guess he didn’t think he would get drafted in the first round since he didn’t travel to be there in person. Maybe that’s the kind of humility that team needs.
Then it hits me. Why are they drafting a quarterback when they have the king of Wisconsin still playing for them? Is there something going on that they’re not talking about in the press? The Butchers are known for drafting a quarterback early on, before their current franchise quarterback is really ready to retire, and letting the new guy learn behind the veteran. That works if you’re a down to earth guy from the poorest part of the South, but I have a feeling it might not go over as well with a prima donna from California.
Then again, that could just be my dislike talking.
“Wow, good for him.” Mack has half a wing in his mouth, but it doesn’t stop him from speaking.
Jaden is scrolling through his phone, no doubt keeping up with the social media posts about each player. “Did you know he was only five-foot-three when he started high school?” Damn. That’s one hell of a growth spurt. He’s got great size now at six-foot-three. It’s ideal for your quarterback to be tall enough to see over the offensive lineman in front of him.
Everything goes on around me: Mack gets another beer, Jaden takes a handful of fries, the next five teams draft their players, and I just stare at the TV, not really seeing who gets chosen because I’m thinking about the Butchers’ choice. There’s change on the horizon there, and it might be good for me.
As of right now, I have no commitment to the Hurricanes. Until I sign my next contract with them, I’m free to go anywhere that wants me. The Butchers have just made a move big enough to make Jared Clark leave, and before I sign back on to my first team, I can do everything in my power to help make Nash’s league successful.
I might be delusional, but things just might be finally looking up.
Chapter Thirty-Two
NASH
I’m quickly learning the harsh reality of playing in a brand-new league.
I walk onto the court for the start of practice and see chaos. There’s a team already there, all right. But they’re standing on either side of the half-court line throwing big red rubber balls at each other.
Daly walks up behind me and quickly takes in the scene. “What the fuck is going on?”
I gesture at the players. “Dodgeball.”
“I see that,” she says flatly. “But why are they here during our time?”
“Let’s go see.”
We walk over to where Coach is talking quietly to who seems to be the dodgeball team manager. She’s pulled up to her full six-foot-four inches, ready for confrontation. I just catch clips of their conversation, “Scheduling disaster—I can’t believe you allowed this to happen.”
A couple of us are standing around waiting to see if we aregoing to actually get to practice; a few others are warming up like they’re sure we will.
Coach storms away from the other man, clapping to bring us all in. “There’s been a mistake in the scheduling of the court time.” She takes a breath.