Tag: Football

Reading Time: 2 minutes

4/25/13 20:04 hours, NY

“I know you want him,” drawled the white-haired man. “But you can’t have him unless we get this deal done, and you ain’t helpin’ it along very well.” The old man had tired eyes, and a tired mouth–tired of saying the same exact thing over and over.

In the Buffalo Bills war room, the Bills general manager, Buddy Nix, sat back down in his chair, which his excitement had removed him from. He sighed as he listened to Jeff Fisher’s deal again. He said the same thing: the Rams wanted the Bill’s first round pick, for the their first and second round picks. The only difference from the last half a dozen times Fisher had reiterated his deal, was that Nix stopped him mid-sentence.

“Jeff,” he said. “Hold up. Wait a bit, I’ll have my team work out a counter proposal, and we’ll see if we can’t make our selves a little deal.”

“Sounds good, Buddy,” said Fisher, and he hung up.

Nix rubbed his temples, and looked over to Doug Marrone, the Bills head coach. The look was a pointed one, and it was accompanied with a twinkle in the southern-bread man’s eyes. He spoke words to make it even clearer.

“We got ’em right where we want ’em.”

The Radio City Music Hall, NYC, NY

Many NFL fans decked out in their favorite team’s gear screamed with delight as the commissioner, Roger Goodell, walked out, and in his soft, somewhat scratchy, voice, announced the first pick.

“With the first pick in the NFL draft… The Kansas City Chiefs select… Eric Fisher, tackle, from Central Michigan!”

The commissioner smiled broadly as the 6 foot, 7 inch, 306 pound man came out and pound-hugged him. Many fans thought the commissioner coughing, but wrote it off to excitement. The large man wore the newest New Era hat: the 2013 Draft Cap. Held up a bright red Chiefs jersey, with the number 1 one the front.

He posed by himself, he posed with the commissioner, and he posed with Deion Sanders who then asked for an interview.

“So just how does this feel,” asked Deion, bouncing each word significantly, like he was rapping them.

“It feels good, man,” said Fisher, grinning uncontrollably. “It feels so good.”

“What do you think of your new team? What was your impression of their organization?”

“Honestly? I think the Chief’s are gonna be a threat in AFC West. We’re gone a work our butts off, and we’re gonna do it week in and week out. With our effort, the talent of Alex Smith, Jamaal Charles, and Dwayne Bowe, not to mention our defense, and well,” he smiled, “me, we’re going make things interesting, I think.”

“Confident words,” Sanders said to the camera. “From a man big enough to back them up.”

Sanders smiled as the camera man backed away, and he pound-hugged Fisher. The five minute clock had already started and showed 4:01.

“We’ve got four minutes before the Jaguars pick,” said the NFL Network anchorman. “Will they be the first to pick a QB? Find out when we come back, with live, full draft coverage.”

Reading Time: 2 minutes

I’m going to illustrate this little fantasy of mine, so that you can University-of-Southern-C it.

It’s gonna be a series, and I honestly wish I’d thought of it earlier. I’ll publish a bit of it today, then I’ll see if I’ll continue, or if I’ll just summarize. Please, feel free to enjoy thoroughly 🙂

PROLOGUE

4/25/13, New York

In a room–curtained off by black drapes, lightly lit by soft incandescent bulbs–sat thirty or forty collegiate athletes, soon to get paychecks they’d only dreamt of. Their faces betrayed their feelings; anxiety permeating everyone’s facial features. Because their lives were about to change, their faces, inevitably, were laced with excitement. Millions of dollars were soon to be theirs. The college athletes–soon to be professional athletes–sat around, and held their phones, squeezed mothers’, fathers’, and girlfriends’ hands, trying to keep some of the emotion down. Trying, but failing. This was the NFL draft! This doesn’t happen every other Thursday. They had a right to their excitement, and they were enjoying it. At least some of them were.

Some where praying, others just laughing. Still others cracked their knuckles, and more picked at their fingernails. Some leaned back in their chairs, like children (minus the dreadlocks some had, the incredible muscles all had, and the custom tailored designer suits again, that everyone was wearing) they fidgeted, and leaned their chairs onto only two legs. Some were stoic, too afraid to show emotion. They stared at the ceiling.

One stood out, though. It and it didn’t have anything to do with his hair. The flaxen blonde hair was neatly cropped, though it hinted at a certain unruliness. He had a face that alluded to wisdom; slight creases starting at the bridge of his nose, and slanted under his eyes, along with a mouth, drawn in a line, but relaxed.

Overall he looked calm, intelligent, and commanding. Which, in fact, Matt Barkley was.

It was quarter of eight, and Barkley sat, hands folded, at one of the middle tables in the room. With him, he had his family, and they were all silent, observing his every move, in a loving, supportive way. He fought the anxiety with a certain amount of certainty and apathy. There were two teams, back-to-back, that said they’d try to get him in the first round. He didn’t have ties to either, so he had the luxury of apathy.

The two teams were Arizona and Buffalo. Arizona had the 7th overall pick, followed by Buffalo in possession of the 8th pick overall.

Barkley showed his first sign of life when he sighed.

“This is it,” he breathed. “The draft.”