01-21-2022, 12:01 PM
Quite a haul for the Bengals, and a memorable draft for a lot of reasons. I kept a journal through the first year of the pandemic. This is from Monday, April 27, 2020:
Among the morning news was this factoid: TV viewership of the NFL draft smashed all previous records. Maybe people stuck inside had nothing better to do. Maybe sports junkies were starved for something — anything — besides reruns of the ’85 Super Bowl. Or perhaps brief looks at the homes and families of coaches, executives and players made more compelling drama than a contrived, overwrought spectacle from some ballroom. On the coach/executive side, we were treated to glimpses of the following:
*Jerry Jones smirking from the cabin of his quarter billion dollar yacht. Is there any more striking example of American arrogance and privilege? (Disclaimer: I hate the Cowboys).
*In contrast, Bill Belichick scowling from his kitchen, laptop resting on possibly the ugliest kitchen table in the world, Husky pup perched on a chair next to him. At one point, Belichick got up and left the room with New England on the clock. On the clock! The dog remained, staring intently at the screen, apparently ready to send in the Patriots’ third round choice with a flick of its paw.
*Family members wandering in and out. Little kids wearing team gear were adorable. But watch out for those teenagers. Tennessee coach Mike Vrabel’s son made it on national TV while taking a crap in an adjoining bathroom with the door left conveniently open — a coup worthy of enshrinement in the photobomb hall of fame. To say nothing of the bet with his buds he most certainly won.
But the players stole the show. The NFL set up cameras in the homes of all the top prospects. There they were in their living rooms — pizza boxes and soda cans on coffee tables, ratty couches, stained carpet, curtains from the 70’s, surrounded by immediate family, most of them Black, waiting to realize a lifetime dream. And the reactions when they were picked — hugs, tears, high fives, one father falling on the floor — all of it genuine, nothing contrived. The realization for people who have never had much of anything that everything was about to change. Parents proud of their kids. Kids grateful to their parents.
As a bonus, occasionally someone’s smoking-hot girlfriend made it into the family gathering. Of course I wasn't interested in any of that. But I did take note that a few of the moms weren’t bad either (looking at you, mother of the University of Oregon quarterback).
There will always be Jerry Joneses with us. But at least for one night, we were able to forget the virus and be genuinely happy for some real Americans. Another bit of hope.
Among the morning news was this factoid: TV viewership of the NFL draft smashed all previous records. Maybe people stuck inside had nothing better to do. Maybe sports junkies were starved for something — anything — besides reruns of the ’85 Super Bowl. Or perhaps brief looks at the homes and families of coaches, executives and players made more compelling drama than a contrived, overwrought spectacle from some ballroom. On the coach/executive side, we were treated to glimpses of the following:
*Jerry Jones smirking from the cabin of his quarter billion dollar yacht. Is there any more striking example of American arrogance and privilege? (Disclaimer: I hate the Cowboys).
*In contrast, Bill Belichick scowling from his kitchen, laptop resting on possibly the ugliest kitchen table in the world, Husky pup perched on a chair next to him. At one point, Belichick got up and left the room with New England on the clock. On the clock! The dog remained, staring intently at the screen, apparently ready to send in the Patriots’ third round choice with a flick of its paw.
*Family members wandering in and out. Little kids wearing team gear were adorable. But watch out for those teenagers. Tennessee coach Mike Vrabel’s son made it on national TV while taking a crap in an adjoining bathroom with the door left conveniently open — a coup worthy of enshrinement in the photobomb hall of fame. To say nothing of the bet with his buds he most certainly won.
But the players stole the show. The NFL set up cameras in the homes of all the top prospects. There they were in their living rooms — pizza boxes and soda cans on coffee tables, ratty couches, stained carpet, curtains from the 70’s, surrounded by immediate family, most of them Black, waiting to realize a lifetime dream. And the reactions when they were picked — hugs, tears, high fives, one father falling on the floor — all of it genuine, nothing contrived. The realization for people who have never had much of anything that everything was about to change. Parents proud of their kids. Kids grateful to their parents.
As a bonus, occasionally someone’s smoking-hot girlfriend made it into the family gathering. Of course I wasn't interested in any of that. But I did take note that a few of the moms weren’t bad either (looking at you, mother of the University of Oregon quarterback).
There will always be Jerry Joneses with us. But at least for one night, we were able to forget the virus and be genuinely happy for some real Americans. Another bit of hope.
