Thanks to Joe Sports Fan for the tremendous fan shots.

None of us at KSK were able to attend this weekend’s draft. But longtime Deadspin commenter SlickBomb had the testicular fortitude to get up at o’dark thirty to go wait in line at 5AM for the draft. Here, he provides us with a photo diary/KSK merchandise infomercial. Big thanks to SlickBomb for this. Judging by some of the photos, he may have Parkinson’s Disease. We wish him a speedy recovery.

Read Part 1 HERE and Part 2 HERE. Click on the pictures to magically embiggen them.

Inside the main foyer of Radio City Music hall. There were three levels of seating, and my seats were in the way back of the third level. Thinking this was lame, I snuck into the VIP seats which were much closer to the action. The ushers, all very highly trained I’m sure, checked my tickets and said I was in the right place. I was then told to get on the courtesy line for gift bags. Every person sitting in the VIP section was given a gift bag, courtesy of the NFL and its various sponsors. Because some of you, I know, are degenerate NFL fanatics desperate for even the tiniest of teats of league info to suckle on, I’ve taken pictures of the schwag.

The contents contain a copy of the ESPN draft magazine (still wrong), a set of Topps 2007 football trading cards, a special NFL packet of even more NFL draft info, and a portable radio with batteries so VIP’s could listen to the coverage via closed circuit radio. This was about the only useful thing in there. There were also a pack of cheese doodles (I was DESPERATELY looking for Stephen A. Smith when I saw these, unfortunately, to no avail) and a small pack of M&M’s. Not pictured due to hunger.

Inside the packet were the top five players at every position according to NFL network, and a contest to see if you can get all the right picks in order. Because of all the trading in the first round, this of course, is impossible to get completely right.

The inside of Radio City Music Hall was (and is, I guess) very dark, so pictures do not come out that well. On one hand, the low-light setting takes the clearest pictures, but on the other hand, the pictures were so dark you could hardly see anything. Taking a photo from a distance with a flash causes the picture to be extremely blurry, especially without the aid of a tripod, and considering they took away my video camera, chances are pretty good the tripod would be a no-go.

The ESPN table was right to my left side, and I was ten feet away from Chris Berman and the gang. I tried to start up a “Leather! Leather! ” chant, but most of the people just didn’t get it. If you can believe it, YWM,L is still obscure. What is notable is that Berman and crew are essentially staring right at the 1st mezzanine… if someone daring or creative could sneak in a banner and put it over the railing, Boomer would have to look at it. For nine straight hours.

The unmistakable hair and face of Mel Kiper Jr. It’s even more remarkable in person. I guarantee you he pulls ho’s with the pompadour.

Do you see this blurry fuzz? This is Keyshawn Johnson. He was taking a moment to himself before he had to go on TV with ESPN. I went up to him, and was like “Keyshawn, I just wanted to tell you that I was a huge fan of yours when you were with the Jets, even though you essentially called Wayne Chrebet a fag, and were the most me-centric player perhaps in the history of their sorry franchise. Did I also forget to mention that your obnoxious antics were the blueprint for the Terrell Owens’ of the NFL to follow?” OK, I only said the first part. But he was happy to see a fan, gave me a high-five and was really friendly. Then some older white dude in a suit said “So what, does that mean you’re not a fan now?” Keyshawn answered “Naw man, he was just telling me how he used to watch me back in the day.” Thanks for getting my back, Keyshawn, and a hearty “Fuck you” to the old guy in the suit. This dude was doing the fan-athlete equivalent of cockblocking. Can we make up a term for this? Let’s call it “Jockblocking.”

After this, I got bored, so I tried to further press my luck and sneak into the press-only section. An usher wondered away from her post to give me a chance to sneak on in. All the press guys have laptops, and were religiously checking their fantasy baseball teams. Further in the pit are the actual team representatives. I got the above shot of the Giants table — thanks for Eli Manning, shitheads.

Dr. Z was a funny guy. First he was talking to a very cute, blonde, press girl (I’m sure the Flaming Redhead would not be pleased) and then he was yakking it up with another senior member of the press. I eventually had to butt my nose in and ask for a picture. I was respectful and deferential, calling him sir several times.

He said, gruffly, “I don’t like sir. Call me a different title.”
“Dr.” I asked?
“I was thinking magistrate, baron, etc.”

I’m blocking out my eyes because it makes me look less gay, although I wasn’t successful. I asked where Peter King was (getting a PK picture with the Sex Cannon t-shirt might put me in the Hall of Fame for internet nerd-dom) but he said that he didn’t see him around. Right after I left, Zimmerman and Bert Sugar started up a conversation. Like always, Sugar was chewing on an unlit cigar. Before I had time to cruise around, looking for King, I was busted for being in the press area without credentials. This was OK because the draft was about to start.

These are the potential number one overall picks being introduced on stage by Roger Goodell. Brady Quinn got booed like he had already been picked by the Jets. The fans hated this guy. Quinn seemed to take it all in stride, but I wonder how hard you’d have to push someone like that until he snaps a la Ryan Leaf. I’ll give it half a season. Enjoy him, Browns!

My ill-gotten seats were sitting right next to Jamarcus Russell’s family. I didn’t know who they were. I asked a kid sitting with them who they were here to see, and he said “We’re with Jamarcus.” As in, Jamarcus-period. Apparently, Russell’s already at the point where he has one name, a la Bono, Cher, and Madonna. Probably not good company. When he was picked #1, the family was screaming, and holding up their fingers like grade school cheerleaders. The large gentleman closest to me was bawling like he would never have to work again. Oh wait…

This was Strahan being interviewed. I tried to listen to questions as closely as I can, but I didn’t pick up any questions about “shrew, whore, bitch of a wife,” “gay rumors,” “dentistry,” or “coach so old fashioned he makes Vince Lombardi look like Mike Martz.”

HOLYFUCKINGSHIT Rex Grossman! I immediately tried to get into the press area, and was rebuffed quickly, but surprisingly not violently. I said to the press people that my friends and I made Rex a t-shirt and I wanted to give it to him in person. The usher said, “I want to have a nice dinner with him but it’s not going to happen.” A nice dinner? What are you, Leo DiCaprio in Catch Me If You Can? Thanks for the memories, cocksucker. I asked a second usher how I could get backstage, and he said I can try and ask back at 44 stage entrance on 51st street. Access denied there too. Supposedly if you went outside, the draft wouldn’t let you in, but they let me back in because they’ve been doing this sort of shit all day.

That’s all the pictures I have. Now bits and pieces without pictures:

The very front of the line at the ticket window looked like Grateful Dead concert had just left town. There was garbage everywhere. Empty bottles of booze, empty boxes of pizza and nachos, and don’t forget the always charming urine in a Gatorade bottle! According to what I heard, some people camped out the night in front of the ticket window as early as 9:00 the previous night. NFL Draft 2007—Who Wants It More??

I met an Asian kid in the VIP who said he was Norm Chow’s nephew. When I asked him how his uncle felt about Vince Young being on the cover of Madden 2008, the kid just laughed. Worth mentioning…

When I was in VIP, I stood right next to new commish Roger Goodell just as he passed. Because he’s so new, it took me a second to recognize him. He was a shorter guy, but young looking, and gave me the vibes of Napoleon who just crowed himself emperor for life. David Stern-like, actually. I asked him “How many games will the NFL suspend a player for Jaywalking?” but he either coolly ignored me, or pegged me for future assassination. I’m sort of expecting to get kidnapped, and then being the snuff-guy for Drew-style animal kill porn. I was this close to getting a picture with him.

Also near Goodell at nearly the same with was ESPN NFL simpleton Mort Anderson. I asked him for a picture too, but he said that “We can’t do pictures until after we’re done.” Now, this is horseshit. After doing nine-something hours of draft coverage, you’re not going to do pictures, this fucker just wanted to get rid of me. So Mort—fuck you. I hope your son gets eaten alive by a crazed Arkansas football fan for missing a snap in a preseason game.

The Schrutebag was also there. If you take a look at the picture of the stage and the press area, he was stationed on the far right hand side just off the page. I wanted to get a picture with him, thinking that it’d be funny to make my fingers into the shape of a gun while pointing them at his smiling face. “Hey Herd,” I said, “can I get a picture?” He turned around to me and mouthed the words “I’m on live.” Oooops!

Brady Quinn might have gotten booed his introduction, but the place went wild for him when he was actually picked. The feeling of anxiety was palpable in Radio City, and as much of a fruitcake we all thought Quinn was, it was tough with those ESPN cameras always on him asking how he felt about losing millions of dollars. Quinn looked genuinely happy, and ready to hold out for as big of a contract as he can. Speaking of which, all those flashbulbs you see on TV when the draft picks arrive on stage? They’re strobe lights. Seriously.

–SlickBomb

Huge thanks to Mr. Bomb for his fearless work this weekend. It beat the hell out of one of us actually getting off our asses and attending. Score one for laziness!

None of us at KSK were able to attend this weekend’s draft. But longtime Deadspin commenter SlickBomb had the testicular fortitude to get up at o’dark thirty to go wait in line at 5AM for the draft. Here, he provides us with a photo diary/KSK merchandise infomercial. Big thanks to SlickBomb for this. Judging by some of the photos, he may have Parkinson’s Disease. We wish him a speedy recovery.

Read Part 1 HERE. Up now: A cornucopia of fans get their hands on the Internet’s hottest schwag. Click on any of the pics to see a bigger version.

Three fans of sub-par teams. Also funny? Outside of their appearance? The fact that but a few hours later the Raiders fan’s jersey would be out of date.

I wasn’t the only one a fan of KSK’s merch. Every time someone gave it a look it got more than a polite laugh:

The back of their shirts read “Anybody BUT Quinn!” It gets me even now.

A Giants fan covering his Strahan style gap-tooth, and a Bengals fan not playing cornhole.

The draft attracts all kids, but these guys were the freakshow’s freakshow.*

These guys loved not only the shirt, but the name of the website.

These guys were fans as well. KSK’s taking over the world.

It’s good to see what’s Lattimer’s been up to after his time at ESU. Also, the stuff in the brown bag? A 20 oz. can of King Cobra. You stay classy, Raiders fans.

“Now, act like your GM just chose the 4th WR in just as many years.”

A father-son Raiders fan duo. The Dad was convinced that if Rich Gannon stayed healthy in 2003, the Raiders were Superbowl bound. Just pure comedy.

Bills fans, rockin’ the shocker, not enjoying the J.P. Losman experience.
*I tease, but these were actually some pretty interesting people. They are the stereotypical “cool” aunts and uncle of Wisconson (now Browns’) OL Joe Thomas. They both came in from Badger territory to support of Joe, and to enjoy the city for the weekend. I got to speak with them again when they also snuck into the VIP section. Very, proud, happy, and nice people.

Thanks, Slick. Up next: Part 3: Actually INSIDE the draft! Hooray!

Man, my hair looks great. I mean, I think it looks really good. I used some product, but not a lot. I really worked it into the ends. Gives it a nice sheen. It looks playful, yet serious all at once. I think teams will get a really good message from this hair. I’m a matinee idol, but I’m also one of the guys. And that’s important. God, what a great day. I can’t wait to be a Raider. I’ve always wanted to turn a franchise around. I wonder if Jerry Porter likes to play Ultimate. I bet we could really connect if we played some Ultimate together.

With the first pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Oakland Raiders select JaMarcus Russell.

What? Oh, man. Oh, that is their loss, man. I mean, Condon told me they were planning on taking that guy, but I didn’t actually BELIEVE him. But I guess it makes sense. Everyone in Oakland is black, so they needed a black QB. I get that. That’s a very progressive attitude, and I support it. God, my hair looks great. I wish I had remembered my concealer today. I wonder if Mr. Davis noticed the blemishes. I thought they gave me a really rugged sort of look. I should have brought my concealer. Shit. Oh well, guess I’m headed to Detroit.

With the second pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Detroit Lions select Calvin Johnson.

Oh, man. Really? No, no. That’s okay. I understand that. They have Jon Kitna already, and he’s a good Christian. I guess I’m going to Cleveland. Man, they’re gonna go crazy for my bear… uh, girlfriend in Cleveland. No one in Cleveland is this blonde. Man, she is BLONDE. Guys like blondes, right? Am I right on that? I made sure she dyed it SUPER blonde. God, she’s almost like an albino. That’s a good look. Very Finnish. Man, my hair looks good. Hello, Cleveland! Hello, Cleveland!

With the third pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns select Joe Thomas.

Hello? Cleveland? Man, what’s happening? Is it the Virginia Tech pin? Was that too transparent? God, my hair looks so good. Kyan Douglas did it himself. I don’t get this. Joe Thomas doesn’t have great hair. He’s not even here! He’s fishing!

Oh God, that’s it! He went fishing! That’s, like, what guys do! Oh man, he’s so smart! By, like, saying he wasn’t interested in going to the draft, that made him look tough. I totally should have skipped the draft to get my legs waxed. Or go hunting. Definitely go hunting. That’s the right move. Uh oh, here comes Suzy Kolber. Okay, act dignified. You’re going into broadcasting 15 years from now, Quinn. Get your polish down now!

Okay, that went well. Maybe Tampa will take me.

With the fourth pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Tampa Bay Bucs select Gaines Adams.

Maybe not. Maybe the Redskins will. If anyone knows star power, it’s Mr. Snyder. I had dinner with him twice. I had the miso-glazed cod. I think it went really well.

With the sixth pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Washington Redskins select LaRon Landry.

I should have ordered the porterhouse.

With the seventh pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Minnesota Vikings select Adrian Peterson.

It’s the hair. I think the hair has scared people off. I think it looks TOO good. Like, if my hair looks this good, then maybe it would foster resentment in the locker room? But it looks GREAT!

Shit, you know what it is? It’s the vest. I had the vest sized one size too small. I really thought it look more manly if I were just bursting right out of it. That was an error. God, how could I have been so dumb? Clearly, I should have worn a jacket. The brown silk on the back is exposed! It’s not supposed to be exposed! Gah!

Okay Brades, just settle down. It’s clear now. We’re going to Miami. This is good. It’s a great organization. And Miami is a perfect fit! The whole scene down on South Beach is really faboo. Okay, I’m excited. So I lost a little money. People in Miami will understand this hair, and what it’s all about. I feel good. I’m gonna try and smile now, even though I can usually only manage a half-smirk, just like every lacrosse player ever born. All right, sunny Miami! Here I come!

With the ninth pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Miami Dolphins select…

Yes?

Ted Gi…

I can’t see. I think I’m blind. Is this really happening? Can I get a Dasani? I think I’m having a hot flash. Oh God, here comes Suzy again. Oh, God. Man, she’s got the same look on her face that she gets when someone’s been carted off the field wearing a halo. I can’t face her… I have to get away… I have to… I have to… GO DANCING.

(leaves, goes dancing)

God, that felt great. Sometimes, you just have to go dance. It’s so freeing. Where are we now?

The New York Jets have made a trade.

Oooooh! Delicious! The Big Apple. Nice. Brades, I think you and I are gonna be just fine. I think I’ll live in DUMBO. That’s a very in neighborhood right now. John Norris from MTV lives there, I think.

With the fourteenth pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the New York Jets select…

Hoo boy, here we go!

…Darrelle Revis.

Who the fuck is that? No, I’m NOT fine, thank you. I am now officially PISSED OFF. Okay? I did everything right except beat ranked opponents. Look at my hair! I didn’t get this hair styled just to be a second rounder! Ridiculous. Nobody else coordinated like I did, god dammit. I want some resolution here.

(phone rings)

Condon? Hey, ‘sup. What? The Ravens want to trade up for me? Really? You know what? That’s perfect. And you know why? Because none of this would have happened if those fucking Browns had just picked me. Fuckers. Fuck Cleveland. There. I said it. Fuck ‘em. They don’t rock SHIT. You don’t deserve this hair, Cleveland. You’re just Columbus on a fucking lake. Okay? Look at me! I’m showing some fire! I’m a competitor, God dammit! And now I get to go to the Ravens and torture you Clevelanders for the rest of your fucking existence. The irony is a delight. You’ll pay, Cleveland. Brades is gonna haunt you.

The Cleveland Browns have made a trade.

Pfft. Whatever. They probably traded up to draft a tater tot or some other inanimate object. Fuck you Cleveland.

With the twenty-second pick in the 2007 NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns select Brady Quinn.

Oh. Uh, goodie. Um… I love Cleveland! I really do! Always have! I’m really excited. No, I really am. Joe Thomas. Dennis Northcutt. It’s great. How my hair? Is it okay? I hope this hat doesn’t ruin it.

None of us at KSK were able to attend this weekend’s draft. But longtime Deadspin commenter SlickBomb had the testicular fortitude to get up at o’dark thirty to go wait in line at 5AM for the draft. Here, he provides us with a photo diary/KSK merchandise infomercial. Big thanks to SlickBomb for this. Judging by some of the photos, he may have Parkinson’s Disease. We wish him a speedy recovery.

Who is that gangly cracka?

I got up at 3:00 in the morning the day of the draft. It took me an hour to get all my shit together, and get to the 1 train from the Upper East Side. Because some delays with the train, I got to Radio City Music hall at 5:00 on the button, and the line was already three blocks long and seven people deep. Give credit RE: ESPN/NFL hype machine. According to the guys waiting on line with me, the line had never been that bad before.

I don’t remember when the gates opened up to take tickets. But I’d say it was about a 2-3 hour wait from where I was standing. It was light out by the time I arrived at the window, and I was one of the last people able to get tickets. All those people waiting behind me for three hours? Access denied. Early bird catches the worm, bitches. Better luck next year, and good luck getting those three hours of your life back.

As a consolation, the NFL set up an NFL fan-fest just next to the Time-Life Building about three blocks away, and invited fans to participate. “Fan-fests” at events like these basically mean “ridiculous amounts of product placement.” When the thing wasn’t even set up yet, I was able to get some pictures before it started to swarm with tired, pissed off fans.

The front of an inflatable obstacle course, which was for allowing for fat Bills fans to bounce around as fast as they can, leading I’m sure to considerable hilarity.


The back of the Sprint NFL-mobile truck. They were setting it up when I first arrived, but I asked if some other fans and I could get a sneak preview. Inside there was a mini highlight reel of plays filmed throughout the NFL season. Conspicuously absent? Marty’s yearly choke job, Chad Johnson’s end-zone antics, Randy Moss mailing it two games after the season, and Shawne Merriman doing his needle dance. Visitors even got to call an NFL play that was recorded and is presumably now on the Sprint Mobile website, although I didn’t check. If you want to hear me, search for William X, as I chose not to use my slave name.

Did you know Hummer sponsored the draft? True story. It’s funny, because I really couldn’t tell.

This was a tent that would later give out free copies of the ESPN draft magazine which ended up, predictably, being often very wrong. On the right, you can see actual real journalists doing the exact same thing I’m doing, but with better equipment, nicer clothes, and infinite times more money! +1 to anyone who recognizes him.

I also nabbed a few of these things at fan fest. When I saw this, I thought it was a 25 dollar gift card at Burger King. I took like 10. I was looting that booth like it post-Katrina N’awlins. As it turns out, though, it just might be 25 dollars—you have to go onto the website to be sure. Seriously not cool.

Coming up: Part 2, where NFL fans frighten and sadden us.

Name: Adrian “Gap Filler” Peterson

Height: Tall

Weight: Svelte

Fleet of Foot?: Walks on water–and it’s not a trick.

Hometown: Palestine (/…backs away slowly…), Texas (/runs for life)

Urine Sample: High levels of old lady calcium chocolates

Stool Sample: CHUNKY!

Criticisms: He’s no Adrian Peterson

Mainstream Comparison: Shaun Alexander? My ass! If anything he’s like Deuce McAllister when he came out. They have the same size, same upright style, and same health concerns (for the record I thought Deuce was the best player in that draft…stupid LT). Sorry to go all analytical on you right there, let me make it up to you with a picture of a pinup on a donkey.

KSK Comparison: Charles Rogers

Adrian’s Comparison: “I would say LT, just as far as vision and cuts and how he runs the ball.” (ed. note: [cough]BULLSHIT[/cough])

Who’s Interested: Radiologists everywhere

Who Will Take Him: Buzzsaw. Why? Why the fuck not, that’s why.

Ambition: Double last year’s income; overcome vertigo.

Story ESPN Will Shove Down Your Throat: He was soooo good four years ago!

Immediate Impact: I kid around but he’s a fucking stud. Seriously, he fucks horses for money.

Down the Road: Crippling arthritis

NOTE: To prepare you for the draft, we’re having a light bukkake day today. So stick around for multiple posts.

Welcome to the latest installment of KSK’s newest series, Better Know a Draft Pick. We’ll lead up to April’s draft by giving you all the pertinent info you’ll need on the league’s newest disappointments-to-be.

Name: Adam Gaines Gaines Adams

Height: Tall
Body Type: Longer than the SG’s diary
Speed: Good enough

Urine Sample: Shwaggy
Stool Sample: Soft and lacking bulk

Criticisms: Soft and lacking bulk

Mainstream Comparison: Jevon Kearse
KSK Comparison: Simeon Rice - the douchebaggery

Who’s Interested: The camera guy in the green room

Who Will Take Him: The Vikings. He’s the one piece that could make all the difference between a two-win season and a three-win season.

Honors: People have been riding his jock for quite some time. His CSTV bio tells us that Gaines was named “…first-team preseason All-American according to Playboy, Lindy’s, and Phil Steele.” Now this is just a guess but I’d say that’s a nudie magazine, a strip club, and an aging porn star. Not too shabby.

Story ESPN Will Shove Down Your Throat: He admitted to smoking marijuana so now we get to hear all of their fucking analysts talk about weed more than yours truly. Fuck steroids, binge drinking, and unprotected sex with skanky co-eds–these Kottonmouth Kings are a bunch of midnight tokers! (multi-generational musical fun!)

Ambitions: Doin’ coke, drinkin’ beers. Drinkin’ beers, beers beers. Rollin’ fatties, smokin’ blunts. Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts.
Fav Hangout: In between a convenience store and a video store

Fav Food: Whatever’s special
Biggest Fear: Evil Bong

Immediate Impact: Automaic insertion into the league’s substance abuse program will not stop him from knocking the shit out of quarterbacks in his rookie year (Goodell: HGH isn’t a substance if I can’t see it!).

Down the Road:

Pray for him.

Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Seattle Seahawks.

Tim Ruskell, General Manager: Thanks for coming, gents. You all are the backbone of this team, the respective hearts of the offense and defense. In order to help figure out where we need to add youth, can you all state how old you’ll be at the start of this season?

Julian Peterson, OLB: 29.

Patrick Kerney, DE: 30.

Ruskell: Wait. Aren’t you a speed rusher?

Kerney: Yup.

Ruskell: And you’re 30?

Kerney: Yessir.

Ruskell: All year? No chance of getting younger?

Kerney: I feel young at heart.

Ruskell: What was the deal we gave you this offseason?

Kerney: Six years, $39.5 million.

Ruskell: Good Christ! What was I thinking?!?

Peterson: Sir, we needed someone to replace Grant Wistrom, who was a year older. And much slower. Also, I believe you were on quaaludes that day.

Ruskell: Ah yes. That takes me back. Say, whatever happened to Wistrom? Class act. I loved his Halloween party.

Yes, that’s Grant Wistrom.
Peterson: Retired, sir.

Ruskell: Good. Fucker was dead weight on this sinking ship. [pause] Anyway. Carry on, the rest of you. Ages.

Matt Hassebeck, QB: Uh, 32.

Shaun Alexander, RB: 30.

Deion Branch, WR: 28.

Darrell Jackson, WR: 28.

Walter Jones, OT: 33.

Mack Strong, FB: 36.

Ruskell: Fuck. My. Ass. Nobody’s younger?

Hasselbeck: Sir, many of the players on defense and our offensive line are younger.

Ruskell: Name one known outside the state of Washington. Besides Lofa Tatupu.

Hasselbeck: Ummm… Kelly Jennings?

Ruskell: Fuck you. You’re in the Asshole Box. No talking, five minutes. Got it?

Hasselbeck: [nods, hangs head]

Ruskell: Okay, so who should we take for our first round pick?

Branch: Uh, that’s me.

Ruskell: Why would I draft you? You’re already on the team.

Branch: No sir, last year you traded your first round pick to New England for me.

Ruskell: Oh, shit. Forgot about that. Must be nice to finally be paid, though, huh?

Branch: Yes, sir. And how.

Ruskell: I met [Patriots' personnel director Scott] Pioli last offseason. He actually picked up loose change off the street. He went to the bathroom while we were figuring out the tip for lunch.

Branch: I believe it, sir.

Ruskell: Right. So, second round. Let’s see… number 55 overall. What are our biggest needs?

Alexander: Tight end, offensive line, tight end, and we could use a little depth in the secondary.

Strong: I am fucking ancient.

Alexander: Fullback, too.

Ruskell: Does anyone have any good news for me?

Kerney: You’ll free up a lot of cap room when you cut me in two years.

Branch: I saved 15% by switching to Geico car insurance.

Ruskell: We’re not getting anyone from this draft, are we?

Everyone: No.

Ruskell: Looks like I’m gonna need to make a move. Guess who’s getting traded?

Jackson: …me?

Ruskell: Ding ding ding. Pack your bags, vestigial wideout.

Advertising agencies are split into four main departments: Account people, who deal with clients; creative people, who write the ads (I do this); planners, whose role remains unclear to me; and media people, who buy the media where the ads will air. Media people are the ones who get all the free shit from networks and publishers, since they’re the ones who determine where millions of dollars in client money will be spent. They get free tickets to concerts, sporting events, movie premieres, huge parties, etc. One guy I knew even got a weekend at Formula 1 driving school courtesy of Sports Illustrated. Fucker. It’s a pretty sweet gig.

I started out in advertising in New York not as a creative, but as an Assistant Account Executive. That was my formal title. The real title should have been Bitch, because my job was to schedule meetings, set up PowerPoint presentations, do boringass research, and get yelled at by everyone. I EARNED that hour I spent looking at porn on the web every day, and no one can tell me any different. Occasionally, the media people would throw me a bone and give me tickets to some shit they didn’t want to go to (or they had tickets to something even BETTER).

In 1999, the NFL launched its own magazine called NFL Insider. Never heard of it? That’s because I think it lasted a grand total of one year. Reading this magazine was like reading a 100-page version of those “Special Advertising Sections” that litter your SI every week (“State Farm Presents: A History Of Golfing Excellence!”). It was a piece of shit.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that they had a launch party for the book the night before the NFL Draft, and all the major draftees would be there, along with current and former players. And Paul in media (who was Finnish) had given me two tickets. I’ll be perfectly honest: the idea of meeting NFL draftees and players was cool, but since I was making only $25,000 a year at the time, I was far more psyched about the prospect of free food and an open bar. The only way you get free food living in Manhattan is if you’re a woman, or if you get an invite to a party like this one. And since I was vaginally disadvantaged, the latter was my only option. No way I was missing this.

The 1999 Draft, if you recall, was the biggest QB draft since 1983. At least, that was the hype. Five QB’s went in the Top 12 picks, and I’m betting you can name all of them: Tim Couch, Donovan McNabb, Akili Smith, Daunte Culpepper, and Cade McNown (who was Rex Grossman before Rex Grossman was Rex Grossman). This was also the Ricky Williams draft. So we’re talking about major (alleged) star power here. My plan was simple: get drunk enough to work up the courage to go up and say hi to as many of them as I could.

The party took place at the Theater at Madison Square Garden, which is also where the draft is held. I brought a friend who was a fellow Viking fan. We immediately headed for the bar. I asked for a Dewar’s on the rocks, then asked for another as I was drinking the first. We hit the buffet. There was a smoked salmon. I took one of those tiny squares of pumpernickel bread and piled about six slices on top (plus one caper). I dipped shrimp two at a time. I swallowed the free cashews whole. If they had had pate, I would have smeared all over myself. Piggish behavior? Fuck you. I was hungry. Servers went around with mushroom puff pastry bites. I stationed myself by the kitchen door, took two at a time, and ordered the server to stay so I could deposit my crumpled napkin on the tray. After a few minutes, the servers were actively trying to avoid me. I don’t blame them.

I had a solid six scotches on the rocks within an hour. I kept a beer in my free hand just in case the interval between new scotches was too long. We took a look around. There was Leonard Marshall (wearing a game jersey, which was odd). There was Kerry Collins (drinking!). And there was Boomer Esiason, the evening’s host. Also, up on the dais (no hoochies) were all five QB’s plus Ricky Williams. They were essentially put up on display for everyone to look at. They were talking to each other, and it was clear that drunken retards like me were not to go up and talk to them. At least, not yet. I nudged my buddy.

-Wanna go say hi to Boomer Esiason?
-You do it.
-No.
-Well, I’m not doing it.
-Let’s drink more.

We drank more. Esiason got up on the stage and went into some rehearsed presentation about the introduction of the magazine. We drank even more. By the time Esiason was introducing the draftees, I was so drunk I did that thing where you just stare off into space for minutes at a time before snapping back to reality to say something idiotic (“Wait, did they have brie?”). When Esiason finished, he invited guests to come up and mingle with the draftees. Upon hearing this, Ricky Williams, Couch and McNown immediately bolted, stranding Smith, McNabb, and Culpepper on the stage to deal with the groundlings. I was ready to be “on”.

-I’mma say hi to those motherfuckers.
-Okay.

Going up and talking to a famous person is basically the same as going up and talking a beautiful woman. Except you aren’t trying to get laid. Or are you? There’s an inherent awkwardness involved. You, the normal person, would like to meet someone famous so you can tell your friends, and perhaps have some of their magical African-American athletic ability rub off on you. Whereas the celebrity, understandably, would just like to leave and go somewhere to relax. If only one person in a conversation has an inherent interest in it, a natural exchange can’t possibly emerge. And I was about to deliver hard proof.

-Hey, Donovan!
-Hi! (shakes my hand, smiles, seems incredibly nice)
-Man, I just wanted to tell you, I hope the Vikings draft you tomorrow.
-Thanks, man. (What else could he say?)

One down. Two to go!

-Hey, Daunte!
-Hello! (shakes my hand, smiles, seems incredibly nice)
-(exhaling drunken salmon breath) Man, I just wanted to tell you, I hope the Vikings draft you tomorrow.
-Thanks, man. (My prophecy proved true!)

And finally:

-Hey, uh… Achille
-Hey (shakes my hand, looks off into distance, possibly at the exits)

The truth was, I didn’t want the Vikings to draft any of these men. I wanted the Vikings to draft Lamar King that year. In retrospect, that was probably a bad judgment. I’m quite sure all three of these men found me to be completely and utterly braindead. My tie was off and rolled up in my chest pocket, so it looked like I had one tit. My shirt was untucked. And back then I had a policy of not wearing underwear any time I wore a suit, so there was a good chance the head of my cock was readily visible through my trousers (limp, not erect). Yet all three men were polite, courteous, and nice enough to give me the time of day. So I’ll always look back at them fondly.

As for Williams, Couch, and McNown, well they can go fuck themselves. Especially McNown, who just LOOKED like an asshole. Probably the red hair.

The Vikings ended up drafting Culpepper (who was very good until a spectacular flameout) and Demetrius Underwood (who proved quite adept at attempted self-decapitation). Later that night, I went to Dorrian’s on the Upper East, sang along to current hits from The New Radicals and Len, and threw up in a back alley. And that’s why the 1999 NFL Draft will always be my favorite draft of all time.

Name: Calvin “Big” Johnson

Height: Tall
Weight: Don’t stand on the tracks when the train’s coming through.

40 Time: 4.33 seconds…uphill…in his girl’s UGGs
Broad Jump: Cleared 11 broads plus 3 dames and a lass.

Urine Sample: Gold smelt
Stool Sample: Smells like Cinnabon at the airport

Mainstream Comparison: Roy Williams
KSK Comparison: A light-skinned Jesus of Nazareth

Who Wants Him: Don’t kid yourselves, Matt Millen and Al Davis are sporting a combined three inches of petrified wood just thinking about him.

Who Will Take Him: Tampa (but only if he agrees to play quarterback)

Hobbies: Pissing on Chevy logos/defensive backs

Favorite Food: Stem cells

Favorite Quotation: A young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food.

Mortal Enemy: Hack Man

Story ESPN Will Shove Down Your Throat: He spent last summer building shit holes in a South American shithole.

Immediate Impact: Remember Randy Moss? (it’s ok if you don’t, just click here). Now imagine a him with a good attitude and without Micheal Ray Richardson’s lawyers on retainer.

Down the Road: After a record-shattering career in the NFL he fades into Boliva. He could be the first person enshrined in Canton and Saint Peter’s Basilica (as long as PK and Pastabelly are cool with it).