[DOOR FLIES OPEN]

The morning of April 28th was cloudy and cold, with a dampness in the air that made it feel much colder than the 40 degrees the forecasters predicted it would be. The people of the village began to gather outside the Auditorium Theatre on Michigan Avenue around ten o’clock.

In previous years the lottery all took place on one extended day. But now, on the road again from its former home, there were so many sponsorship opportunities available to the 27 year-round NFL sponsors – like how Dannon’s Oikos Triple Zero yogurt presents “Draft Town” at Grant Park, or the Bud Light Draft Tavern – that the lottery now takes three days and this was simply the first of the three. In this village it was scheduled to start at 7:00 PM, not a time the citizens of the village particularly wanted, but the time chosen by the lottery master, as it best suited the faceless sponsors that were providing the free entertainment to the masses while their time approached.

The candidates for selection arrived first. School was recently over for the year but it did not matter since they were “student athletes”, accustomed to not attending classes for weeks at a time and, if they went to schools like North Carolina, not even writing the tests for the courses they were supposedly attending. Jalen Ramsey had already stuffed his pockets with cookies from the buffet table, and the other young men soon followed his example, taking as much as they could eat for their college programs rarely fed them this well. DeForest Buckner and Ezekiel Elliott made a great pile of shrimp tails in the center of the table, yelling loudly at Taylor Decker to “stay away from their damn food!”

Soon the league officials began to gather. They stood together, away from the players in their holding pen, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. They wandered out to the stage, to marvel at their handiwork.

The draft was conducted — as were the Combine, the Hall of Fame induction, the Thursday Night home openers — by Roger Goodell, who had time and energy to devote to such dog-and-pony shows. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the football business, and people were superficially sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. But deep down even he knew he was a national disgrace, on par with the baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis. But whereas Landis colluded with the owners to keep all blacks out of baseball, Goodell’s job would one day be to conspire to keep just one black man out of the NFL.

When he arrived at the auditorium, carrying the black wooden box of #1 Draft Pick hats,

available for sale to the gathered masses, he was greeted by the not-unfamiliar chorus of boos that had become the hallmark of being a pro sports commissioner in the 21^st Century. “Thanks for the great Chi-town welcome,” he said to the gathered masses that ignored his platitudes, wondering who-in-the-hell told him to say “Chi-town”. “Let’s have a great Draft!”

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Goodell declared the lottery open. There were the lists to confirm of the Draft order and the team representatives charged with making those selections known to the commissioner. There was the proper testing of the audio & visual equipment; this Draft was going to be broadcast by NFL Media, comprised of NFL Network, NFL Films, NFL.com, NFL Now, NFL Mobile from Verizon and NFL RedZone, and coverage of the 2016 NFL Draft was presented by Verizon, McDonald’s and Hyundai. Everything needed to be perfect for the sponsors before the cameras went live at 8:00PM Eastern time, despite the fact that they were in the Second City and in the Second City’s time zone. Roger Goodell might travel the country not caring where he is or whom he meets, but he operates in the only time zone that matters to him!

Mr. Goodell was very good at all this; in his made-to-order Brooks Brothers suit, he seemed very proper and important as he made small talk with the people around him, whose names he didn’t know because he didn’t need to know them. As he made his way into the draftees’ corral, he smiled awkwardly at the young men whose fate seemingly lay in his hands. He fought against showing any emotion, for if they thought he cared, they might think he had a personal stake in their success, which he did not. They were as-yet unaware that they were simply pieces of meat to him, well-dressed golems in an ever-expanding machine looking to dominate the North American sports scene using their labors.

As the players sat in their seats, he began his introduction. “Good evening fellows. Welcome to the 2016 Draft.” **the players applaud**  “I’m Roger Goodell, and I’m the one who will be calling your name out tonight,” as he began explaining the draft-night process to them. However, the players had been to so many award ceremonies and banquets so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. “Anyway,” he concluded, “I just want to call out your names to confirm your attendance and go over any pronunciations that might cause me to wreck your big night.”

He called out their names one by one, confirming they were on his list. “Apple?” “Here, sir.” “Bosa?” “Yo!”  “Butler?” “Here, sir.”  “Coleman?” “Conklin?” “Here, sir.” “Decker?” “Here, sir.”  “Doctson?” “Here, sir.”  “Dodd?” “Yessir.”  “Elliott? … Elliott?” “What?!” **nervous chuckles from most of the athletes** “That’s cute, Zeke. Goff?” “Here I am.” “Hargreaves?” “Here, sir.”  “Jack?” “Here, sir.”  “Jones?” “Here, sir.”  “Lawson?” “Here, sir.”  As he ran down the list, Goodell appreciated how many of these kids were already falling into line.

He continued. “Lee? Geez, how many more of you Ohio State guys are there going to be?” “Tons!” replied Darron Lee, followed by an “O-H-I-O!” from the five Ohio State players in attendance. “Settle down, fellas,” Goodell chided, followed by more names. “Keanu Neal?” “Here, sir.”  “Okay – I’m going to need some help with this one, ‘En-kem-ditch-eh’?” “That’s close, Mr. Goodell. It’s ‘Kim-dee-chee’, Nkemdiche.”  “Thanks, Robert,” Goodell said with a snicker. “I haven’t had one like yours since Ndamukong Suh. Let’s hope you’re not as kicky.” **everyone laughs**  “Anyway, let’s get back to it. “Ragland?” “Here, sir.”  “Ramsey?” “BOOM!”  “Reed?” “Here, sir.”  “Robinson?” “Here, sir.”  “Stanley?” “Right here, Mr. Goodell.”  “Treadwell?” “Here, sir.”

“Tunsil?… Tunsil?… Tun-SIL?! **exasperated tone** Laquon, please give Laremy a tap for me.” (Laquon Treadwell taps Laremy Tunsil on the shoulder. Tunsil pulls out his ear buds.) “Yeah?”  “Good enough; I already know how to pronounce your name… Finally, Carson Wentz?” “Present! (looks around his table) Man, it sucks always being last, right?!” (tries to high-five Jarran Reed; gets left hanging)

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Roger Goodell, holding his clipboard in the air, said, “All right, fellows. Now, this is the easy part. All you’ve got to do is sit here and wait for your name to be called. For some of you, it’s going to be a short wait. For others, well – let’s hope we can get you all sorted out tonight.” Myles Jack, always the trickster, blurted out, “but what about Tunsil? Can he wear his mask onstage?” and looked around for approval at his jibe. For a minute, no one moved, and then the commissioner said, “Well Myles, here’s hoping it happens for everyone tonight. As to your other point, far be it from me to comment on what someone does with their headgear.” (muffled groans eke out as Tunsil starts staring a hole through Myles Jack)  “Anyway, I’ve got to go start this dog & pony show, so sit back and enjoy yourselves, and I look forward to greeting each of you onstage sometime tonight.” **the players applaud**

The fans inside the auditorium grew restless.

They had driven from all corners of the country, and the league had been smart to segregate them into different sections. With rivalries in mind, they were careful to not sit fans from the same division or city in proximity to each other. The Dallas Cowboys contingent was kept far away from the fans of the New York Giants; the Niners fans were across the auditorium from the Raiders fans; the Ravens fans, by heritage & legacy were kept away from the Indianapolis fans; and everyone agreed the best place for the Patriots fans was at the back of the building, if only because “outside’ might have been seen as discriminatory. The Bears, Texans and Eagles fans dominated the front rows, which might at first have seemed strange but the myth of the Texans having fans ensured an empty section lay between the two NFC legacy teams. A cacophonic din hummed throughout the auditorium as the fans waited patiently for 7:00 PM Central time to arrive.

That din turned into a full-throated chorus of boos as Roger Goodell glided onto the stage, a howl that only got louder as he repeated the “Chi-town” moniker that someone told him to use because it would make him sound ‘local’ and not like some clown from upstate New York.

In the back room, the players grew anxious. Although there were fifteen declared quarterbacks available in the draft, it was fairly apparent who would be taken first and second, but the order of their choosing had yet to be confirmed. Two weeks before the draft, the Titans had traded their first-overall pick to the Rams, and declared their intentions to choose a quarterback. Eight days later, the Browns traded their pick to the Eagles, and said many of the same things the Rams did. So, on this night, it just remained to be seen which player each team would choose.

At exactly 7:05 Central Time, the congregation had their answer.

To another chorus of boos, Roger Goodell approached the microphone. “With the first pick in the 2016 NFL Draft,” Goodell started, immediately silencing the assembled heathens, “the Los Angeles Rams select… Jared Goff, Quarterback, California.”

“YEAH! FUCK YEAH!” screamed Goff, forgetting the cameras were on him. It had all been worth it – the lost summers; the late nights; unwashed Berkeley chicks – because now he was going to be a millionaire and play the game that he loved. Plus, he already had the NFL social media touch, expressing a level of brand whoring Adam Schefter could only dream of.

He ran out to the stage, barely pausing to collect his team hat from the production assistant at the stage entrance. He reached for Roger Goodell’s outstretched hand and shook it vigorously, and then they posed for what Goff hoped was the first of many times Roger Goodell would be handing him something.

After what seemed like an eternity, they separated. As Jared Goff walked off the stage, Roger Goodell walked back to his podium to pronounce, “The Philadelphia Eagles are now ‘on the clock’!” Back in the paddock, the players all puttered about. The big surprise was over; now all that remained was the other shoe to drop and then the rest of the players would go in whatever order popped up.

Carson Wentz sat at his table looking forlorn. He had wanted to be a Ram, probably more so than Goff. After all, Goff grew up in California, went to college in California, and was going to stay in California. What hardships had he faced? Wentz went to high school in Bismarck, North Dakota, and went to college in Fargo. It was cold all-the-fucking-time; why couldn’t he get to practice outside in t-shirts year-round? Goff had national brands backing him up. Who were his sponsors? Bobcat Equipment and Scheels Sporting Goods, both out of Fargo.

No; this was an injustice, and it didn’t help matters that he was likely going to be playing in front of the surliest fanbase in the NFL. “Christ,” he thought to himself, “they’re just going to be screaming ‘SHITHEELS!’ at me all the time, followed by a coy, ‘Oh, sorry – I guess I said that wrong’.” And so, as the clock ticked down to the inevitable conclusion, he awaited the sound that meant his professional future but resonated like nails on a chalkboard:

“With the second selection in the 2016 NFL Draft, the Philadelphia Eagles select… Carson Wentz, Quarterback, North Dakota State.”

From that point on, all Carson Wentz could hear was noise, which he assumed was coming from the assembled Eagles fans present in the front rows of the auditorium.

As he walked out to the stage, he put on his best face for Roger Goodell. He had heard how capricious the man was, and how he remembered any slight – real or imaginary. He knew he had a part to play in this whole spectacle, and so he did what he had to go. He posed with Goodell for the customary photograph,

and then posed on his own.

He was so wrapped up in not caring anymore that he never felt the first battery.

Carson Wentz was in the center of a cleared space by now, and he held his jersey out desperately as the aim of the Eagles fans improved. “It isn’t fair,” he thought. A battery hit him on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Rob Dunphy was in the front of the crowd of fans,

carrying a Wawa bag full of 9-volts and scream-singing “Fly Eagles Fly”. Others joined in, just as soon as they could pull their weapons out of the orifices where they had hidden them to avoid detection. He was an Eagle now, and had to be properly initiated into that fraternity. That was, after all, why these people had driven to Chi-town.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Carson Wentz screamed internally, and then they were upon him.