This was supposed to be the year. At the ripe old age of 30, the stars had lined up for me not to give a shit about the NFL Draft.
My alma mater, Ohio State, doesn't have a huge pool of prospects that I want to follow for their draft day narratives.
My pro team, the 49ers, don't really need much help in the draft. In fact, their first round pick from last year, A.J. Jenkins, probably did less than Tim Tebow did for the Jets. In fact he did. 0 catches, 0 yards.
My baseball team, the A's, are actually good (fingers crossed). Usually they're not good until later in the season, so for the first time in a long time, I'm watching mid-April baseball with some intensity.
On top of all that, my personal life is basically the standard montage of someone getting their shit together at about 75 minutes into a movie (Seth Rogan in Knocked Up, Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart, or basically this and that's Ben Koo Version 3.1).
This year, on my own accord, the NFL Draft was not going to commandeer up to 10-15 hours of my time.
And then it happened.no comments