Don’t watch the NFL Draft unless you’re paid to do so

Don’t watch the NFL Draft unless you're paid to do so

Welcome to Deadspin’s The Sports Nihilist, where all is for naught and we are but accidental jolts of electrified meat stuck to the surface of a rock in an indifferent universe. Fuck you.

Is there anything more pointless than a meeting? It can be your 7 a.m. call every morning, a preshift talk before service, the NFL Draft, an all-team meeting, or a meeting to prep for a future meeting. Every machination of work should be solvable by email, a two-minute phone call, or Slack/Microsoft Teams. The notion that getting together to wait for your turn to talk will somehow help accomplish a goal is one of life’s greatest myths.

Extended talking serves no purpose. You don’t need to chat up the server before ordering your chicken fingers, and we don’t need the sports media equivalent of weathermen to walk us through each pick. I can’t wait for the next live look-in of the war room with a bunch of old white guys high-fiving each other on a job well-started.

I can understand going to the draft and the NFL’s monetization of it. Americans are always looking for an excuse to get drunk or make a buck. It’s really just a glorified meeting though. A way to make people in power feel important because they get to speak first and push talking points. We know the fucking rules, Rick. It’s a snake draft. Same as every year. Let’s get this over with. I have a New York strip to cauterize and drown in chimichurri.

So to watch the NFL Draft? Live on TV? Pick to pick as an arbitrary clock ticks down, serving more as a reminder for the analysts to move onto the next breakdown than as a buzzer for the GMs who knew what player they were drafting weeks ago? That shows a disregard for life that even a sports nihilist finds barbaric.

I remember a time before I learned that nothing matters, and found myself agonizing over Nebraska recruiting classes as if some five-star quarterback was going to stave off the incoming wave of bad football and program desolation. If only I could convey to you how liberating it is to stop caring about everything.

Let the results speak for themselves

Let the results speak for themselves. If you find yourself luckier than most, it probably has less to do with luck and good fortune than intelligence and physical beauty. On the opposite end, there’s a reason you keep getting passed over for the promotion, and you kind of gave away the game when you dipped your doughnut in ranch. The lesson in that is to take your victories where — and for as long as — you can get them because eventually youth and wit fade, and you die.

Could be tragically, could be peacefully, and it really isn’t up to you. Do you want to spend precious fleeting moments of cognition watching Mel Kiper and Mike Greenberg drone on about the New York Jets’ second-round pick? Or do you want to do literally anything else, and wait for the moment when Aaron Rodgers chews him out for the first time?

I had to cover the draft this weekend and on top of my many regrets, not knowing about the game Bitey was up there. I don’t even need a partner. Would’ve just chomped away at myself, self-immolation style, to make sure I’m awake for the New York Giants’ pick. And it would have served as a way to feel something after I soon realized how meaningless my life was. Do you know how many mock drafts I read to prepare for that? It was like reading 38,500 previews of a meeting’s minutes.

Here it says “Talk about synchronicity,” but the morning call rapidly devolved into everyone screaming at the GM, and Darrell threatening to quit. Show me where that was in any prospective itinerary. This meeting was supposed to be 30 minutes, and the only reason it didn’t go an hour and a half is because we all have another meeting to go to.

The draft goes downhill after Roger Goodell gets booed, and the festivities kick off with the annual jeering of the commissioner. So, do yourself a favor and skip the meeting. You can check the updates anywhere, but won’t reap the payoff for another year, maybe two.

For all we know, Elon Musk will have accidentally launched a chemical weapon into space by then, destroying the ozone, and the southern hemisphere. We’re one ecological disaster shy of the apocalypse, and you want to spend a weekend with Todd McShay, Booger McFarland, and Louis Riddick? God, I hope that doesn’t flash before your eyes when death comes for you. 

Original source here

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About the Author

Anthony Barnett
Anthony is the author of the Science & Technology section of ANH.