Damn this garbage to hell

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Time is running out. And it's Roger Goodell's fault.

As if cracking down on players' drunken behavior wasn't enough (I remember when drinking and performing assorted criminal acts in public made you a man, not a felon), you now have to tinker with the most sacred and holy of sports institutions: the NFL draft. Go to hell.

The sacred day in April used to be among my most cherished. Though the frost still glistened on the special grass in my garden, the sun would be shining and the threat of summer would be right around the corner. I would turn on my television at precisely 11:55 EST, then eagerly consume morsels of misinformation spouted by a thinner and handsomer Chris Berman. I remember when there was no loud black man interfering with my television reception. Instead, there was that greasy-haired goblin who reminded me of that nerd from The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles. Mel Kiper.

As each player's name was called, I would meticulously write the name, position, school, team, height, weight, physical makeup, personality type, Wunderlich score, 40 time, combine rating, ACT score, sexual orientation (I think we know which way YOU leaned, Steve Emtman) and hair color in my notebook. I would smile as the parents hugged their young man and he strolled (in the case of offensive linemen, waddle) to the podium. Then, I would gloriously nap.

I would dream of Farrah Fawcett. Maybe Susan Sarandon. Definitely Bette Midler.

Fifteen minutes later, another name would grace my television screen, and I would be awake and alert. Then, another nap. Sometimes, I would go fishing between picks, and sometimes I would eat lunch in the backyard with the kids. But I never missed a damn selection, not once. It was the Harvey McGuffin draft day.

And damn you, Goodfornothing, look what you've done to my day! Subtracted a round from Saturday? Shrunk the selection times between picks for both the first and second round? Excuse you? How dare you mess with the most important televised event of the sports calendar. I remember when the NFL Draft was unbelievably not on television, and do you know what that was like? It was waking up each morning, only to realize that today was likely to be worse than yesterday. It was like starting each day without a shot of Jack and scrambled eggs. It was like the 1960s.

Not only will I be forced to stay awake for the whole damn thing, but the draft will be over sooner. What happened to the lust for suspense, drama and Mel Kiper? Will I lose my priceless moments of player video footage, some recorded on hand-held video cameras, with those entertaining ESPN effects to highlight the newest NFL player? Will Chris Mortensen be allowed to speak? I swear to God, Goodell, if you take Mort from my living room, I'll get violent.

Time is a horrible thing to waste. I would know, because mine is running out. I'm going to die, Goodell, which is obviously what you want. I now have fewer moments of the NFL draft and fewer naps in between picks. How am I supposed to fill my damn time on Harvey McGuffin draft day? I miss Faye Vincent.