Ah, my
favorite time of year.
The grass is
green (well, not so much here in Illinois), flowers are blossoming, birds
are chirping and NBA green room invites are making the final adjustments to
their Armani suits.
This is the
time of year when the best young ballers come all dappered up for their
minute of fame with Commissioner Stern. This is the time of year when dozens
of gray-haired men decide to whom they’ll be paying millions of dollars over
the next few years.
This is the
time of year when hoop fans scour the news until their head’s spinning about
when Stern might be shaking whose hand on
draft
night.
I know because
I’m one of those people. Let me confess before I go any further: I’m a
draft fly.
And chances are you’re a
draft fly
as well. There are thousands of us out there. We all want to be that little
fly
conveniently sitting in NBA war rooms on
draft
day. We are seekers of classified information.
No league exec
in his right mind would give inside information about who they’re looking to
select. Reason being partially because they want other teams to stay in the
blue but also because they don’t know who will be available when their clock
starts running.
This is where
it gets addicting.
Pools of
prognostications. Collections of contingencies. It is a digital, print and
broadcasted world of possibilities. Every
draft fly
contributes to it – from ESPN’s Andy Katz to your 10-year-old Slam3 member.
We write and
print out articles. We check nine different basketball forums a day. We read
papers of which we’ve never even heard. We blog and read blogs. We turn on
Sports Center like a light switch four times a day. We completely forget its
summertime.
When we see
our mother putting a piece of felt on a hat, we think of
Ray. When we look at
the down at the grass, we think of
Gerald. When we’re
playing poker, we remember
Jarrett. When we check at the calendar, we think of Sean. When our
little bother has cartoons on, we think of Marvin. If there’s a helicopter
in the sky, it’s got to be
Hakim. When we see Hermione in Harry Potter movies, we think of
Danny. When we drink
Fosters, we think of Bogut.
When listening to the Beatles, we recall Chris. When we’re watching Will
Farrell, we think of Deron.
When we’re at McDonalds, we think of
Channing. When we eat
graham cracker, we think of
Joey. When looking up words, we recall Martell.
I’m a
draft fly,
hovering around a streetlight. I and countless others are frantically
flapping our wings toward this lonely light in the night’s darkness. Bang,
flutter, flutter, bang, bang, flutter, flutter. I don’t know why I’m doing
what I’m doing. All I know is I’m banging my head, and I can’t stop.
It happens
every year at the end of June. It’s the pinnacle of a
draft fly’s
year. In my quest for inside knowledge about what’s going on in team offices
and on the courts of individual workouts, my
life
is consumed by one, sole objective leading up to June 27.
That said,
what is the NBA
draft
really about?
Is it about
the 60 new players or the entire fiasco leading up to the event? Is it the
gamble? Your picks, your prognostications? Your I-told-you-so’s and
I-never-guess-that’s?
It’s only
human nature to make order from something that’s, by nature, disorderly.
That’s the real essence of today’s NBA
draft.
It’s about telling the world – right then and there, almost 10 years ago –
Kobe Bryant would be better than Vlade Divac. Or giving yourself Mark
Cuban’s Medal of Wisdom in 1998 when you said Robert Traylor for Dirk
Nowitzki and Pat Garrity was a coup.
The
draft
is about predicting the Jameer Nelson of 2004 more than watching
it happen.
By no means is
it easy to be a
draft fly.
Some flies are better than others, but all are forever condemned by
uncertainly and secret. It’s not always a fun experience. Oftentimes, it’s
downright frustrating and energy-exhausting. And all the stress and
headaches always compound to one d*mn sweet ending and a lightning-quick
fallout.
Once the 60th
pick is announced, disorder becomes order. That streetlight goes out. No
longer am I continually ramming into that plastic encasement. It’s done, but
why do I always feel like there should be something more?
Bang, flutter,
bang, flutter, flutter, flutter, bang.
The familiar
noise begins again, this time from a streetlight further down the road. The
draft
flies are at it again. It’ll be a long time until this next one goes out,
but what else is a
draft fly
supposed to do?
Us flies can
get lost in the dark.
