NFL DRAFT (2)

April 27, 2023 — Thursday

H-2 to the Draft (6:00 PM E.T.)

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

Acrisure Stadium

Talk of the NFL Draft, erupting across the country since the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠early morning hours, was swelling with every passing minute.

Reports were leaking through the curtain about which teams had penciled in which players, and rumors of trades mounted by the hour.

Under normal circumstances, Steelers fans would have been devouring every shred of that news. This year, however, they ignored it entirely — because they were busy preparing a festival all their own.

The crowds packing every inch of space around the stadium set up grills and got to work on burgers, sausages, and brisket, while the men who were already well past tipsy raised their voices to the sky.

"WE GOT MOI!!"

"WE GOT MOI!!"

It had been a full fifty-three years since the Steelers franchise last exercised the first pick in the draft — 1970.

Signs reading 53 dotted the crowd everywhere you looked.

When the young men spotted the local broadcast cameramen, their hot blood got the better of them: they stripped off their shirts on the spot and strutted into frame to show off their body paint.

Yellow paint splashed across bare skin, the number 14 painted over it, a thumbs-up pointing proudly at their own chests — and the cameras drank it all in.

Wherever the three cameras roaming the grounds pointed, people beamed and cheered and kept chanting one man's name.

Some showed up in Terry Bradshaw jerseys — the last man the Steelers had ever taken first overall, and one of the defining quarterbacks in NFL history.

And the man himself was just then stepping into the Acrisure Stadium lounge, greeted warmly by team staff.

"Terry!"

"Art. You're looking sharp."

"Ha! So are you. Was the trip in alright?"

"Couldn't have been smoother."

Terry Bradshaw was four years Art Rooney II's senior, but the two had maintained a friendship stretching back decades.

Art Rooney II led his old friend inside and introduced the Steelers legend around the room, and once the pair had drifted off to one side, the real conversation began.

"Is Junior out on the floor?"

"He is."

"I only ask because… well, just in case."

"No — Terry. That is absolutely not going to happen."

"I'm just checking. In case you've gone senile on me and steer the whole draft straight into chaos."

"Haha. If anyone's gone senile, Terry, I'd say it's you."

"Why, you—! Got me with that one!"

"Come sit down. I've got a fine whiskey in here."

"Now that's the best thing I've heard all day."

With the legend's arrival, the party in the lounge ripened by the minute.

And on the complete opposite side of the stadium, a hazy cloud of smoke began to rise.

The fire chief who saw it squeezed his eyes shut.

Time slipped by, and with one hour left until the draft, the giant outdoor screens flickered to life all at once.

The crowd roared as if they'd been waiting for exactly that moment, and ESPN's draft broadcast came up on the screens.

The heat rose all over again.

"WE GOT MOI!!!"

"WE GOT MOI!!!"

"WE GOT MOI!!!"

This time it was a full-throated chorus, a wall of sound worthy of a concert — and the media people on-site were not about to let the moment pass them by.

"Oh— Yeah."

Pittsburgh, right now, is drunk on a dream.

7:30 PM (E.T.)

Kansas City, Missouri, USA

Union Station

Thirty minutes before the draft, the air inside was ninety-nine percent anticipation and one percent dread.

And the reason for that dread was exactly one thing.

What if I slide?

Every draft with a Green Room has always produced its casualties. The NBA runs through every single pick on draft night, and even MLB gets through the first two rounds on day one, so everyone finds a home one way or another.

But not the NFL.

This league devotes the entire first day of the draft to the first round alone — and if your name isn't called tonight, you're condemned to twenty-four hours of hell before tomorrow.

The most humiliating moment of your young life, broadcast live to the entire nation. No words in any language could capture what that feels like.

"Seriously, man, I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Not gonna happen. I'm telling you."

"You sure?"

"Positive. You're getting drafted today. Period."

"Shiiit. My stomach's tying itself in knots."

The Nolan sitting in front of me was rated a Top-3 linebacker in this year's draft class.

The league office itself had projected him as a sure thing today and mailed him his Green Room invitation — but the morning chatter about a possible slide had gotten under his skin.

Nolan was never the type to be rattled easily, but with a national broadcast hanging over the whole thing, staying calm was easier said than done.

"Whew— hey, I'm gonna hit the restroom real quick."

"Go ahead."

Nolan headed off toward the bathroom, and I glanced around the room, confirmed that everyone was busy, and settled back into my seat.

Three cameras in total were set up around us, and right now all of them were pointed at the table where our families sat.

This was the only fixed-camera spot in the entire Green Room — and the reason was not me but Kendall, which I honestly couldn't decide whether to laugh about or cry about.

I slid naturally into the seat beside my girlfriend, and Kendall leaned into my shoulder like it was second nature, pulling her face close to mine.

"Babe, you look so cute today."

"And you look gorgeous. Did you see the crowd when we walked in?"

"Mm-hm. I'm used to it."

From the moment we'd stepped out of the limousine, not a single exaggeration — every eye in the vicinity had locked onto my girlfriend.

A fresh reminder, I suppose.

Of just how enormous a star Kendall really was.

Even now, people kept sneaking glances at our ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠table — and when she pulled her face close to mine, more than a few men whipped their heads away as if they'd seen something they weren't meant to see.

Damn, girl.

It's your own fault for being that hot.

"Moi."

"?"

"Phone. Take it."

"Who is it?"

"Omar Khan."

…

I took the phone Mr. Leigh Steinberg was holding out with a smile.

"Hello?"

— You're getting some serious mileage out of those cameras, I see.

"Haha. You're watching?"

— ESPN. You and your girlfriend seem to be getting along wonderfully.

"We're the best. Anyway — what can I do for you, sir?"

— I have one question for you.

"Yes, sir."

Right up until this morning, people were still saying Pittsburgh might pass on me or trade the pick away — but the truth was, I'd already heard the firm answer about my draft slot hours ago.

It had the feel of a settled fact being read back to me, something that had been locked in long ago — but there was no denying it put my mind at ease.

Then Omar Khan, having said he had one question, tossed out a sentence that surprised me, if anything tonight could.

— Are you certain about Nolan Smith's ability?

"…You mean my friend Nolan?"

— Yes.

Pittsburgh currently held six picks it could use within the first four rounds.

It did feel like a bit of a surplus, just as the media kept pointing out, so I figured there'd be another trade before the night was over — but with the question suddenly being about Nolan, I couldn't quite read it.

Were they thinking of taking him at pick seventeen?

I believed in Nolan, no question — but the vibe around that pick didn't feel right.

No, if you assumed they'd attach a fourth-rounder to the thirty-second pick and trade up into the 28-to-31 range to grab him, the scenario fit together pretty neatly.

But anyway.

That wasn't what mattered.

"Nolan's been underrated his whole career. He might need a beat to adjust to the pro level, but he learns fast — faster than anyone I've played with. And as for his work ethic, I'll guarantee it one hundred percent. You will not regret it."

— I see. Understood. And how's the family?

The family was doing wonderfully.

My mom had ultimately lost the Cold War with Aunt Mel and been denied the dress she wanted — but now that she'd seen how well it played out in person, she was wearing a satisfied smile.

Aunt Mel wore the permanently fascinated expression of someone still marveling at the fact that Kendall and I were dating at all, and my father was enjoying this event at two hundred percent capacity.

My grandparents were much the same.

In short: everyone was having a ball.

— That's good to hear. Because soon, you'll watch a beloved son and grandson walk up that podium first.

"You do realize this is live on TV right now, right?"

— The sound doesn't carry, does it?

"…Fair point."

— Anyway. I've heard what I needed. Talk soon.

Click.

"What did he say?"

"He asked about Nolan."

"Haha. So they really are going to Pick Georgia."

…

That was another rumor that had been making the rounds since this morning —

that Pittsburgh intended to draft a whole flock of Bulldogs.

The reason I'd refused to believe it until now was that the Steelers didn't seem aggressive enough to pull it off. But it occurred to me that maybe their homework had simply been finished all along, quietly, behind closed doors.

"I can't wait for tonight."

"Neither can I."

Behind my agent, who pocketed the phone with a grin, the countdown clock caught my eye.

Twenty-three minutes.

Time seemed to race ahead and crawl along at the same time.

8:00 PM

NFL League ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Office — Draft Booth

The busiest group on NFL Draft night is neither the clubs nor the media — it's the people in the league office.

In the ten minutes each team is allotted before its selection, these staffers had to be braced for every conceivable emergency, and to process trade information fast enough to keep the night moving without a hitch.

Patrick Mahomes and Travis Kelce stepped onto the stage hoisting the Lombardi Trophy and whipped the crowd into a frenzy, and Roger Goodell, taking the microphone, finally declared the draft open.

"Alright, Kansas City! Let's start the show!"

Fweeeeeet!

Fweet!

With the Commissioner's official declaration, Pittsburgh's ten minutes began to tick away, and NFL Network and ESPN cut their feeds back to the studios.

And at that very moment, a phone rang in the NFL's draft booth — a line hardwired to the Pittsburgh Steelers.

A staffer reached for the receiver.

Seconds later, a voice came through.

"…Yes, sir."

From the moment the clock had started to the moment that phone rang: six seconds.

About the length of the inevitable broadcast delay — no more. It told you everything about how ardently, how absolutely, Pittsburgh believed in this pick.

When the staffer relayed the message to a colleague in the middle of the chain, that colleague blinked, flustered, and went hunting for someone more senior.

His eyes were asking: you're telling me we don't even wait for the broadcast?

The floor director read the note written on the paper.

And immediately keyed his radio.

From there the message passed through one more middleman and reached Roger Goodell, who had no sooner sat down than he shot back to his feet, confirmed the contents, and strode out at a powerful pace.

Barely fifty-seven seconds after the clock had started, Goodell reappeared on stage, and the broadcast crews scrambled to swing their cameras back.

A ripple of astonishment ran through everyone — this fast? — and one half of the split screen showed an empty seat where Dwayne Moi Stone had been sitting.

Goodell stood before the microphone.

And he read a sentence that was, to put it simply, the most natural thing in the world.

A sentence that may well have been decided months ago.