OK, I like the NFL draft.
Once again, I succumbed to watching the pro football spectacle Thursday night.
Grown men wearing ridiculous costumes. Cheerleaders and girlfriends. Mamas and daddies, brothers and sisters. Nick Saban in a pink sportcoat. Roger Goodell lifted off his feet by a burly lineman. Tears, hugs, kisses.
You know you're in deep when you find yourself contemplating Mel Kiper Jr.'s rule against drafting running backs in the first round and Booger McFarland's rhapsodies about obscure Big 10 defensive ends.
The young men parade across the stage, wearing hip-hop suits and hair. In interviews with the ebullient Suzy Kolber, they thank God and family. The new recruits will soon face the reality of the NFL meat grinder, receiving millions to risk permanent injury or death.
Some of them will fail, others achieve stardom. They will be analyzed on ESPN talk shows. From July through February, they will crash against each other, warriors like ancient knights transported to our TV screens.
Each team is like a small medieval kingdom. The Lions. The Packers. The Bears. The Eagles. The Giants. The Cowboys. The Bucs. The Saints. The Falcons. We know their histories, their personalities, their uniforms, their players.
Once again, I can't resist the NFL's hype machine.