We headed over to our section, where our cameraman was already waiting. I could see Bill’s mood deteriorating by the moment; Bill thought that a newspaper should produce a newspaper and nothing else. These newfangled things like websites and online content, especially video, didn’t make any sense to him. Leave that stuff to the TV stations.
I, of course, being in my early 20s, didn’t know what he was talking about, and the idea of a news organization not having an online component and producing massive amounts of video made about as much sense to me as a dog walking itself.
Our cameraman was a jovial guy in his mid-30s, named Steve. Steve shook Bill’s hand, though Bill really wasn’t interested, and Steve grinned when he saw me. “All ready for the big day?”
I gulped, looking around at the throng of people, all milling about and buzzing with intensity, before answering. “I think so. It’s a lot to take in.”
Steve squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You’ve done stuff like this before, I’m sure. Maybe this is a little bigger than before, but you’ll get into it soon enough.” He laughed. “Of course, there’s always next year.”
I wanted to laugh, but Bill shot Steve a withering look, and I decided not to join them. At this rate, even if I did great today, if Bill had his way, I would not be covering the patriots next year with him.
Bill turned back to me. “We’ve got work to do here. Why don’t you make yourself useful?”
I jumped at the opportunity to show Bill that I was a productive and valued member of the team. “What can I do for you?” I knew I sounded way more earnest than I should, but I couldn’t help it. Despite Bill’s acidity toward me, I really wanted to work with him. This was a prestigious job I’d managed to get, and if there was anything I could do to make sure I kept it, and got to cover the team of my dreams and childhood, I would do it.
He smiled, and I knew right then and there that whatever he was then ask wouldn’t be all that useful. “Go watch the players arrive in the green room. Maybe you get an interview or two. Take Steve with you.”
Steve smiled again and hoisted his camera onto the shoulder. “All ready to go?” Steve seemed like a guy who was always in a good mood, no matter what was going on. I didn’t quite understand how that kind of attitude could work, but at the same time it was nice to be around.
Bill was sending me off to watch the players arrive in the green room rather than set up our space. A big part of that was meeting the other reporters who were sitting nearby, exchanging gossip, and seeing if there were any last-minute deals or trades to be made. This was the real stuff, and Bill was keeping me out of it. Still, there wasn’t much else I could do right now; Bill was in charge.
Oh well, time to make the most of it. I nodded at Steve, and he followed me as we made our way to the entrance to the green room. The green room at the draft was a little different from at a late-night talk show. There are roughly 250 players drafted each year, but the league only invited a few, maybe 20 or 30, to actually go to the draft. Those 20 or 30 were the ones the league expected to be drafted in the first round.
Only a few got to actually come to the draft, the ones the league were pretty sure will be drafted early. They love that TV moment of the young man surrounded by his parents, getting a phone call from a professional football team, seeing if they’re interested in joining and playing in the big league. To my knowledge, no one had ever said no to that phone call.
At the same time, every so often one of the players invited to the draft wouldn’t be drafted where expected. When that happened, there was another kind of TV moment that the league loved: watching the nervous young man and his family despair as more and more teams passed him by, and watching his salary expectations diminish as a result. The announcers would be talking over him, asking each other why teams were deciding not to draft him. It was quite the spectacle, like everything the league did.
Win or lose for the player, the league always got what it wanted.
We set up shop right near the entrance to the green room. When the door opened, I peered inside, and saw that a lot of the players had already shown up, with their close family in tow. Everyone was all dressed up, like they were going to church or a fancy dinner.
We stood outside the entrance for about half an hour, greeting the last few players as they arrived, and getting one or two questions with each of them. Nothing too interesting, but things that we would put on the website. If there was one thing about football fans, they were crazy about the draft.
There was no other event on the football calendar could make your team instantly better, or make them instantly a contender for a Super Bowl. Of course, if your team screwed up the draft, or, even worse, if your team screwed up the draft many years in a row, like the Cleveland Browns always did, the draft could doom you to another year of living in the basement.
We had just closed up, and were heading back to the regular reporting area, Bill Thompson be damned, when a commotion erupted behind us. Steve nudged me, and I turned around to look back where we had been standing.