The subplot of the NFL Draft is fatherlessness

I love the NFL Draft and always have. So much so that when I was a child my otherwise very sensible parents allowed me to skip school every year and watch it on ESPN, back when it was a classy affair that aired from the Marriott Marquis in New York City. Now it is a (sometimes literal) three-ring circus, which involves The Jonas Brothers. Watching Desmond Howard pretend to be interested in what The Jonas Brothers had to say looked like what it might look like to see a grown man get an emotional root canal on live television.

A lot has changed.

That said, I watched last night with my youngest son, and as name after name was called, and tearful mother after tearful mother was interviewed in the green room, we realized something: there are no fathers. I mean they exist (or existed) somewhere, but they weren’t a part of this. We both noticed the absence of dads, independent of one another, and we both felt sad.

Now ESPN framed all of these moments in “look at these strong women” terms, which is kind of the only rhetorical card they had to play, I guess? Especially in an era where the NFL Draft is not only about football but also about telling you how Georgia tackle Broderick Jones raises snakes, and how Oregon cornerback Christian Gonzales likes to cook in his spare time. We are squarely in the era of “human interest” productions, provided that interest doesn’t offend anyone’s sensibilities and also provided it fits that year’s pre-selected narrative. We can all recall the NFL Draft year in which ESPN went to great lengths to tell us which prospect’s family member had recently died and how hard that was.

That said, I’m very much not the guy to draw out deep sociological commentary vis-à-vis fatherlessness etc. and to do so would almost certainly pigeonhole me as a certain kind of (wait for it) misogynist. And truly, these mothers seem to have done a very fine job at raising hypertrophic young men who excel at throwing and catching and blocking and tackling. Most of them seemed like exceedingly decent young men as well.

And yet, because I am a father, the moment made me reflect on the joy of fatherhood, and the sheer delight I experience when I am doing things with my boys—neither of whom will play in the NFL. Simply stated, I have really enjoyed being around for stuff, with them. First dates. Ballgames. Prom. Movies together. Workouts. And my personal favorite, playing “interception” in the backyard, which was a game where my sons would run endless zig-zagging pass routes against each other and the all-time quarterback (me) would try not to throw interceptions. Goodness-gracious, I would pay a large sum of money to go back in time and play a few series of interception again.

Of course, my dad (who’s now in his 70s) and I had our own version of “interception” that we called “The Catch” in which he would be Joe Montana and I would be Dwight Clark working the back of the end zone to go up high and snag a ball he had thrown. We played The Catch in our backyard, vacant lots behind various churches, and on trips where we’d sometimes climb the fence in Robinson, Ill., and sneak onto the high school field. Even then I knew that something magical and perfect and right was taking place. I loved being with my dad.

And so, as draftee after draftee experienced the night, fatherless, I couldn’t help but grieve—for the kids, but also for the fathers. I was reminded of a moment a couple of years ago as a coach, when I was trying to teach someone the miserable (but necessary) art of long-snapping, and said, “Just throw it like you’re playing catch with your dad in the backyard.” To which my player astutely responded, “Coach, not all of us had that experience.”

He was right of course, and I grieved a little then too.