The NFL is America’s most ruthlessly capitalist sports league, and the Scouting Combine — not the draft or the Super Bowl — best represents its ethos.
For six days, our most promising gridboys are poked and prodded, tagged and numbered, tested and interrogated. I’d rather see an otter in a cage than steal the jiggle from these cheerful bowls of Jell-O.
The NFL Scouting Combine is a crime against large adult football sons. Look at these great big rambunctious boys: their towering stature, their incredible bulk, their fresh faces and floppy hair. They should be roughhousing in an unfinished basement, not solemnly answering questions from glowering, goateed Easter hams.
And, yes, they jiggle during the 40-yard dash, but I’m talking about spiritual jiggle. Like most viewers, I am not immune to the hypnotic pull of these anthropomorphic football sausages, clad in overburdened spandex casing, as they run in slow-motion, thighs pumping like ham hocks affixed to pistons, my mind melting into a hearty stew of meat-aphors.
It’s transfixing, but there’s no joy in it.
I want to see them run, yes, but not for their future. I want them careening chaotically through a world built for men half their size, not some sterile exercise laboratory. They should be knocking over priceless antiques, crashing through drywall, sitting in comically small chairs, murder-petting rabbits, and apologizing shyly for their irrepressible galumphing.