In April of 2007, I was making a new beginning. I had just moved to NYC from Burbank, CA after two years of successfully negotiating myself deeper and deeper into a rut. I had moved to New York in an attempt to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and directly into the poor house. I succeeded for six months, before finding the job that landed a crippling blow to my bright hobo future.
I watched the draft that April on a huge, obscenely heavy fifteen year old TV I had bought at a thrift store relatively cheaply, and chatted via webcam with my bset friend from college. We both loved Marshawn Lynch, although I worried that it meant we would miss out on Paul Posluszny. I have rarely been more excited than when I saw the Bills leap up to the 34th pick that year and snatch him up. I pumped my fist in the air (carefully, as my room was tiny), and looked around desperately for someone to high five. At the time I was living with two artists, and it was difficult to explain exactly to people who spent time dissecting something like Bernini's "The Ecstasy of St. Theresa" why this draft was so important.
As the 2nd round drew on, I drifted away to find some Chinese food (i.e fried chicken), and received a text from my friend. The Bills had picked, and they had picked Trent Edwards. My first thought was of course: "People still name their children Trent?". When I got home I began to research this Trent person. It turns out that he was a highly recruited high school QB. Notre Dame wanted him. Michigan wanted him. Florida wanted him. He picked Stanford, and even went on to pick up a degree in something other than physical education. Even more exciting, the man I still think is the greatest head coach in the history of the game, Bill Walsh, gushed about the kid.
