JEFF PEARLMAN

Coming October 2022: "The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson"

Mel Kiper, Todd McShay or melted cheese spread across my skull as 100,000 rats are unleashed?

mcshay-kiper

I love the NFL. Really, I do. I love the action. I love the strategy. I love that most teams enter the season with a chance of winning. Hell, I even love the J-E-T-S, the team that—throughout my youth–brought me more heartbreak than the numerous crushes who rejected my overtures.

That said, I HATE Mel Kiper and Todd McShay.

When I say ‘Hate,’ I don’t mean I personally dislike the men. Hell, I haven’t met either one. But, in the weeks and months leading up to the draft, I have spent waaaaaay too much of my time having these guys yell at me, via the TV, over why so-and-so 20-year-old is better than so-and-so 20-year-old.

Hence, this bit of advice, to both men: Get a life. Really, get a life. You are both adults; both well-paid; both moderately respected. Get a life. Lives. Stop chasing around these kids, desperate for their text messages and Facebook updates. Stop stalking them, talking about them, praising them, worshiping them, overhyping them, digging through their garbage cans for moldy pizza boxes (“Rumor has it Smith has put on weight!”) and stained underwear (“I question his control!”). It’s creepy, weird, baffling, pathetic. I’m sure Mike Crabtree is a nice kid, but, c’mon. You’ve got a mere eight or nine decades to live, and you’re devoting much of that to learning the size of his calves?

Stop. Please, just stop.

PS: Mark Sanchez=Browning Nagle. Mark my words.