March 17, 2005
NFL = Yuck
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

The guy I’ve been dating moved to NYC last week. On one of our last nights together we met his two friends who were in town for the NFL Combine, gathering for cocktails at the Canterbury Hotel. Based on the fact that I was the only female in attendance, I mused, “This Combine thing is pretty cool.”

After a few cocktails we left for our dinner reservation at PF Changs. I noticed a lot of white tennis shoes/khakis combinations walking the streets, and I didn’t allow all the ogling to fully inflate my ego as I was forced to acknowledge the facts: there were no other women anywhere. During dinner the three men, a scout, a coach, and my ex-football playing boyfriend, talked their game: Lady luck, torn ligaments, blown-out ACLs, bad attitudes; just a few among the many considerable factors of the comprehensive medical, psychological and physical analysis of more than 300 draft-eligible players for the NFL. BORING.

My Attention Deficit Disorder took a seat next to me at the table, and the two of us debated between a nightcap at home later, or a bowl of frosted Lucky Charms, both magically delicious. When the conversation went ‘sports’ on me, I was ostensibly enthusiastic, imagining this must be what drowning feels like. And who knew “combine” is something besides a reaping and threshing piece of farming equipment?

Everyone was extremely friendly, and I guess the NFL needs these people who care so much. But my high school Chemistry teacher who kept encouraging me to “just keep studying and it’ll come to you” I knew for a fact that football conversation was never going to grab me. What did rattle the dishes in my head was the fact that so many men were visiting our city, and that none of my single girlfriends were downtown to partake. I excused myself to the restroom and left a message for my friend Sports Gal from my cell. “Get your ass down here,”

I said. After PF Changs and a wobbly gait down Illinois Street, we headed to Olives for that nightcap. Lucky Charms later it would be. We walked into Olives, and what to my wondering eyes did appear, but another room full of men. I gave Sports Gal another call saying, “They’re waiting for someone to talk to…hurry!” but she never came. My boyfriend patted my knee and said, “You’re being such a trooper.” I smiled at him while sipping my Cosmopolitan and replied, “I’m always for the home team.”