Nighthawks at the Combine

Tall tales and blurry memories from one man’s 14-year quest to find the heart of the NFL at the scouting combine.

Our tale of tipsy foolishness begins with the Great Indianapolis Impromptu Pong Perignon Tournament of the mid-2010s.

Dramatis Personae: The son of an NFL owner, several apex media members, some women of the type who set off Geiger counters, a few youthful hangers-on, a waitress or two scurrying about, and improbably, a couple of Football Outsiders personalities.

The Setting: Prime 47 steakhouse, traditional upscale eatery for most of the year, Dionysian orgy of privilege and excess for four eldritch nights each late winter. Specifically: the Prime 47 loft, the staircase to which only appears at the start of the scouting combine and disappears at the end, just like the bridge to Brigadoon.

The Time: Closer to dawn than midnight.

The Activity: Tables pushed together. Red plastic cups arranged in equilateral triangles. Grown men lofting flat-footed set-shots into the cups using a ping pong ball of mysterious origin. The winner swishes; the loser drinks. It’s beer pong, the cause of many a freshman-year stomach pumping. The cups, however, are not filled with Coors Extra Skunked, but with Dom Perignon, the champagne of champagnes, the stuff that costs about $250 per bottle before the restaurant markup.

A full-fledged bragging-rights competition spontaneously spawns: high fives, fist-bumps, winners get next, everything but bracketology. Below us, despite the late/early hour, the dining room thrums with NFL owners, execs, agents, coaches, ex-players, reporters, bloggers, wannabes, looky-loos and a few more of the sort of ladies who have evolved to thrive in such hostile ecosystems; all exchange pleasantries, favor requests, nine-figure salary demands, pickup lines.