I know people who care little about the NBA who have spent a week talking about the NBA draft. They'll tune in for the pre-draft show tonight and watch the first round and some or all of the second.
It's like caring nothing about cooking but watching "Hell's Kitchen."
There's color and glitz and drama, and all the drama is real.
Some players mysteriously rise. Hooray.
Others mysteriously fall. We watch intensely as they tumble. What's it like to sit there and anticipate your name being called and repeatedly hear a name that is not yours? What's it like as the room full of players projected to go early slowly empties and soon you're alone?
I guess we could ask former Notre Dame quarterback Brady Quinn. We also could ask former Florida center Dwayne Schintzius. Schintzius sat with the other players expected to go early in the 1990 draft. He didn't.
He waited a long time. While he waited, children were born. Marriages dissolved. Countries were toppled. Somewhere in Union County, a house was built. Finally, San Antonio took the big man with the 24th pick.
I ran into Schintzius and his diminutive girlfriend in a Manhattan deli after the draft. He didn't look angry. He looked numb.
By the end of the second round, most of us are.