Michael Sam is a player with all the necessary tools to succeed in the NFL. He has good size, standing tall and majestic at 6 feet 1 and 260 pounds. He has shown an ability to rush the passer throughout his years at Missouri, using his lithe hands and supple frame to drive the QB’s body into the turf below, hands seeming to caress the passer and lay him protectively on the ground, carrying him child-like into a place of safety. Of course, his recent coming out as a gay football player will cause some notable distractions.
Oh, such distractions. In certain lights, Sam is reminiscent of a young Denzel Washington, his steely eyes holding this scout’s attention for an everlasting second and intense baritone drawing his ear ever nearer. Perhaps he resembles him most as he was in He Got Game, an athletic sheen pervading his soft features, or maybe in Training Day, a steely resolve begging you to take a look at the man being the facemask.
His skin is smooth and seems almost to be sculpted from marble like a modern-day David, with all the nobility and majesty that such a comparison implies. He has the lips of fair Paris, the shorn hair of an Adonis-like deity, all of which will, ahem, prove to be distracting for the players in the locker-room, and absolutely not for scouts who may have had dreams of long walks on a beach with someone who will brush the hair from their face and whisper husky sweet nothings in their ears.
I, for one, would be reluctant to draft Sam, considering that his sexuality poses a difficult question for many teams in the league. Of course, he would answer that question, a soft hint of the barest smile flickering across his lips like the promise of a million treasures to be beheld. Anyway, as I was saying, I wouldn’t draft him.
