Celebrating a Last-Place Finish

Draft's Final Pick Gets VIP Treatment

NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- Not far from the John Wayne Airport, tucked in the back of a small office park where a broken-down Yugo has sat rusty and dormant for years, an aging man still plots the attacks of a farcical mind.

Paul Salata is 81 now. He does not hear well, and sometimes things like memory can seem a little fuzzy. But there he was Sunday afternoon in New York, standing on the stage at the NFL draft, just as he has done for years, announcing the last pick of the weekend, No. 252 overall, the one on whom is bestowed the dubious honor of being "Mr. Irrelevant." This time, it is David Vobora, a linebacker from Idaho.

Then he will go home and take Vobora on the ride of his life.

In the sober world of the NFL, where every draft choice is treated like a cabinet appointment, Salata is a rare sprinkle of fun: a lifelong practical joker who can't resist the absurd. Like the time he hired a 100-piece marching band to come down the street and serenade his wife on her birthday, bringing her to tears not when she heard the music but after he invited the entire band to their house for dinner.

And since 1976 he has turned what should be a forgotten selection, a player more likely than not to be cut by the middle of training camp, and made him feel like a king. For six days here in late June, Vobora will be treated to the same outlandish extravaganza as the men before him.

This includes: an arrival news conference (which it is fair to say probably will be Vobora's lone NFL news conference), a VIP banquet Salata affectionately calls The Lowsman, a tailgate party and a trip to Disneyland. Mr. Irrelevant also receives his own trophy, a golden image of a football player looking away as the ball drops from his hands.

"We want the player to feel like a king for a week because he may never be that ever again," said Salata's daughter, Melanie Salata Fitch.

Depending on the player and his interests, other activities might be incorporated, like a golf outing or a pub crawl. All of this is organized by Salata Fitch, who patiently indulges her father's frivolity.

And what if the player doesn't golf?

They play miniature golf.

And what if he doesn't drink?

"We provide a designated drinker," Salata Fitch replied, adding the Irrelevant Week celebration has seen "several Mormon players who were no longer Mormons when they returned home."