number one draft picks and me

Hey all.  My finals are over!  Hoorah!  I had plans to go out with my friends and partypartyparty tonight, but my throat started hurting the night before last and has not stopped AND I have to be at work at 8am tomorrow, so I didn't want to risk getting sicker by going out and grinding on strangers.  I'll do that Saturday.  

Today, I would like to tell the charming stories of my interactions with the NFL's number one draft pick this season (or whatever they call this time frame), the one, the only, Matthew Stafford.  My affair with Matthew Stafford began many years ago, on a cold, January day.  Young Stafford was in my orientation group at the University of Georgia.  We were both young, nervous.  Actually, that is not true. I was 20 years old and there with my dad, he was like 17 and there making money breathing.  Our eyes met.  That probably isn't true either.  The only reason I even remember that he was in my orientation group, along with several other football players, is that a rep from the athletic department kept checking on them.  Every few minutes, "Do you need anything?  Are you ok?"  I remember commenting to my dad about how annoying it was.  If only I had known what would become of Matthew and me.  

I will begin with my third most close interaction with the young athlete.  I was standing in Park Hall, waiting to enter my classroom.  I saw the quarterback sitting on a bench across from me, reading a paper.  Probably looking for mentionings of his own name.  Jerk.  Anyway, as I was staring at him, a class let out nearby, and students started filing into the hallway.  Soon, two bros walked past, talking.  

One says, "Hey Matt!" 

nothingnothingnothingnothing

The man didn't even look up from his newspaper to acknowledge this young, admiring fan.  

I almost laughed aloud and said to the one guy, "Dude, you are TOTALLY not friends with Matthew Stafford!!"

But that would have been rude.

My most intimate encounter with the star (now making over like $70million) was when he came into MY bookstore to sell back some books.  Normally, when I see athletes come in, I get annoyed before they even open their mouths or bookbags.  While there have been some exceptions (Mohamed Massaqua is one of the nicest men I've ever met.  Same with Craig Lumpkin), they usually complain about not getting money back for books they did not buy (or read) in the first place. 

But not Matthew.

No, Matthew Stafford put his books in a neat pile on the counter and patiently waited as I told him how much they were worth.  One of the books was a hard back, desk-type dictionary.  In shrink wrap.  He tried to sell it back, and it was not worth anything.  I gave him his money and he started to leave, without the dictionary.  

I said, "Do you want this?"

His response?

"No, I won't use it."

No, Matthew, you wouldn't, and it looks like you never will.  

I should have made him sign it.