And The Last Shall Be The First The View from the Cheap Seats By Greg Lalas You know that saying, “Time is money”? Well, that innocuous little phrase pretty much explains why so many artists are starving: We can’t make any money because we spend all our time riding public transportation. Take, for example, the trip yesterday from my apartment in Brooklyn to the Courtyard by Marriot hotel in Secaucus, NJ, which is roughly seven miles as the Trump helicopter flies. The odyssey entailed two subway trains, a hellish maze through Port Authority terminal, and the NJ Transit #320 bus. Total travel time: 1 hour, 45 minutes. Total money earned: $0.00. And I was late for my meeting with Jeff Parke. Why didn’t you just take a cab? you might be asking. And who’s Jeff Parke, anyway? Both good questions. To answer the first one, I’ll just say that the operative word in “starving artist” is “starving.” To answer your second question: Jeff Parke is the MetroStars 6th round pick in last week’s MLS SuperDraft. Of course, since most of us tuned out after the second round, no one actually knew this about Jeff Parke. It wasn’t until just two days ago, when I decided to find out who was the last pick in the draft, that I found out who Jeff Parke was. And there he was in JavaScript: Jeff Parke, Drexel University, D, 6’1”, 180, 21, Downingtown, PA. Sadly, that was it. Poor Jeff was so far off the radar, he didn’t even get a hotlink. The late rounders always get shafted in the “personal” department. Luckily Jeff was cool about my tardiness. He even said so: “That’s cool,” he said. And why wouldn’t he be cool about it? What else did he have to do on this dreary Thursday afternoon in Secaucus, NJ? It’s not like he was going to go skating in Rockefeller Center. The MetroStars are training in the bubble for a few weeks, which for Jeff means a baptism-by-fire in the realities of professional sports. “It’s a totally different atmosphere,” Jeff said. We were sitting in a booth at the Outback Steakhouse connected to the hotel, and Jeff looked nervous, kind of like a classroom troublemaker who was sent to the principal’s office for something he didn’t do. He later admitted it was only the third or fourth time he’d ever talked to a reporter. “The level of play, man, everyone is so quick,” he continued. “Back at school, I was a standout because of my speed. Here, everyone’s got speed. Everything is done a step quicker. They think quicker and play quicker. Man, it’s real different, you know?” *** Here’s how different it is: A week ago, Jeff was back in Philly, lifting weights and whatnot. He was trying to set up a tryout in Nowheresburggartbachslautern, Germany, and spending time with “this girl I’m kind of talking to right now.” (“Kind of talking to” must be the new “hanging out with,” which, of course, replaced “dating,” which, according to my Mom, replaced “going steady with.” As with most things regarding boys and girls, it’s all very confusing.) In other words, a week ago, Jeff was just another in-betweener wondering what to do with the rest of his life. Today, he’s living in a hotel in Secaucus, NJ, and Bob Bradley is yelling at him. That’s cool with Jeff, too. At least Bradley knows his name. Jeff isn’t one of US Soccer’s golden children. He isn’t buds with Carson Daly. And no offense, but Drexel ain’t exactly a household-name-producing soccer powerhouse. So up til now, Jeff has pretty much been invisible. Of course, that means his fellow Drexel Dragons appreciate his being drafted that much more. It was cause for much dragon-like celebration and…ahem, libations. “We all went to McFadden’s, a bar in the Old City in Philly, and put a couple down,” Jeff said sheepishly of his post-draft merriment. “Some of the older guys came out,” Jeff continued. “They were busting my balls, saying ‘No one remembers the guys in the middle. Everyone only remembers first and last.’ Man, I was laughing.” Jeff’s got a good laugh, deep and hearty, probably something he got from his Dad, who owns a construction company. He’s a good-looking kid: strong jaw, bright eyes, jazz dot, and all the right Nike apparel. His shaggy, curly hair that juts out of his black skullcap, making him look bizarrely like a New England lobsterman, of all things. And he’s bigger than 6’1”, 180, that’s for sure. So far, Jeff has followed the last-draft-pick rules: Keep your mouth shut and work your ass off. He admitted to being nervous before his debut training session, but he didn’t trip over the ball on his first touch. So he has that going for him. Which is nice. And Bob Bradley has yelled at him only once this week—for trapping the ball with the bottom of his foot. (Oh, the shame…) Now, all he has to do is overcome the impossible odds of a last pick making the team. It can be done, I told him: I myself can lay claim to the MLS record for the latest draft pick to make the team: 16th round. “That’s cool,” he replied characteristically. “I’m just glad I’m getting a shot. I don’t know what my chances are, but, man, I hope I make the team.” Well said. *** How can you not root for the last draft pick? He’s the ultimate little guy, the most-under underdog, the American dreamer with the biggest American dream (sigh…). He’s the movie hero without a movie, a real-life Waterboy or Rudy or Lucas. (“Throw it to Lucas! Lucas is open!” Who doesn’t love Corey Haim?) Going back to Brooklyn—a mere 2 hours, 20 minutes this time; again, $0.00 earned—I suddenly remembered an anecdote that seemed apropos to Jeff’s quest: On my way out to meet Jeff, I had ended up being the last person riding the bus. I got worried and asked the driver if I was on the right bus for Secaucus. The driver smiled into the rearview mirror and said: “Don’t worry, buddy. As the good book says, the last shall be first.” Good luck, Jeff. Greg Lalas played with the Tampa Bay Mutiny and the New England Revolution between 1996 and 1997. Views and opinions expressed in this column views and opinions are the author's, and not necessarily those of Major League Soccer or MLSnet.com. Print this article >>