Last Place Has Benefits in the NFL

Why bad NFL teams sometimes get an easier road back

For all the complaining fans do about NFL scheduling, the league has a system designed to keep all teams thriving. The NFL doesn’t want permanent doormats or untouchable dynasties.

Teams that finish poorly are rewarded with theoretically easier schedules. Last-place teams play other last-place teams in portions of the schedule. 

Better teams get punished with tougher opponents because they face other division winners and higher finishers. Success can make your next season harder before training camp even begins.

Then the NFL doubles down with the draft.

The weaker you are, the higher you pick. The idea is simple: help struggling franchises recover quickly and keep fan bases emotionally invested. Every spring, bad teams are handed fresh hope in the form of rookie quarterbacks, new coaches, and “this changes everything” draft grades from ESPN.

I started following Cleveland when the Browns drafted Shedeur Sanders from CU. He ended the season as QB1 after the team traded Joe Flacco and Dillon Gabriel hurt himself.

The Browns have the formula the NFL system rewards:

  • a new coach,
  • a stack of draft picks,
  • an easier schedule,
  • and Shedeur Sanders, a bargain low-round draft pick from last season, 2025

There’s an energy around teams like that. The Browns franchise stands at the starting line of a rebuild, and in the NFL that can be a dangerous thing.

A few draft picks hit, a young quarterback catches momentum, and suddenly a team everyone laughed at the year before is flexing muscles on national television in December.

Meanwhile my local Denver Broncos took a different path.

Instead of stockpiling draft picks and rebuilding patiently, Denver pushed its chips into the middle of the table and traded away draft capital for elite wide receiver Jaylen Waddle.

That’s the high-risk, win-now model. It can work brilliantly if the star player transforms the team immediately. But it also means less depth, fewer young players developing behind the scenes, and less margin for error.

So now the Broncos face the harder side of the NFL’s balancing act:

  • tougher schedule,
  • fewer draft resources,
  • higher expectations,
  • and a loaded AFC.

The Browns, meanwhile, get the softer landing the league intentionally provides struggling teams.

That’s why the NFL works so well. The league manufactures hope better than any sport in America. A 5-12team is never supposed to feel dead for long. The league recycles opportunity.

By August, every fan base convinces itself that, “This is the year we turn it around,” and every year, a few of them will be right, because that’s how the parity system is set up.

When UFOs Were for Crazy People

Now the government calls them UAPs and holds press conferences.

Belief in Unidentified Flying Objects (UFOs) for decades occupied the exclusive domain of conspiracy theorists, late-night AM radio callers, and guys who stored canned beans in underground bunkers.

Back then, if you talked about flying saucers in public, people looked at you the same way they’d look at someone claiming Bigfoot stole their lawnmower.

Today they call them Unidentified Aerial Phenomena (UAP), which sounds a lot more respectable and government-funded. Somewhere along the line, UFOs got a promotion.

I’ll admit it. My fascination started when I read Erich von Däniken and his wildly popular book “Chariots of the Gods?” Von Däniken argued that extraterrestrials have been visiting Earth since ancient times and that many of the “angels” described in holy writings like the Bible and Torah may have been visitors from somewhere beyond our galaxy.

Was it far-fetched? Absolutely.

Did teenage me eat it up like Buford gas station beef jerky on a Wyoming road trip? Also absolutely.

I tend to trust my own observations more than theories. That brings me to one unforgettable weekend in 1980.

I was reading the front page of the “Casper Star-Tribune” when I came across a story about strange UFO sightings at the Morton Pass area along Wyoming Highway 34 between Wheatland and Laramie. The property belonged to Pat McGuire and his family.

The sketch by Marina Wormus illustrated the story by Greg Bean.

Now this wasn’t your standard “my cousin saw lights after six Coors Banquets” kind of story.

McGuire claimed he’d been abducted multiple times. According to reports, hypnotic regression sessions conducted by Professor Leo Sprinkle at the University of Wyoming revealed encounters with alien beings who supposedly instructed him to drill a water well on otherwise useless land.

The result? A gusher that provided enough to irrigate alfalfa fields.

No UFO story is complete without at least one detail that makes everybody tilt their head sideways. McGuire flew an Israeli flag over the well because he said the Star of David adorned the aliens’ belt buckles.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Naturally, I talked a few friends from Gillette to load into a van and headed south in search of extraterrestrials.

We camped out on the property and, sure enough, saw strange lights moving in the distance over the prairie sky. Were they spacecraft? Military exercises? Reflections? Atmospheric weirdness?

I’ll tell you this. When you’re standing in the middle of the Wyoming night with nothing around but wind, sagebrush, and stars the size of dinner plates, your imagination becomes very open-minded.

I’d call it a close encounter of the “pretty darn interesting” kind.

Over the years, I’ve become less interested in little green men and more interested in the spiritual side of the phenomenon.

Oddly enough, evangelist Billy Graham wrote in his book “Angels: God’s Secret Agents,” speculated that extraterrestrials could be part of God’s creation.

I’ve wondered if what ancient people described as angels might overlap with what modern people describe as UFO encounters.

It’s harder to laugh the subject off now that the Department of Defense has released footage and reports from military pilots describing UAP. When fighter pilots start saying, “Yeah, we saw something weird moving at impossible speeds,” suddenly the old UFO crowd doesn’t seem quite so crazy.

Well, slightly less crazy.

I still don’t know what I saw over Morton Pass all those years ago, but it made for one heck of a Wyoming weekend.

Unlike the aliens, the memories have never disappeared.

Born on the 1st Saturday in May

I didn’t just show up on May 2nd. I arrived with hooves thundering in the background.

The 79th running of the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs provided a dramatic soundtrack for my birthday. Between the starting gate and the finish line, I made my entrance into the world. Timing, as I would later learn, is everything, especially if you’re betting on it.

My dad, meanwhile, had money riding on the favorite, Native Dancer. This wasn’t the polished, app-based gambling world we know today. No sleek interfaces or “deposit bonus” nonsense. 

This was Cheyenne, Wyoming, where a guy would stroll into local businesses like he was delivering office supplies, except he was taking bets. Completely illegal but completely trusted.

Dad also dabbled in Irish Sweepstakes tickets, which were as legal as robbing a bank but with better branding. I don’t recall him ever hitting it big, but that never seemed to matter. He was a gambling man in the purest sense, not chasing riches, but the action and the thrill.

Then came the race. On the left is a photo taken on May 2, 1953, of Dark Star in the winner’s circle.

Native Dancer looked like a sure thing. If there’s one thing horse racing stories have, it’s a good plot twist. Dark Star, a longshot with a name that sounds like a rejected Batman villain, surged at the wire and won by a neck.

Just like that, my dad lost his bet, and just like that, I was born into a world where the favorite doesn’t always win.

That’s a fitting origin story.

By the time I turned 19, the legal drinking age at the time, Kentucky Derby Day had officially leapfrogged Christmas as my favorite holiday. Mint juleps replaced the tree and presents.

Back in the day, before gambling went respectable and crossed state lines, I had to work for it. I tracked down off-track betting joints, like the Stampede in Aurora, Colorado,  like a guy following a treasure map. I walked in, placed a bet, grabbed a drink, and for two minutes I was a part of the race action.

These days, I’ve scaled it back. On my birthday this year, the bookie and my upstairs neighbor, Lindy, organized a casual race pool. This year I drew the 22 horse, Ocialia, that showed and won $3. The ritual hits the same. 73 years later. The call to the post, the crowd, the faint hope that I drew the winning horse.

If my Kentucky Derby birthday taught me anything, it’s that favorites are comforting, and longshots are interesting. Life has a funny way of siding with the Dark Stars of the world.