But there is one constant through the years: The last pick rarely makes a dent in his team’s record, with most Mr. Irrelevants spending the bulk of their careers in obscurity on the bench or ending up in the C.F.L. Some have had serviceable or noteworthy careers, but most remain, well, irrelevant to the team’s performance.
On Saturday, barring a trade, the Denver Broncos, with the last pick, No. 253, will generate the next Mr. Irrelevant. Unlike the No. 1 pick, which is widely anticipated and seen by millions of fans, the name of Mr. Irrelevant 2017, if pattern holds, will be heard by only a handful of fans in the theater at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, where the draft selections will be announced this year.
Those die-hard fans tend to rush the stage in mock jubilation just before the last pick is announced. This year, Salata’s daughter, Melanie Fitch, will do the honor. She will also unfurl a jersey with the number 253 on the back.
Salata takes special satisfaction in the annual offbeat ritual.
Like most of the players awarded Mr. Irrelevant, Salata had a career, in the early 1950s, that was brief and largely unremarkable. A wide receiver at U.S.C., he played just 23 games in the old All-American Football Conference and the N.F.L., and then a few years in Canada, before leaving the game in 1953.
After football, he landed a few minor roles in movies like “Stalag 17,” and then went to work in his family’s construction business in Southern California.
For years afterward, he helped one of his old teams, the San Francisco 49ers, on draft day, and saw how players picked in the lower rounds received little notice. Given his own humble career, he thought they deserved a spotlight as well.
“Everyone who is drafted works hard, and some of them don’t get any recognition,” Salata said in a phone interview from his home in Newport Beach, Calif. “They do their work and should be noticed.”
About 50 years ago, Salata read about people in a charitable mood who would pick individuals out of a phone book and offer to fly them to Southern California. He wanted to apply what he saw as an act of kindness to football players. So he approached Commissioner Pete Rozelle, who liked his idea of naming the last draft pick Mr. Irrelevant and flying the player to Newport Beach for a celebration.
The first Irrelevant Week got off to an appropriately madcap start.
The last player chosen in 1976, Kelvin Kirk, by the Steelers, initially thought he was being mocked. So Salata called the team’s owner, Art Rooney, whom he knew from his brief stay in Pittsburgh, and asked him to tell Kirk that he was in fact being honored. Kirk agreed to participate, but missed his flight to California and the parade in his honor.
That didn’t stop the parade from going forward.
Salata went into a grocery store and persuaded a butcher, who looked like a football player, to stand in for Kirk. People cheered and waved, apparently not realizing, or caring, that he was a plant for Kirk.
As his fill-in was answering questions during a news conference after the parade, Kirk arrived from a later flight and took over midway through. The reporters kept asking questions as if nothing had happened, Salata said.
Kirk’s N.F.L. career, like those of many other Mr. Irrelevants, was brief. He was cut after training camp that summer, and ended up in Canada, where he played for several years. He died in 2003.
Mr. Irrelevant has added a dash of whimsy to the rules- and order-obsessed N.F.L. The league provides the platform for the tradition to continue but is not involved in Irrelevant Week, other than to provide items to be auctioned for charity.
Teams, though, have come to realize that picking Mr. Irrelevant can turn into a media bonanza, so much so that they have tried to trade for the last pick in the draft. There is now the “Salata Rule,” which prohibits a team from deliberately passing on a pick for the purpose of choosing last.
Most players are so focused on trying to prepare for their first N.F.L. training camp that it takes them time to fully appreciate the attention being showered on them as the last pick.
“Everyone in the N.F.L. is steadfast that if you’re not picked in the first round, you might as well be last,” Hoag said. But celebrating the last pick in the draft makes sense, he said, because “you have a greater chance of being struck by lightning than getting drafted in the N.F.L.”
Hoag has made the most of his odd celebrity. After leaving the N.F.L., he worked in Italy as a model, and appeared on the reality show “Bachelor Pad” along with “The Bachelorette.” He now coaches tennis and works with children with disabilities.
Salata asks each winner what he would like to do during his celebration. Hoag, for instance, wanted to be the guest announcer on Jimmy Kimmel’s show, which was arranged. At least one visited the Playboy Mansion. Others have taken surfing lessons or visited Disneyland.
Salata’s generosity, though, has its limits. In 2001, the Arizona Cardinals chose tight end Tevita Ofahengaue last in the draft. Told to his bring family, Ofahengaue, who is from Tonga, where extended families stick together, took that literally and invited 62 people, with 35 friends and additional relatives showing up on their own.
That led to the “Ofahengaue Rule.” Now, players can bring one person free, but others must pay their own airfare.
Ofahengaue, who played parts of three seasons and now works as the director of recruiting operations at his alma mater, Brigham Young, said he remained friends with Salata and his family, and was proud that he had been recognized for overcoming the odds and being drafted, regardless of the round.
“It’s something they can’t take away from me,” Ofahengaue said. “It’s like the ‘Rudy’ story.”
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