Winners and Losers of the 2026 NFL Draft
Every year, the NFL Draft is eagerly and enthusiastically awaited by fans across the globe, who simply can’t wait to see who their team chooses—and then to eagerly consume the takes of talking heads, bitch or gloat about it on social media, or, if you’re me, triple up on blood pressure medication and stare into the void.
The reality is, it’s entirely meaningless, and a shameless exercise in click-chasing. Nobody knows what they’re really talking about—except us, of course—and every writer’s goal is to generate the most engagement, not the most accuracy. We are fortune tellers at a county fair, except instead of a crystal ball we have 40-yard dash times and vague phrases like “motor” and “football IQ.”
Leaving aside the inane idiocy of grading players before they’ve played so much as a practice snap, you don’t have to worry about that with us. Nobody clicks on our stuff anyway.
But here’s the thing: we do it because we have to. It’s sports fandom’s version of touching a hot stove just to make sure it still burns. We know this is dumb. We know that five years from now half these guys will be out of the league, one will be a Hall of Famer nobody saw coming, and another will be selling crypto on Instagram after flaming out in Jacksonville. We know that injuries, coaching incompetence, and sheer randomness will render most of this analysis about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
And yet… here we are.
Because hope is a hell of a drug. Because projection is intoxicating. Because there’s something deeply satisfying about pretending, just for a moment, that we can see the future clearly enough to separate brilliance from disaster before a single helmet is even buckled.
So yes, this is stupid. Yes, this is pointless. Yes, this is the sports equivalent of betting your rent money on a roulette wheel labeled “vibes.”
Now that we’ve acknowledged all of that—and chased it with several aggressive pours of Casamigos—let’s do it anyway.
Biggest Winners:
3. Dallas Cowboys
Sounds weird, right? Grandpa Jerry Jones is long past the point where someone needed to take the keys away from him, install a GPS tracker, and gently redirect him toward shuffleboard. And yet… here we are. Competence. Actual competence.
Caleb Downs at 11 is a heist. Not a steal—a heist. Masks, duffel bags, Oceans Eleven music playing in the background. One of the best players in the entire draft, regardless of position, and the Cowboys just… took him. Like it was normal. Like they didn’t need to overthink it or draft a crappy guard with “elite hand size.”
Then they follow it up with Malachi Lawrence at 23, and suddenly you’re looking at two potential cornerstone defensive players on a unit that spent 2025 getting carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Yes, you can quibble about not addressing wide receiver before the seventh round—especially with the George Pickens situation ticking like a time bomb strapped to a Monster Energy drink—but this is nitpicking.
If this isn’t a home run, it’s at last a smoked triple into the gap with multiple runners on. Everyone else in this draft could turn out like your Taco Bell at 2 am decision yesterday and it would still be a win, but that said, Alabama defensive tackle LT Overton should immediately help a run defense that was so bad last season it’s being investigated by The Hague.
2. New England Patriots
I would rather drink turpentine out of a rusty funnel than compliment the Patriots, but here we are. Truth is truth, and my suffering is apparently part of the deal.
The defending AFC champs didn’t need a lot—but they got better anyway. Which is exactly what competent organizations do while the rest of the league is busy arguing about shuttle drills and Wunderlich tests.
Caleb Lomu falling to 28 is absurd. Borderline criminal. A franchise tackle just sitting there like an unopened bottle of Pappy Van Winkle in a gas station liquor aisle. Of course they take him. Of course they do.
Then Gabe Jacas at 55 to juice up a pass rush that needed just a little more bite. Fine. Great. Annoying.
But then they keep going. Eli Raridon, who is better than Nate Boerkircher—who Jacksonville took a full round earlier—and he has an immediate role on a team with only Hunter Henry in front of him. Behren Morton in the seventh, who might be “just a backup,” which in the seventh round is basically daylight robbery with a signed confession note.
They didn’t just draft well. They drafted like a team that expects to be playing meaningful football in late January again. Which, unfortunately, they probably will be.
1. Cleveland Browns
I know. I know. Sit down, take a sip, let the room stop spinning.
But this is the rare instance where the Browns accidentally executed a master plan that smarter organizations try to pull off and fail.
They got better… without getting too good. They added a truckload of skill to a roster that desperately needed it without improving their 2026 outlook enough to take them out of the running for yet another high first round pick… in a draft projected to be deep at quarterback.
That’s the sweet spot. That’s the fine wine pairing of roster construction. Though I’ll be honest, at this stage of the evening even Boone’s Farm tastes like Opus One.
Spencer Fano is a future Pro Bowl tackle. KC Concepcion at 24 might feel like a reach, but if you flip him and Denzel Boston in order, nobody bats an eye. That’s two starting-caliber players plus Boston, who is absolutely legit.
Then they casually snag Toledo’s Emmanuel McNeil-Warren at 59 like they found a hundred-dollar bill in an old pair of jeans. He immediately starts at safety and could be the best player in that secondary.
Ultimately, they are still going to be held back by quarterback play—which is perfect. Because now they’re set up to be bad enough to draft one next year, but good enough everywhere else to immediately compete if they fix that spot.
It’s the NFL equivalent of slow-cooking a brisket. Ugly process. Delicious payoff.
Biggest Losers:
3. Jacksonville Jaguars
No first-round pick hurts, sure. But that doesn’t excuse lighting your second-rounder on fire and calling it strategy.
Nate Boerkircher. Look, I’m not going to pretend I knew who he was pre-draft. Neither did you. Neither did most of the internet. And the consensus seems to be: “why here?”
This is a team that was close. A couple smart additions away from being a real problem. Instead, they drafted like a guy at a bar ordering the most expensive thing on the menu just to prove he can.
Pregnon in the third is nice. After that? Shrug emoji. This roster needed reinforcement and instead got an eye chart of anonymity. If you’re Trevor Lawrence, you’re pissed.
2. Miami Dolphins
Armed with an extra first-round pick from the Jaylen Waddle trade, a blank canvas at wide receiver, and a very public commitment to the Malik Willis Experience™, the Dolphins walked into this draft with one job: give your quarterback something to work with.
Instead, they drafted like a team that forgot they have a quarterback.
Kadyn Proctor here isn’t just a reach—it’s a philosophical crisis. This isn’t a polished, plug-and-play anchor. This is a project. A “give him two years, a nutrition plan, and a motivational podcast” type of project. And that’s fine—in the right context. But you don’t spend premium draft capital on a developmental tackle when your offense currently resembles a yard sale of spare parts and broken promises.
And then it somehow gets worse.
You traded UP—for a corner. A corner. On a team that just handed Malik Willis big boy money like he’s about to headline Coachella, and then turned around and gave him the receiving equivalent of a gas station snack aisle. Chris Bell? Chris Douglas? These are complementary pieces on good teams, not lifelines for a quarterback you’re asking to justify a major financial investment.
This is like buying a Ferrari, parking it in your driveway, and then filling it with lawnmower fuel because you liked the can. You didn’t just fail to help Willis—you actively created a scenario where evaluating him becomes impossible. Is he bad? Is he good? Who knows! He’s throwing to guys who would be WR4s on teams that actually care about scoring points.
And the kicker? A deep quarterback class sat right there on Day 2 and Day 3 like unopened bottles behind the bar. Drew Allar. Carson Beck. Garrett Nussmeier. Even Taylen Green if you’re feeling adventurous. Take one. Hedge the bet. Give yourself an out.
They didn’t.
They pushed all their chips in on Willis… and then forgot to give him cards.
1. Los Angeles Rams
Ah yes. Pain. Familiar, reliable, bottom-shelf pain.
The Rams entered this draft with a roster that was right there. One score away from a Super Bowl appearance. A veteran quarterback in Matthew Stafford who is very much in the “enjoy him while you can” phase of his career. A loaded core. A real, tangible, honest-to-God championship window.
And what do they do with the 13th overall pick?
They draft a quarterback.
Ty Simpson. At 13. A reach so aggressive it should come with a warning label and a spotter.
Let’s be crystal clear about something: in the absolute, best-case, stars-align, angels-sing scenario… Simpson does not take a single meaningful snap in 2026. Not one. If everything goes right, he is holding a clipboard, nodding thoughtfully, and learning how to properly adjust his headset while Matthew Stafford actually tries to win a Super Bowl.
So congratulations, Rams. You used your most valuable asset in a win-now window on a guy whose optimal outcome is irrelevance this season.
But wait, it gets better.
With their second-round pick, they take another player who—brace yourself—also won’t play.
Max Klare. A tight end. Because apparently four tight ends wasn’t enough. Apparently the Rams looked at a room featuring Tyler Higbee, Colby Parkinson, Davis Allen, and last year’s second-rounder Terrance Ferguson and thought, “You know what this needs? Congestion.”
This isn’t depth. This is a traffic jam. This is the 405 at 5:15 PM, but everyone is a tight end and nobody is moving.
So just to recap: your top two picks—your premium, franchise-shaping, window-maximizing picks—are spent on players who, in the best possible version of reality, do not contribute to your 2026 season at all.
Not “limited snaps.” Not “situational roles.” Not “rotational contributors.”
Nothing.
That’s not just bad roster construction. That’s philosophical malpractice.
By the time they draft Keagen Trost—who is actually outstanding, by the way—it doesn’t matter. It’s like calling the fire department after the house has already collapsed into itself. Yes, thank you for arriving, but we’re now dealing with ashes and regret.
And the wide receiver situation? A roster that desperately needed a third option behind Puka Nacua and Davante Adams gets… a sixth-round flyer on CJ Daniels. A nice kid. Good hands. Probably makes a great impression in meetings. Will not be open against NFL defenders unless they agree beforehand to social distancing.
This is what makes it so infuriating. The Rams didn’t just miss—they ignored the assignment entirely. This wasn’t a team that needed to plan for 2028. This was a team that needed to squeeze every last drop out of 2026 like it was the final pour of a bottle you’ll never see again.
Instead, they invested in the future like they’ve got all the time in the world.
They don’t.
And here’s where it stops being funny.
If this team doesn’t win the Super Bowl this season—this season—then Les Snead needs to be answering some extremely uncomfortable questions. Because you don’t get to straddle timelines like this. You don’t get to say “we’re all-in” while quietly hoarding developmental pieces like a squirrel preparing for a winter that may never come.
This is a championship roster. Or at least it was treated like one—right up until the moment the draft started. And if it ends with anything short of a Lombardi, this draft won’t be remembered as quirky or forward-thinking. It’ll be remembered as the moment the guys who fancy themselves the smartest in the room, outsmarted themselves.
In Memoriam, Me:
Why do we do this to ourselves?
No seriously—why do I do this to myself?
I know better. You know better. We all know better. This entire exercise is the sports equivalent of arguing about which toddler is going to be the best accountant based on how they stack blocks.
None of this matters. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
These players haven’t played a snap. They haven’t seen a real defense, a real pass rush, a real game speed that makes college highlights look like a controlled environment study.
And yet here I am, sitting at a keyboard, emotionally invested in whether the Dolphins drafted enough receivers, as if that’s going to impact my life in any meaningful way.
It won’t. But it feels like it might.
That’s the hook. That’s the sickness. That’s the thing that keeps us coming back, year after year, like moths to a flame or me to a bottle of tequila that I know—know—is going to betray me in the morning.
Because maybe this time we’ll be right. Maybe this time we’ll spot the breakout star, call the disaster pick, predict the rise and fall of franchises with eerie precision.
We won’t. We absolutely will not.
But for a few fleeting hours, sitting there with our takes, our grades, and our dangerously confident opinions, we get to pretend that we understand something that is, in reality, completely and utterly unknowable.
And honestly?
That’s worth the hangover.
SPORTSWRITING WITH RECKLESS INTEGRITY
If you made it this far, you already know what we do here. We write about greatness and delusion, triumph and collapse, and the strange emotional hold sports keeps on people who should probably know better.
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