“Dear Mr. Fantasy, play me a tune, something to make us all happy.” With apologies to Traffic, I imagine Steve Winwood was not singing about my latest foray into fantasy football; and, if he was, the tune was discordant, and the only people being made happy are the eleven other teams by whom I’m planning on being massacred this season.
Yes, fantasy football is big business in this country. You can probably find more people who take part in this venture than folks who voted for Cher in the recent Presidential election, and that’s saying something. Let me preface this rant by saying I used to be a regular purveyor of fantasy sports, part of an alliance of people in this country who spend one to two days out of the week each fall bellowing at the television like a yak (while possessing hygiene on par with that brand of bovine) because their wide receiver’s YAC is not up to par.
I vehemently resisted the clarion call to return to fantasy football for six full years, instead turning my undervalued attention to opining on sports. When it became patently obvious that I spent just as much time and lost as much money doing the latter, I returned to my roots (which coincidentally involve pulling them out of my head as well). And, as an ode to my storied heritage, Team Deja Jew was born, with the king of schmaltz, Fyvush Finkel, starring as my emoticon. What follows is the first-person account of the harrowing journey that was draft day …
Monday was a day that began like many others, an early morning wake-up call at 9am, gentle sobbing, and shuffling around the pointless detritus littered all over the desk. Only this time, the stacks of papers represented hope, a bunch of fantasy rankings (or, since I’m spending writing an article on how I spent time preparing for drafting an illusion of a team, maybe hopelessness). Since nothing that occurred over the next twelve hours is printable, or even deserves to be printed, let’s flash forward to the actual draft.
It began at 8:30pm, around the time I’m usually immersed in Sanford and Son reruns. Having known this was the time of the draft for no less than six weeks, it should naturally come as no surprise that I stumbled in late, only to find that I was picking first. Keep in mind drafting first overall is the fantasy equivalent of a curse, like being born with the name Chastity. Sure, it’s all well and good to be in position to draft the best player possible, but the amount of time it takes to get back around after watching player after player go to other teams that will no doubt be walloping my band of fantasy nitwits is enough to drive a monk insane.
Naturally suspicious about Chris Johnson’s rant on fake Titans fans (what does he have against mannequins?) and Arian Foster (hey, I’m Jewish, I read ‘Arian” and thought it said ‘Aryan’), I went with Adrian Peterson. Then, I waited, waited, and waited. It took so long to get back to me, there were probably a dozen or so more NCAA programs getting busted for rules violations that occurred in the interim where Ray Rice, Jamaal Charles, Larry Fitzgerald, and others were helplessly plucked away from me by the other schmoes in the league.
Perhaps it was a fantasy-induced stupor or just the sheer amount of trash-talking I was doing on the chat feature of the draft website, but I completely lost track of who I was picking second and, before long, I was impaled by Damocles’ sword, personified by the draft choice of Shonn Greene. It might not be good draft strategy, but I never select players who can’t properly spell their first name. (Furthermore, I refuse to draft a guy who obviously couldn’t decide on a first name. Here’s looking at you, Jermichael Finley, who stole most of the basketball player’s name instead.) It is just bad writing form, and I will not let my communications degree get belittled any more than it has to by a guy who rushed for all of two lousy touchdowns last year, but, alas, Greene was automatically selected when I ran out of time. Next, I drafted Miles Austin. I figured it’s always good to have at least one Cowboy on the roster in the event I need some sort of alibi.
After three rounds of ignominy, I looked like one of those camera shots of Eli Manning staring ahead, cluelessly still wearing his helmet on the sideline like a confused rug rat who just gave away the game. Therefore, I drafted Ole Eli. What followed was one part crime scene, two parts Roseanne Barr singing (singeing?) the national anthem on one gray San Diego day.
Jason Witten. (What’s an alibi without two guys to back you up?) Jeremy Maclin. Kevin Kolb. (If he can do at least as well as Gary Hogeboom, he’s a keeper.) Bears defense. (If they can hold off mini Ditka, I’m good to go.) Steve Smith. (I had to double and triple check to make sure I got the right guy and not the other 50 Steve Smith’s that play sports; and, by “right guy,” I’m referring to the receiver who had 100 yards receiving last year if you add up his last 4 games.) Rob Bironas. (Kicker, next!) Sidney Rice. (Denial is not just a river in Egypt, it’s taking a guy who keeps finding a way to get hurt; what’s that, a shoulder injury now? Great!) Brandon Pettigrew. (My cheat sheet made me do it.) Falcons defense. (Just in case mini Ditka triumphs this time.) Ronnie Brown. (Impulse purchase at the checkout counter, kind of like that pack of Juicyfruit, saw palmetto, and rag magazine you really don’t need.) Johnny Knox. (Hey, I thought the guy from Jackass could help instill some toughness into my team… Wait, what?!?)
So, after my first fantasy draft in six years concluded, I spent the rest of Monday as I usually do. Curled up in a ball in the corner of my living room, bemoaning my sorrows, except this time I had more fuel for the fire.
Looking back on things, I guess it could have been worse. I mean, at least I still have Fyvush Finkel’s glorious visage staring me down (if you haven’t run an Internet search already, go ahead and do so). Also, I can always hope to finish ahead of The Wrist Cutters, not surprisingly a moniker picked out by a Raider fan whose name is Thor. (I’m not making that up.) 2011 will be remembered as the year I rediscovered my fantasy football Jones. 2012 will be hopefully be the year I hire a new general manager, a guy by the name of Auto Draft.
