29
Aug
2009
Living in oblivion
Because you care: My fantasy football draft gets underway in 2 hours and 28 minutes.
There’s an undercurrent of self-defeat in all of this.
After last season’s debacle, I promised to never to play fantasy again.
Reason #1: My teams have sucked horribly, painfully, year after year. Some of the worst fantasy teams ever assembled—last season ended with somebody named Chet Orley-Francine at quarterback and Aunt Jemima running the ball.
Reason #2: I just couldn’t get past the fact that I was a 35-year-old man who was regularly unsettled about my “team,” it’s riddled lineup, and inability to “win football games” on my computer.
As my contingent of oft-injured, mid-tier clowns tanked week after week, I felt my rich disdain for the entire operation bloom.
One thing about fantasy: it seems to me that if you get out of the gate slow, with a bunch of players unable to find themselves, you have about as much a chance at outshining your peers as Lauren Conrad at a Mensa convention.
"LC" and fantasy football contribute equally to this society.
My 2008 fantasy start was grizzly. I lost my opening three games by a combined four points–two of those games were lost by a fraction of a point. The scoring system was such where a runningback, for instance, could score 22.7 points in a game (suggesting–to me, at least–that this entire process took itself far too seriously). By Week Four, it was over: I lost by 70 points, the victim of my own poor administration (I was out of town for the weekend, and mistakenly started three bye players, a mid-malaise Chad Ochocinco, and Chelsea Clinton). Sitting at 0-4, looking up at a flock of 4-0 and 3-1 teams, my Matt Schaub-led band of hobby horses spiraled violently downward.
This Schaub guy (who I’m told, again, is a “sleeper”) drove me to drink. Week after week, he sabotaged my fake team: I’d play him and, in real life, he’d get the flu ten minutes before gametime, leaving the quarterback slot VOID. Thanks, Matt. So, I’d sit him, and he’d come in—randomly—and throw three touchdowns. I’d fall for it, play him the next week, and he’d burn up the field for 47 yards. By Week 8, I was floating.
I have a hard time imagining my grandfather, fresh out of World War II, deciding to spend his fall playing fantasy football. It certainly speaks to the complete ease most of us live in today. I’ll get flamed for suggesting that we’re in “languish” mode—yes, yes, I know: many adults who spend way too much time twiddling around with their fantasy football lineup also hold successfully hold down full-time jobs, engage in relationships as parents and spouses, and contribute to a local charity (or tavern). That said, I just can’t get past the absurdity of it all. Human beings were meant for more than this.
