I never imagined I would be “that guy,”. I was never going to be the dude who plays Fantasy League Football as if it’s a side job that he really needs because his wife is pregnant again and he’s got a mortgage payment that’s trashing the shit out of his sleep.
The guy who treats Fantasy League Football as if it’s, yanno . . important.
And yet here I am, immersing myself in the data idolatry of a cursed art whose fake news applique renders me a rag doll to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s pulverizing thrusts. Listen, I don’t dig the imagery of the Rock having his way with me, but I’m just ‘splaining the how it be of this latest football fascination of mine.
I have become downright obsequious to this shit, and it truly pisses me off. How truly? Bitch, I just used obsequious . . in context . . without the benefit of a well made hallucinogen! I happen to think that’s evidence enough of just how truly pissed off I am.
Lemme give you an example as to the sickness I’ve been getting down with since signing up.
I give a shit about Leonard Fournette. Don’t get me wrong, the rookie running back for the Jacksonville Jaguars seems like a fine gentleman by all accounts. But it never occurred to me to give him a second thought, much less have a thought like this run through my mind . . .
I wonder what Leonard’s doing right now?
Would I have wondered such a thing before this season? Hells. No. But seeing as how he’s the featured back on my fantasy squad, I wanted to know. Heading into last weekend’s games, Fournette was a question mark due to a gimpy ankle. And let’s just say I wasn’t exactly stocked at the position. My second best RB would have had a hard time beating the UPS guy in a 40 yard dash. So I picked up Latavius Murray and sat Fournette. Aside from having a cool name, all I know about Latavius . . is that he has a cool name. But a little fantasy shopping, and I had my guy. Long story short? My man came through with twenty one points. Which is fantasy speak for cha-ching!
A postscript to that whole episode is that Fournette actually played, but he only fetched eleven points. All the same, I love him every bit as much as Latavius. Just so long as they produce next week, I do.
Conversely, I also happen to think bad things of people I do not even know. People like Julio Jones, a wide receiver for the Atlanta Falcons. JJ was my primo get for this fantasy season, and I actually celebrated with a few beverages of choice when I realized I had scored his services. If you would have given me the choice of bedding Giselle in Vegas whilst Tom was busy doing his job or having Julio dropped into my lap in the Fantasy League draft? I would’ve been torn. Okay, maybe not torn. I’d definitely go with bedding Giselle. But I would’ve been pretty pissed that I missed out on drafting Julio.
So far this season, Julio has been disappointing to say the least. He’s the twenty seventh ranked wide receiver, which is fantasy speak for shit. I’ve debated trading Jones but I can’t bring myself to do so. This must be what it feels like to own a Jaguar; the car, not the football team.
Then there’s Ben Roethlisberger, a recent pick up of mine who delivered for me this past weekend. I sat Dak Prescott in favor of Big Ben, which ended up being an inspired choice. Personally, I don’t like Big Ben in the least . . but he’s producing so I’m not gonna kill someone. This must be what it feels like to be Negan.
I’m debating as to whether I should play Fantasy League next season. My consternation is the result of having shouted “Yes!” after another pathetic loss by my Dolphins . . . simply because I have Kenny Stills on my team and he scored me twenty four points. This was a defining moment, and it allowed me to see what I have become: A shallow, narcissistic stats compiler who doesn’t give a fuck about allegiances. The kind of materialistic douche who cares more about stats than soul. This must be what it feels like to be one of those analytics people.
This fantasy league relationship is weighing on me, and I’m only a couple months into it. I’m thinking I should take next season off. Hey . . . maybe I’ll feast every twenty three years, like that giant demon cicada in Jeepers Creepers. Or maybe I’ll play CFL fantasy league . . . because nothing says football like Canada.
In all seriousness, it might not be the worst idea to familiarize myself with our neighbors to the north, in the event the shit hits the fan here and I need to figure an escape route to safety. I can become a survivalist on training wheels. I’ll need a camper, spam and whiskey stores. And a shitload of fat warming threads from Columbia. Maybe I can make friends with Michael Moore on social media and we can go halfsies on a badass fortress (preferably by a lake) in some outpost town populated by grizzlies.
I feel better already.