Three or four years ago I tried my hand at fantasy football on the advice of a friend. I was strategic about the choosing of my players, picking only the next best available player from a ranked list issued by ESPN. Not really being a huge football fan at the time, I didn't really pay any attention to the weekly games or statistics; only the final score of my games. I won over and over again, destroying all the lousy "fantasy experts" in my path. My team was essentially a well-oiled, self-sustaining killing machine that required no maintenance or even any supervision. Before I knew it, the season had ended and I had not lost a game. Everyone else in the league hated me because they knew I didn't truly give a shit about football. Ha ha. I won, you all lost. Eat my dust.
That was years ago.
Recently, I have come to appreciate sports, specifically football, for the amount of intellect that goes into it. It had previously been my assumption that football was simply 60 minutes of brutish idiots running into each other and throwing a ball around. "How vapid," I thought. I was so much better than watching sports. What an asshole. As I watch more sports, I realize how much of a chess match every game is. By virtue of that aspect, it is interesting to see how each team will adapt to meet the challenge of the other.
Anyway, this year I though I would try to set up a fantasy football league of my own. I figured that understanding the game a little better would surely give me an edge. Myself, four friends and seven strangers became part of "Denver Colorado FC!" My team, Elway for President, began the season shaky, winning three of my first six games. After this point, however, I started to settle back in to my previous spot of the killing machine. Only this time the team wasn't maintenance-free. In fact, it required constant maintenance as my players would get hurt or suspended on a weekly basis. I was tactful about my attacks, trading for players who would have strong match-ups against crappy teams. Week in and week out I would make at least three trades. And it payed dividends. By season's end I shared the best record in the league with my friend Jon, who I matched up with in the final game.
Before I proceed, it is worth noting that I spent hours upon hours each week studying my upcoming game, making trades, watching ESPN for helpful news, etc. Therefore, knowing that I had made it to the final game of the season, one might expect that I would treat this game with just as much fervor as any other game, if not much, much more. Well, this would probably be true if it weren't for my vacation. See, I live in Denver. It's cold here. Cold sucks. Snow sucks more. So, my wife and I decided to go to some place warm: San Diego. It's hard to focus on anything but San Diego when you're there. Nevertheless, I made an effort to ensure that I would be the Denver Colorado FC! victor when the dust from the final game had settled. My iPhone battery (yes, I collected myself and bought another) hated me for constantly updating the scorecard as the events of the championship unfolded as I unfolded on the lukewarm, sunny beach. At the end of the evening on Sunday, I was down by 30 points. Down but certainly not out. See, I had three, count 'em, three Vikings players playing monday night against the Bears. Sydney Rice, Percy Harvin, (Brett Favre's favorite two wide recievers) and kicker Ryan Longwell. All season long, these three players never failed to combine for 30 points. The trophy was mine!
Wait, who the fuck is Visanth Shiancoe?!
At the end of the first half, my three players had netted me three, count 'em, three points. Three fucking points! I was sweating. Somehow, though, in the second half, my team rallied. The Vikings had come back from a huge deficit to tie the game, forcing overtime! What's more, I was only down by 10! Jon was texting me with a bead of sweat beginning to form above his brow. I played it cool, though I was shaky at the incredible chain of events that led up to this point and at the proposition of eternal, albeit fantasy, glory. Overtime began with the Bears winning the coin toss. All they had to do was go down the field and kick a field goal. They couldn't do it. With a swift karate chop, the Vikings had the ball with 90 yards to go for a touchdown. I did the math just then and realized that, with a single pass to either Rice or Harvin, a 90-yard reception and touchdown would put me over the top for the win. Even without that grandiose finale, a few catches by either receiver and a field goal would make me victorious. Yes, YES... it was all coming together at the last moment! Oh, what a triumph it would be! We would be 70 years old and still talking about how the entire season came down to an overtime game in which I pulled victory from the jaws of defeat like some kind of infamous conqueror or a Disney sports movie. Brett Favre looks down the field. "You can take this field," he said to himself, "it'll be just like old times." The brisk wind drove a chill down the spine of everyone in attendance, both at the stadium and via television. With all the drama of the condensed version of The OC, the ball was hiked. Farve stepped back to survey the situation, looking left then right. "No one open," Farve thought, "Where's Peterson?" Adrian Peterson stepped out of a block and into a hand off from Favre. "Peterson? Throw the fucking ball," I yelled. Peterson fakes to his left and steps to his right. The field looks like it can be taken in a single run, so Peterson tries for just that. Noticing the same thing, I stood up and started screaming as I could see the tales of my heroism dissolving. Just then, out of nowhere, a Bears defenseman hit Peterson, who promptly dropped the ball, which the bears promptly recovered. And, since the ball was so close to the Bears' end zone when it was fumbled, the Bears simply had to move up the field ten yards or so to ensure that their kicker could easily kick a field goal. Their kicker never had to worry about this, however, because Jay Cutler completed the first pass he threw for a touchdown, and the game was through. And just like that, an entire season was over.
I took in a deep breath, followed by a deep sigh, and texted my conqueror with a congratulatory message, after which I drown in a cascade of my own tears. My wife had to slap me. Several times.
Fuck you fantasy football, you fickle bitch. You broke my heart... And I can't wait to do it all over again.
~Jumbo
