Fantasy league football is God’s way of saying “I got nothing! “.
If you’re not familiar with the game, you should probably stick to Netflix chilling. Don’t get me wrong, the endeavor is kitschy and amusing, but it’s also horribly redundant when you consider we live in a world where questions as to what is real and what is fake already take up way too much of our brain matter. Fantasy football takes reality and squeezes it into an unnatural paste that compromises many a fan’s enjoyment of the sport. Good thing for me I don’t watch much football and possess a half-ass (at best) knowledge of the players. If I was any more blissfully ignorant, I’d be in Congress.
The history of fantasy football dates back to 1962, when a part owner of the Oakland Raiders got together with a few of his pals and a shit ton of alcoholic beverages in a New York City hotel room and came up with a game based on players statistical valuations. That lost weekend has become a $70 billion dollar industry that gives fans yet another reason to love the game, and hate it too. Both.
I’ve partaken of this curious netherworld once before and I acquitted myself rather nicely with a playoff berth. After which I was unceremoniously discarded by an opponent who chose his players based on results rather than by whether or not their names would fit in a Tarantino flick.
The ass kicking was a reminder that some peeps take this shit seriously. They read up on the numbers and watch videos and a lot of them even play in several leagues simultaneously. I refer to these folks as psychos . . . sorry Frank.
There are a million different leagues with a million different rules out there and for the purpose of this blog post I will ignore all of them. My league worships at the altar of the running back position, which runs counter (pun intended) to the actual sport, where running backs are afterthoughts compared to quarterbacks and wide receivers.
My original lineup was plenty good, or so I thought. I had guys like Aaron Rodgers, Keenan Allen, Jaylen Waddle, Najee Harris and Kyle Pitts. It was peach street to my lying eyes, after which the season started and my pie went rancid. Outside of Waddle, who’s been a solid keep, I gave the Luca Brasi treatment to the rest of these dudes. Aaron Rodgers played like Mr. Rogers on hallucinogenic tea. It was easier to spot Bigfoot than Keenan Allen this year thanks to a hamstring malady. Najee Harris played like Franco Harris, which ain’t good considering the latter is 72 years old. Kyle Pitts, as it turns out, is aptly named. I was able to turn those deplorables into some righteous gets; namely Jeff Wilson, Miles Sanders, Isiah Likely and the future Mayor of Chicago, Justin Fields. If I was a real general manager for a real football team, my acquisition of Fields would’ve meant season tickets to the Lyric Opera House, my own booth at Gibson’s and a shared hedgerow with the Obamas. Instead, I’ll have to settle for a winning streak. Whatevs.
After a forgettable start, I fought my way back to 5-5 with a chance to make the playoffs, where anything can happen (Read: Imma get my ass handed to me). That’s another problem with fantasy football. It’s damn near impossible to cheat your way to victory. The best I could do on this count was offer an opponent a bottle of Hennessy if he sat Josh Allen for our tilt. I also engaged in some trash talking with another opponent in a failed attempt to make him forget he had a couple players to switch out on their bye weeks. Alas, my record has nary a “Gate” but mucho mediocrity.
Next year I’m joining a Chess Club.