It was shortly after Labor Day Weekend and I was sitting in a circle with my best buddies trash-talking each other’s favorite football prospects for the year. Discussing running back value vs. quarterback value, which tight end would, in fact, be the tightest and making wagers on who would go undefeated because he drafted Arian Foster.
It seemed like the perfect start to a season of Fantasy Football.
Ever since that perfect start, I’ve realized that Fantasy Football is now ruining my life.
I manage two Fantasy Football teams, which makes me feel like I have two children. I’m always worried about who will play and if they’ll do well. If they don’t play as I’ve anticipated, I make excuses for them; saying they played against a better defense, or the game was played at Mile High Stadium or that the sun was in Tom Brady’s eyes. (For the record, I hate Tom Brady. He’s only on my Fantasy team because he’s the #2-rated quarterback in the NFL).
Just like a worried father, I have more gray hair than at the beginning of the season, my blood pressure fluctuates uncontrollably, and my alcohol intake has escalated dramatically. On Sundays, a day people refer to as The Holy Day, a day to go to Church, Target or relax by the TV, I’m pouring alcohol down my throat out of the stress and frustration that comes with the territory of Fantasy Football. If I don’t drink during games, I fear I may punch an innocent bystander.
And all of this for what? To root for the Titans just because Kenny Britt has 100+ yards and it’ll consequently improve my Fantasy stats?
Herein lies the problem: I’m not from Tennessee and the Titans suck.
I’ve given myself a second job. Managing my teams is like paying bills. If I don’t adjust my roster on time, I miss out on potential points (bounced checks), I’ll then suffer a drop in the league standings (bad credit), and an overall loss in the season (foreclosure, welfare, crack addiction etc.). Not only did I do terrible in Fantasy Football this year, but I’ve now fallen two tax brackets and am eating free tofu casserole with the rest of the hippies at Occupy Wall Street.
It’s now week 12 and I have nothing to show for it but bloated insides, fingertips that still smell like buffalo sauce, a deteriorating bank account and tiny, silver strands of hair sprouting forth from my 25-year-old scalp.
This is not exactly what I had in mind when entering this Fantasy Football season back in September. I got into this to have some fun and all I’m doing is developing an ulcer. I don’t even understand half the stats listed on the ESPN site. Forget trying to strategize by them.
This will be the last year I participate in this Fantasy bullshit. Kenny Britt and his 100 possible yards aren’t worth it; neither is hoping that Tim Tebow will throw for 1,000 yards in one game just to tie my opponent for the week. I’m trying to make sense out of infinite columns of numbers like I’m balancing a checkbook and that’s definitely not worth the payoff of pretending I comprehend it either.
Suffice it to say, next September, I’ll host yet another fantasy draft with the same circle of friends bitching about the prior season’s woes and getting excited about all the new NFL prospects. I’ll just have to convince myself it’ll be a fresh, new season because in order to play fantasy, I have to think fantasy.
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