“Not to me it’s not,” I would shoot back, ignoring warning signs triggered by my insatiable urge to check statistics each waking moment. I would even sleep walk to check a box score if necessary in case I accidentally induced myself into a football watching, wings and seven-layer-dip-coma on the couch.
This past fantasy football off-season as I was mounting (or sticking rather), my 2007 award in the place of my now ex-girlfriend’s picture I took a moment to reflect and look back. “Was it all worth it?” I thought as I admired my 9th place ribbon barely affixed to the mantle, secured by just a lone piece of scotch tape. Like a rock climber suspended in mid air with a carabineer attached to his crotch, my ribbon was holding on for dear life. My sacred prize looked like a creation done by a kindergartner who ate too much glue, but that didn’t stop an amiable smile from appearing on my face. I had developed a strong connection with my fantasy players during the past season – a strong connection with their statistics that is. Just as I started to think that maybe my fantasy statistical crushes had started going a bit too far, a gust of wind dislodged my ribbon sending it spiraling out the window and into the awaiting grasps of a strategically positioned ribbon-stealing pigeon perched in a nearby tree. While I can’t lay direct blame to the pigeon for rapaciously burglarizing me of my prized ribbon, he didn’t exactly move out of the way and let it fall peacefully to its demise in the trash heap awaiting below either.
My ribbon is now probably the finishing piece on a nest somewhere to be admired only by roaming gangs of jealous pigeon thieves.
Two seasons ago after trying to reason with my family that Saturday was a much better day for a ceremony, I found myself at my Great Uncle’s funeral on a Sunday in early December. Locked in a tight race for the fourth and final playoff spot in my fantasy league I tried to sit calmly in my church pew as the ceremony commenced.
Shortly after kickoff, or as the Priest liked to call it – “Friends, today we gather to celebrate the life of…” the anxiety started to kick in. I felt a drop of sweat trickle down my forehead, travel past my nose, and then free fall onto the pew making a sound loud enough for a menacing glance from my Mother to shoot in my direction. Unfortunately that drop was just the beginning and soon I felt like San Francisco quarterbackAlex Smith trying to elude an ominous pass rush with the third string center as his only line of defense. To my chagrin, I didn’t have the luxury of even an eighth string center, but I did have my eight-year-old cousin Milo. Unfortunately, he was more interested in picking his nose and depositing it in the church hymn book than to be concerned with my desperate perspiration.
Would Roethlisberger go to the air against Cincinnati or stick to the running game? Was Brian Westbrook, a game-time decision, even in the game? I was miles from a computer or active Internet connection and even if I were to locate one, a brigade of defensive lineman in the form of my immediate family members would certainly stand my path of any possible first down; or escape rather.
I was screwed.
Just then the amazing happened. I started breaking out in a rash and the sweating became uncontrollable. My Mom’s menacing gaze became enraged and she motioned to the door for me to excuse myself. Seizing what I thought was my only chance, I climbed backwards over the pew crashing down on the floor behind me with one leg still caught on the back of the pew above. During the post game interviews, or reception rather, some said the ceremony stopped for a whole minute as people exchanged perplexed glances, but I wasn’t around to check it out. I was already half way to the reception hall in a Reggie Bush-like sprint searching desperately for any portable device I could find. Ten yards from the door of the hall, a cook held a Palm Treo in his hands. He never saw me coming from the weak side and didn’t have time to defend himself as I latched onto his arm and begged him to see the Philadelphia-New York box score. He nervously agreed and brought up the game. My rash began to recede and my sweating slowed as I felt the warm feeling of my addiction taking over once again. With the box score up and Philadelphia inside the ten I waited anxiously for Westbrook, (represented on the game cast as a blinking green football) to get the call. I watched the blinking football with the focus and determination of a cat stalking a mouse that was doused with catnip.
‘Hand off to Westbrook,’ was the last text I remember seeing before I blacked out.
‘Touchdown New York,’ apparently came next, without any explanation of what had happened. There was no warm touch from a friend telling me to sit down and warn me before the news broke. There was no one assuring me everything would be ok. There was no announcer warning me of gruesome graphics and to look away if I had any Eagle players on my fantasy team. There was just ‘Touchdown New York.’ That was it. Was it a fumble returned for a touchdown? Did a trick play go awry? Did Westbrook get confused and run the wrong way? Did a raging, drunken David Hasselhoff stumble into the press box causing statisticians to make an error? What in God’s name happened? Damn these online game casts…don’t they know people’s each awaiting gasp of life is hinging on these text updates?
When I came to, the cook mentioned something about me trying to strangle him to get more information from the Treo, and me telling him to call someone named Berman and he’d know what had happened, but everything is still kind of hazy…
“So let me get this straight, you’re not actually watching the game, you’re watching stats calculate?” my ex would inquire, mystified. “How often do you need to check that thing?” In my head I was thinking every minute, every second, and every moment of my existence! “A few times a day,” I would answer sheepishly, assuring her that it was just to make sure my stats were calculating correctly. In actuality the stat programs are probably created by MIT software geniuses and rarely miss anything. (This also didn’t explain why I was checking the stats at 11am on a Wednesday during a tour of the wine country when most games are played only on Sundays).
Luckily I had heard that there was help out there so I went online to research a good therapist. Instead I ended up re-ordering my projected 2009 running backs for my upcoming draft and ultimately concluded that there is no cure. I am tied for life to my addiction and I now have set my sights on at least a sixth-place ribbon this upcoming season and wonder if it’s worth risking any more relationships. Ultimately I figure girlfriends come and go, but Fantasy Football ribbons last a lifetime. Well, they last at least until the cheap clothe wears out, a pigeon steals it, or your dog chews it up which happens more often than you would think...
For the record no Great Uncles, catnip covered mice, or cooks holding Treo’s were hurt during the writing of this blog, nor were any girlfriends lost. If you actually believed this story was true I appreciate your credulous attitude…
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