Why Play Fantasy Baseball?
Why do we play fantasy baseball? Why do we put ourselves through this? Is it not enough to agonize over the teams we root for? Apparently it isn't, and we have to go out and create a team that's actually ours (and for the record, this is the only team that allows us to actually use the term "we" to describe it) to agonize over. I mean fuck, when will it end.
For the last 2 seasons, I've played in two fantasy leagues. This has quite literally driven me to the brink of my sanity. For some reason, this offseason, I joined a third one. I think I was so shocked when my wife encouraged me to do so, that I did it without really thinking about the consequences.
Already, not yet two weeks into the young season, I have suffered the following painful rollercoaster of emotions: A player on my team does something great, which excites me. Later, as I click around from team to team, I discover that this same player did this same great thing against me in a different league. My heart sinks. My stomach turns. I don't know how to root anymore. Surely, I can't be expected to make a list of such players every Monday morning to constantly remind myself to temper my hopes for their weekly production. Can I?
This of course pales in comparison to what has to be the granddaddy of all tough rooting situations. Your real team is winning in the bottom of the ninth inning. Your real team's closer is on to try and save the game. Two on, two out. Your fantasy hitter steps into the box. For a fleeting moment, a thought enters your mind. If this hitter should happen to tie or even win this game with a big hit, it won't be the worst thing in the world, because your fantasy team needs a little help offensively. At this exact moment, you've become a fantasy player. This thought that has crept and weaseled its way into your mind would not have been able to do so five years ago when your love of the game was pure and your interest in box scores was creepy. At this moment you realize that baseball is forever changed for you, as it was for a close friend of mine in 2004 when I got a call after Curt Schilling gave up 8 runs to Toronto in a painful loss for the Red Sox. "Well, at least Schilling's on your team" the greasy Italian cocksucker said, "so it's not that bad."
Of course, when you see your hitter chop a harmless grounder toward short, you feel nothing but relief, so your pretty confident that you're the same baseball fan you were before. Then your real team's shortstop boots the ball and the bases are loaded. Now you're nervous. Really nervous, because if shit happens now, you won't get anything out of it. You don't even think much of it when your runner on first base is pinch run for, because the struggling middle infielder coming up is about as dangerous as Hilary Duff. When you see the ball pop off of his bat and the pitcher point up, air rushes from your lungs and your whole body relaxes. Until you see your real team's center fielder run out of room in the gap and the ball sale over the fence for a walk off grand slam. Then the only thing you can feel is the big hard cock of the baseball gods working its way all of 16 inches up your clenched asshole. You realize that wasn't Hilary Duff up there, but something much more dangerous: her 16 year old younger sister, sitting provocatively with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses.
But that's baseball. Those things happen. You'll go to bed at least ten times every season really feeling every inch of that baseball cock deep in your ass. And you'll know full well that it grew another 4 inches in length when you checked your head to head fantasy stats and realized that the same middle infielder who just tied up and mouth-fucked your favorite team tonight is comfortably sitting in the starting lineup of that dumb fuck you swore you'd beat this week.
Despite this, we keep playing. And we know we can't stop playing. Maybe it's just to laugh at the same stupid fuck in your league who keeps drafting Juan Pierre every year. Maybe it's just something to do at our computers when we aren't masturbating. Maybe we just want to justify our box score prowlings. Maybe we wish that we could still play the game ourselves. All I know is when I hear my wife humming along to the theme song to America's Next Top Model I feel like I wish I'd married my stat-tracker.
For the last 2 seasons, I've played in two fantasy leagues. This has quite literally driven me to the brink of my sanity. For some reason, this offseason, I joined a third one. I think I was so shocked when my wife encouraged me to do so, that I did it without really thinking about the consequences.
Already, not yet two weeks into the young season, I have suffered the following painful rollercoaster of emotions: A player on my team does something great, which excites me. Later, as I click around from team to team, I discover that this same player did this same great thing against me in a different league. My heart sinks. My stomach turns. I don't know how to root anymore. Surely, I can't be expected to make a list of such players every Monday morning to constantly remind myself to temper my hopes for their weekly production. Can I?
This of course pales in comparison to what has to be the granddaddy of all tough rooting situations. Your real team is winning in the bottom of the ninth inning. Your real team's closer is on to try and save the game. Two on, two out. Your fantasy hitter steps into the box. For a fleeting moment, a thought enters your mind. If this hitter should happen to tie or even win this game with a big hit, it won't be the worst thing in the world, because your fantasy team needs a little help offensively. At this exact moment, you've become a fantasy player. This thought that has crept and weaseled its way into your mind would not have been able to do so five years ago when your love of the game was pure and your interest in box scores was creepy. At this moment you realize that baseball is forever changed for you, as it was for a close friend of mine in 2004 when I got a call after Curt Schilling gave up 8 runs to Toronto in a painful loss for the Red Sox. "Well, at least Schilling's on your team" the greasy Italian cocksucker said, "so it's not that bad."
Of course, when you see your hitter chop a harmless grounder toward short, you feel nothing but relief, so your pretty confident that you're the same baseball fan you were before. Then your real team's shortstop boots the ball and the bases are loaded. Now you're nervous. Really nervous, because if shit happens now, you won't get anything out of it. You don't even think much of it when your runner on first base is pinch run for, because the struggling middle infielder coming up is about as dangerous as Hilary Duff. When you see the ball pop off of his bat and the pitcher point up, air rushes from your lungs and your whole body relaxes. Until you see your real team's center fielder run out of room in the gap and the ball sale over the fence for a walk off grand slam. Then the only thing you can feel is the big hard cock of the baseball gods working its way all of 16 inches up your clenched asshole. You realize that wasn't Hilary Duff up there, but something much more dangerous: her 16 year old younger sister, sitting provocatively with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses.
But that's baseball. Those things happen. You'll go to bed at least ten times every season really feeling every inch of that baseball cock deep in your ass. And you'll know full well that it grew another 4 inches in length when you checked your head to head fantasy stats and realized that the same middle infielder who just tied up and mouth-fucked your favorite team tonight is comfortably sitting in the starting lineup of that dumb fuck you swore you'd beat this week.
Despite this, we keep playing. And we know we can't stop playing. Maybe it's just to laugh at the same stupid fuck in your league who keeps drafting Juan Pierre every year. Maybe it's just something to do at our computers when we aren't masturbating. Maybe we just want to justify our box score prowlings. Maybe we wish that we could still play the game ourselves. All I know is when I hear my wife humming along to the theme song to America's Next Top Model I feel like I wish I'd married my stat-tracker.
posted by Tent Time at 3:20 AM
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