I’ve come into the habit of playing Simon & Garfunkel when I check my final fantasy football scores.
Hello darkness, my old friend
All my players have been injured yet again.
Because of David Wilson’s fumbling,
Joique Bell is starting and now I’m weeping.
It wasn’t supposed to become a narcotic exercise. Fantasy football was supposed to be another avenue to revel in the brotherhood of football and shit talking. It was supposed to make me care about Jacksonville and Memphis and other cities and teams that I normally wouldn’t give a shit about.
But now, during meetings, dates, self-pitying drinking sessions, and heated sports arguments, I’m constantly crunching stats and factors to give my shitfuck stable of fantasy teams some hope. I dread the feeling of opening up Yahoo! Sports on my browser, to see that my team has underperformed yet again.
I can’t stop checking. I can’t stop trolling waiver wires and Adam Schefter reports. Rotowire has replaced The Atlantic as my source of daily news. The debt ceiling crisis almost ruined this country and all I cared about was the viability of Dwayne Bowe scoring a touchdown against the Raiders.
Sidenote: He didn’t. Dwayne Bowe, you useless fuck.
I can’t even watch football properly anymore. I cheer for the mighty Niners, whooping and whistling as Frank Gore punches it in again. Then I remember the guy I’m playing has Frank Gore and just scored enough points to mount a 40 point comeback. I have enough heartburn to cook instant noodles on my chest.
Message at 6:30 PM: “REUBEN RANDLE!”
Text at 7:16 PM: “My potential first win tastes so sweet.”
Text at 7:20 PM: “Karma will make Reuben fumble. Just watch.”
Text at 8:16 PM: “Dude he fucking fumbled.”
My inability to say no has me mired in six leagues. SIX. Not only one chance for misery, but six.
“But Daniel, with six leagues, you realistically have a chance to win in at least one.”
It’s not about winning at least one, it’s about losing at least 4. Fantasy football has become the horse races of our generation. It’s a place where you saddle your hopes on a sleeper, hoping to some omnipotent power that your savvy and sheer dumb luck will pull you through this week.
It’s become a game of chance, wrapped in some illusion of control. By leveraging your wealth of football knowledge, matchups, and fantasy trends, you can assemble a team of studs and sleepers to score your way to victory after victory. Then ACLs tear, players are traded, others are suspended, and you’re left to throw your smartphone against the wall and take a shard of satisfaction at the comical way on how it all falls apart.
It all falls down in the end. And somewhere, some GM is smiling. Smiling at the fan that questions his competency making terrible decisions on the waiver wire.
I am useless. I am hopeless. I am at the mercy of mightier men than I.
And I just wasted 150 dollars this year.
Fuck this shit.