I know most have you have read this SI article by Rick Reilly
already, but I think it so embodies FLB that I have posted it on our news forum.
If you haven't read it, you're in for some laughs. Does this remind you of
anyone?
You smell like a goat. You're unshaven. You work endless hours in dimly lit
caves. You speak a language understood only by others of your kind. You fear
women and put prices on men's heads. And legions of enemies long to destroy you.
You are, of course, a fantasy baseball geek.
All you care about is your pretend world of major league players and their
stats. You root for numbers, not teams. You have depersonalized the game, sucked
the life out of it; all so you can say you took $100 off your former friends.
It's not just baseball. Fifteen percent of Americans over 18 have been in one
fantasy sports league or another. There are leagues for golf, NASCAR, even
professional fishing. Dammit, honey, not now! I'm doing my smelt projections!
And you know you're hopelessly addicted when....
You go to your league draft meeting wearing a cup.
You don't come out to watch your kids hunt for Easter eggs because you are
prepping for the draft.
In bed you ask your wife to call you "the commissioner."
You realize the only person you haven't "activated" all season is yourself.
You conduct your draft in the Situation Room of the White House (Sandy Berger,
Washington, D.C.).
You go up to a major leaguer and say, "Dude! How you feelin' this year? 'Cause
I'm thinkin' of takin' you in my fantasy draft, and you kinda let me down on the
ribbies last year, bro!" (Can you imagine if a ballplayer hassled you at work?
"Hey, Harlan! How many transmissions you think you're good for this season?
'Cause I got you in my mechanics league, and you hurt me on your lubes last
year, y'know?")
The league newsletter you slave over every week is far better than anything you
produce in your real job.
You end a longtime friendship over the trade value of Baltimore Orioles reliever
Jorge Julio.
You refuse to watch any channel that doesn't run a sports scroll at the bottom
of the screen.
During sex, you catch yourself wondering whether you should activate Steve Cox.
You leave the hospital early after knee surgery, insist that the person driving
you home stop at a pay phone and then stand there for an hour and a half so you
won't miss your draft (Dan Patrick, Bristol, Conn.).
After a particularly good week you dump a cooler of Gatorade over your head.
You contemplate waiting in the players' parking lot and running over Alex
Rodriguez's toe in hopes of moving up in your fantasy standings.
You call an official scorer at home and berate him for taking a hit away from
one of your players.
When asked by your kid whom he could write about in a report on great Americans,
you suggest Peter Gammons.
You hope to get the house to yourself at night so you can call a 1-900 fantasy
baseball line.
You curse the Internet sites with live box scores for refreshing only every 30
seconds.
You cut and paste together your official team photo.
Your witty conversation begins to run the gamut from your fantasy baseball team
to your fantasy football team.
In the last hour of the weekly trade deadline you instruct your secretary to put
through only calls from fantasy league players.
In the maternity ward you make a good trade in between your wife's contractions.
The number 1-800-BOXSCORES is on your speed dial.
And your girlfriend's number isn't.
You utter the sentence, "Honey, I'm up to 3,129th out of 8,000 in the
Jackpot.com fantasy league!"
You wonder if you could get a tan from monitor glow.
You communicate constantly with people named JockItch and Ballpark Frank --
though you've never met them.
You are more excited about minor league prospects than dating prospects.
You take a second job in order to buy John Smoltz.
Your wife leaves you in May for her lambada instructor, and you don't notice
until the All-Star break.
You realize that the real fantasy is that you have a life.
