After years on the sidelines, Rob Azevedo broke down and joined a fantasy football league. And he’s glad he did.
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I finally broke down and joined an NFL Fantasy League for the 2014 season.
Not that anyone was breaking down my door asking me to join. My buds from Manchcity, USA have been ignoring all non-league members for six months stretches for years now.
Friday nights are Friday nights, sure. But come Sunday, if you ain’t in the league — competing, scamming, praying and strategizing — you simply don’t exist.
Don’t bore me with your clicks on Match.
Care less about your cholesterol levels.
The Red Sox you say? Season hasn’t ended yet?
Fine with me. I’d have rather cozy up with Edzo on the couch for marathon sessions of “Party Down South” and “Nathan For You” any day of the week.
Including Sundays.
I’ve always lived on the fringes when it comes to following professional sports. But once Larry Bird left the building, well, I just stopped caring.
Ask me anything about Pittsburg Steeler football when Terry Bradshaw was slinging pig bladder, the Steve Grogan years at Schaefer Stadium or the time third baseman Butch Hobson went diving face-first into the Fenway dugout and I’ll turn your eardrums to coal.
But really, since then, I have enjoyed the New England Patriots success for the last however many years they’ve been dominant. I still hate the uniforms and helmets, and I can’t say straight faced that I didn’t skip out on a Super Bowl game…or two. I have.
The tar and feathers are in the shed out back. I’ll be waiting.
So, when I asked to play in my friend’s fantasy league this year, the players immediately welcomed me in. Without hesitation, in fact, the commissioner gave me the okay to join them on draft night a few evenings later.
“Fuckin’ con artists,” I immediately thought. “They plan to use me up.”
That was evident ten minutes into the draft. First thing I noticed, they try and tire you out by shoving beers and wings and every kind of finger licking rib down your gullet.
I drew a line in the sand when this barrel chested parolee with “Candyman” tattooed on the side of his face named “Paradise” offered me a turkey leg lathered in gravy.
I wasn’t that far gone. Not yet.
Then everyone became this deeply caring, transparent character that only wanted to “help” you out in the draft with your picks, knowing damn well you’re a greenhorn.
“That’ll be a good pick for your Number One,” a “friend” consulted. “T.J. Yates is gonna have a break out year.”
I’m not totally lost when it comes to the game of football. I played my senior year in high school. And by “played” I mean one play, just one. A simple 10 yard jaunt as a wide out. Then I was gone, pulled from the game.
I didn’t care. I did it. Now eat it.
Just like I didn’t care when I chose Ray Rice of the Ravens as my running back, third round. The love fest was over. Let the mocking begin.
This stretched out spikey haired guy with Whitman like chin whiskers started interrogating me like some oversexed street cop.
“Give me the DMT right now!” he was screaming. “You’ve gone mad. Rice is suspended!”
How was I to know this? Most nights I’m Tosh.0-ing it. Plus, how does one keep up with the criminal doings of professional football players? All God’s act out. It’s just hard to keep straight who is whacking who? and who is smoking whaaaaa?
Things evened out as the draft rounds progressed. The spiked haired guy was busy whispering later date trades to Paradise, who in turn was angling his way into the heart of some wild man named Denny, the same guy that rode a crystal colored Trike to the draft. Pipes out.
I have to admit, the first five rounds were exhilarating. I hadn’t had that much sober fun in quite some time. Besides, 99% of the time I’m around this group of people, there is very little thinking going on. Just reacting.
Unlike draft night, where everyone was laser focused, making picks, contemplating mid-season moves, praying for the second coming of wide receivers AJ Green and Terry Glenn.
It was eye opening.
By the 9th round, I was toast though. Done caring what defensive team to take and who to flex. I was ready to head home and watch a quick half hour of those loveless, melting ghouls, the Jersey Housewives.
Still, the picks raged on till midnight when the league finally called it a draft and everyone climbed onto Denny’s Trike and headed home.
“For good or ill,” the commissioner announced. “Your picks are made. Now live with it.”
I’m glad I broke down and joined Fantasy Football.
I just hope my boy T.J. Yates doesn’t break down as well.
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Rob Azevedo can be reached at draft headquarters in Manchester, NH and at onemanmanch@gmail.com
Photo by ethanlindsey / flickr
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