Gentlemen, set your lineups


Re: Gentlemen, Set Your Lineups

The above was the subject header of the email I used to send out to my playas (hashtag: ballerstatus) in my fantasy league the day of NFL kickoff. Most of the dudes in the league were handpicked by me to be in it.

I based the invite on: 1) How long I’ve known them. Pretty self-explanatory. Sometimes, like in dating, you don’t have to know a guy very long to know you want to be with him an entire fantasy season and sometimes you might know a guy a really long time and you get into a fantasy season with him and you realize midway through, because he’s leaving empty roster spots on bye weeks, that you maybe should have never been with him in the first place. It took me a few years, but I think I have a pretty good ‘Fadar’ (that’s fantasy radar for you amateur pussies out there). 2) What he does for work. I used to think straight office-job/sales guy made the best fantasy leaguer and all the dudes who actually do work for a living, like construction, were weak because they couldn’t check their lineups and make trades in the middle of the day, but I’ve changed my tune a little on that. Basically, it comes down to dudes who are dads and dudes who are not dads. I’ve heard of mommybrain, but daddybrain is something worse. It’s like watching that sad old dude shuffle down the street in perma-press slacks drooling on his rayon shirt, like, no bro, just because your baby was born in ’05 doesn’t mean that Santana Moss and LaDanian Tomlinson should be your top picks. It’s like they’re frozen in time. So that’s when I formed the straight up dads/no dads league and work or whatever you do matters less and less. Oh yeah, firefighters are the worst because all they do is sit on the waiver wire all day and propose garbage trades because they’re making OT to sit and look at fantasy football. Do NOT invite any kind of first-responder to your league. 3) General football wisdom. This is a little more difficult to quantify but I think you all know what I’m talking about. It’s like the difference between knowing Houshmanzadeh was traded to the SeaHawks or thinking he was still lining up opposite the Ocho; or doing additional research while your girlfriend was watching ‘Keeping Up…’ to see whether Reggie Bush was in a fight with Kim K. I like the guys who take advantage of their non-fantasy tracking moments.

But now, I’m no longer commish. There were a series of events that took place last year, most of them while tailgating in the Buffalo Wild Wings (BWW) parking lot just prior to the draft involving nobody showing up to the tailgater and instead me being like “what the fuck” and pounding more beers, only to after awhile see a couple of my buddies cars (mini-vans) parked next door in the Chili’s and to walk in and to find them sipping on those blue drinks they have and eating the spring roll app instead of fucking wings.

They played it off like they sent a mass text out changing the draft location to a more “family-friendly” spot and I was like “there’s plenty of kids at BWW” and they were like “the jailbait hostess doesn’t count” (point them). They were also there solo, so I’m assuming they just like being family-friendly all the time even when they don’t have to be.

So, basically, because I was crushing beers in the parking lot like a real fantasy fan does, while the draft got started (granted, it was an electronic draft and I should’ve been logged in, but the only wi-fi I could pick up in the parking lot was from GameStop and I think they were out of business because the windows were blacked out and there were no 120-pound 17-year-olds smoking cigarettes outside of it looking to unload bootlegged zombie first-person shooters) I was kicked out of being commish. (That and the year before I didn’t pay everyone out fully, but that’s because I was going to Rosarito beach and not everyone paid in.)

So finally, I cruised into Chili’s and went straight to the bar and ordered the big schooner of Blue Moon (which is really the same size as a pint, I think, but they just charge a buck more) and I fucking hate Blue Moon; like what’s the deal with the orange. If I wanted fruit I would’ve ordered a Slurpee.

So, basically since I wasn’t there, my friend B who’s ALWAYS wanted to be commish, took over. He’s a good enough guy, doesn’t have kids, always upgrades his flatscreen before every season (like, I’ll admit, I was still waiting for my plasma to burn out when he grabbed a 72-incher for the living room and was already installing his year-old LCD in the bathroom behind the toilet, because the wall was bigger behind there, with a mirror in front of the shitter; it’s a trip. You’re like taking a dump and watching games backwards. He said it’s pretty insane for when he’s jerking off — like backwards porn plus his reflection in the mirror — the guy is intense!) so I get why he makes a good commish, still though — he doesn’t send out clever emails like I did that say things like ‘Erin Andrews’ Panty Raid makes buttbusting trade’ (which is a play on words for ‘blockbuster’.) Erin Andrews’ Panty Raid is my team name btw, if you’re still laughing, I don’t blame you — that always gets laughs.

So, yeah, the message boards with my man B in charge are a little more dry and I think some of the guys miss my ability to talk smack and set odds. Even the dads got into it when I’m like “Did (insert name of wife here) propose that trade?” and cool shit like that.

But oh, well, not being commish gave me more time to troll the waiver wire for dudes who wanted to be on my team and Photoshop pictures of chicks I’m dating with Kate Upton’s body on it, just for fun. I think it helps me relate to the other dudes in the league, you know, as just a competitor as well.

I also got a sick post ready for tonight’s Thursday Night kickoff. The title is “Are you ready for some football” and it’s some guys dick painted like a Indianapolis Colt (his head’s the helmet, shaft is the jersey and his nuts are two little footballs. I don’t know why two footballs but it’s fucking hysterical) and since the painted “jersey” is number 12 (Andrew Luck) and I just so happen to be starting the brainiac quaterterback. The caption at the bottom says “Suck it for Luck this season.” Awesome.