You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The reality of Fantasy.
It’s known as the addiction that is Fantasy Football.
Fantasy Football is a drug. It’s an addiction that is one part gambling, one part social experiment. It’s an endorphin rush that energizes the soul.
You can be fat and play fantasy football. You can be skinny and play fantasy football. You can be a Guy, Girl, or something in between; and play Fantasy Football.
You can be a four eyed dumb ass who chews tobacco, thumb tacks and drinks Bud Light or sniffs glue and play fantasy football.
Fantasy Football is a phenomenon that has made the NFL more than a spectator sport.
Fantasy Football is real. It’s now hands on. Fantasy football is mental and emotional. It’s about gambling, and guessing and managing with news, and knowledge and instinct.
Who do you start? Who do you sit? Who will throw for more TD’s against a 3-4 defense?
This is what makes the NFL Fantasy season more than just wins and losses. It makes Buffalo versus Tampa exciting to some.
Fantasy is reality.
Fantasy Football was 16 weeks of competition among frenemies, and now it’s over.
The season ends like a piano falling out of a moving truck.
Sunday mornings are suddenly a little less inspired.
Suddenly, you are watching the playoffs, and you own nobody. You manage nobody. When the regular season ends you no longer live on the ESPN app.
We Ready Ya’ll.
But The Fantasy Season is now over.
Who do you root for? Do you care in real life? Is your team even on TV? Or are your favorite players on your favorite team drinking Mai Tai’s somewhere in the Caribbean?
By now, fantasy has become reality: Your league has crowned a champ. The Commissioner of your league is planning a party, asking for owners to pay up, distributing winner’s checks.
I’m enjoying the NFL playoffs, but I’m already looking forward to next year’s Fantasy Draft.
I need some fantasy reality in my life again.
I had the 1st pick in my 2018 draft and still came in last. I picked Todd Gurley of the L.A. Rams. That was the highlight of my season. Unfortunately, everything else I touched, turned to poop.
Rob Gronkowski at pick 2 went into the witness protection program. And Keenan Allen at pick 3 came on too little too late like an extra dose of Viagra after your date’s already called for an Uber.
How did I do? Last Place! Worst record. The laughing stock of the league.
How Do I feel? I’m fantasy angry. I want to put a fantasy hit out on my Fantasy commissioner. I don’t like my fellow fantasy owners. I don’t like my fantasy league right now.
How real is fantasy? It’s real. I’m hungry to out-draft these fantasy miscreants and make them my fantasy bitches. But that’s 7 months away. Until then, I am the league’s little fantasy bitch. I am bent over and taking the fantasy high hard one from my fellow owners.
The reality of fantasy can hurt.
In my money league, the dirty bastards are not only telling me I owe them cash, they are piling on. It’s not good enough that I’m writing a check to some mutton chop I only know as Uncle Hiccups Butt Stain. I have to pay for their 1st round of beers at their stupid end of the year party. And the most insulting thing of all; the winner gets to rename my Fantasy Team.
Rename my fantasy team? Why? Because Rob Gronkowski can’t get it up for half the season?
I’m fantasy mad, bordering on reality mad. I fantasy considered pulling out of my fantasy league. I still may. I’ve dumped hundreds of real dollars into this fantasy labor of love over the 20 plus years. I am a founding fantasy member.
Time heals all wounds, they say. We shall see. I feel pretty wounded right now.
Rename my fantasy team? I’d like to kick your ass in reality.
The reality of Fantasy is sometimes real.
The fantasy anger feels real. The fantasy contempt feels real.
So today, I will put my fantasy misgivings on the back burner and root for some good games.
Maybe I’ll root for Phillip Rivers. He has 7 kids. They gotta eat, right?
And I hate Philadelphia. As a whole, the fan base reminds me of a urinal that needs to be flushed.
Who Dat Gonna Beat Dem Saints. It won’t be a bunch of urinal cakes with ears.
As I watch today’s playoff games, I look back on the fantasy season.
The abrupt way the fantasy season ends is hard to manage in real life.
It’s like free basing cocaine for 16 glorious weeks, and then the DEA kicks in the door and shows you the cuffs and the grand jury indictment.
I remember Week 1. I remember thinking, God Damn, I could’ve picked Patrick Mahomes in the 5th round.
I remember starting Rob Gronkowski week after week even though this washed up over the hill buffoon was giving me a headache.
But that’s why it’s more than fantasy. It’s a grid iron religion. It’s an addiction to the bitter end.
Rename my team?
Eat Shit Butt Hole Surfer boy.
Next Year’s draft is only 7 months away.