My morning started as most of them do. My son was beckoning for me to wake up and come rescue him from his crib. There was no need to wake me though; I was up, eyes staring at my ceiling. As I walked into his room, I returned his joyful warm smile with a smile of my own, but with that warmth not reaching my eyes. My son, bless him, was too young to recognize what was behind those eyes. He didn’t understand that behind those cold, dead eyes was pure self-loathing and defeat. I was too ashamed to tell him that as of Monday night his old man finally has to say what he never thought he would. For the first time in my life, my fantasy teams are fucking terrible.
Like many Americans, I take my fantasy sports seriously. I’m a contender; my ass plays to win. And I’m good, I’m damn good. Baseball or football, I’ve never thrown up a clunker. I’m in the playoffs in both my baseball leagues, and made the playoffs in 2 out of 3 football leagues last year. You call it being a nerd; I call it being a fucking fake sports warrior. I take pride in my research, my wise draft picks, and my savvy pickups. But not this year.
Two weeks in, and I’m a god damn disgrace. This year I am to fantasy football what Bluto Blutarsky was to college academics. On Monday night, it was made official that in three leagues I am a combined 0-6. I took a thirty minute break after typing that sentence to go sit in my bathroom, blast Sarah McLachlan, and cry hysterically. Not only am I winless, I haven’t even been close. The opposition beat me like I eye-fucked their underage daughter. I’ve turned into my league’s Taco, and it’s killing me inside. One league has already dubbed me as the bye-week.
Things started with so much promise, as I was incredibly optimistic post-draft. I got the stars I targeted and the sleepers I coveted. I never understood why some were so bad at fantasy football. I could do this shit in my sleep; my teams were bound for greatness. But, like the prosecutors in the OJ Simpson case, I learned that assured victory isn’t always so.
I’ve endured injuries to Dez, Alshon, Lamar Miller, and elite QB Tony Romo (I’ll be fighting for that guy until the day I die). I’ve endured doughnuts from Mike Evans and Ameer Abdullah. I’ve managed to pick defenses with negative points two weeks in a row. All three of my teams have thrown up embarrassing clunkers and I can hardly look at myself in the mirror. What’s more, everyone else knows too.
The stink of losing follows me around like a wet fart in Georgia humidity. My friends talk down on me. Walking along the street today I felt everyone staring, embarrassed for me. A little girl looked up at me and said “0-6, you fucking loser, are you kidding me?” At least, that’s what she said with her eyes. My family is trying to go about things as normal, but they know that kind of shame I’ve brought upon them. I could feel the tension all throughout dinner, my teenage sister just staring, wishing she could scream “How could you play Abdullah over Latavius Murray last weekend, quit always buying into hype you fucking clown!”
Guys I know it’s only Week 3. I’ve been hitting waivers with the ferocity of a meth addict looking to score some smack. With every week comes hope, but also the fear of further embarrassment. I’m a few more disgusting performances away from having to change my name to Ron Mexico and move to Montana. How did I let it come to this? Two weeks ago, I had title aspirations. There’s so much shit that I had planned to talk that now looks like it will go unsaid. But I’m not a quitter.
“I promise you one thing. A lot of good will come out of this. You will never see any GM of a fake team in the entire country work as hard as I will work the rest of the season. You will never see someone read as much Matthew Berry and Rotoworld as I will read the rest of the season. You will never see a fictional team of millionaires play harder than mine will the rest of the season. God Bless.” .
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