Draft day finally comes, and I have done zero preparation. If I’m feeling spry, I’ll pull up a few mock draft projections from ESPN, CBS Sports, and Yahoo 15-minutes before the first pick is taken. I stumble through the draft, executing desperate Google searches of different player names as precious seconds tick off the clock, pathetically filling my roster with has-beens and wannabes. When it’s all over, I somehow convince myself that I love my team, and that this is my year.
Then the season starts, and all hell breaks loose.
Every single year, without fail, my first round draft pick goes down with a season ending injury. Then I go on a losing streak of five or six games, fall to last place in the standings, and attempt to drown the pain with dozens of ice cold Miller Lites. I ask myself, “Where did it all go wrong?” Everywhere. Everywhere is where it all went wrong.
Slowly but surely, I realize that every single player I drafted is a fucking loser. I panic and start firing out desperate trade proposals left and right. Eventually someone accepts one of these idiotic proposals, and I immediately realize that I’ve somehow managed to make my team even worse. The entire league chimes in on the message board to ensure that I know I’m the stupidest fucking person to ever lead a team into battle on the e-gridiron. I’m accused of collusion, and words like “fantasy integrity” are thrown around. I receive insulting texts, emails and voicemails that take shots not only at my manhood, but at my girlfriend and mother. As the pile of personal attacks grows higher, my sanity starts to slip. I begin to suspect that the entire league is in cahoots to destroy my team.
Then I win a game, maybe even two, and a false sense of hope begins to build within my fragile mind. “Maybe I can sneak into the playoffs,” I think to myself. “I still have a chance if I win out.” These are the thoughts of a desperate fool at the end of his pitiful rope. I lose my next few games, at least one of which is an absolutely embarrassing blowout where my opponent’s team accumulates more than triple the amount of points that mine does, and then the commissioner releases his mid-season power rankings. As expected, I occupy last place.
Week by week, the shit talking between members has grown more and more intense, but with the release of the mid-season power rankings, everything is taken to a disturbing new level. The stability of the league as a whole begins to wane. Guys can’t even go to the bar together on Sunday because they’d end up breaking bottles over tables and attempting to slit each other’s throats. Everyone turns on the commissioner and accuses him of a being an over controlling, power-hungry dictator with a soul of pure evil rivaled only by Hitler. Every single trade is vetoed by a league vote, even the ones that are undeniably fair, because everyone hates each other so much. Then the death threats start. This is the only thing that brings me some semblance of joy, as my season has long been in the toilet by the time the league crumbles and succumbs to chaos.
But none of this changes the fact that my team is absolute garbage, I’m out of playoff contention, it’s not even fun to talk shit anymore, and I actually like myself less each time I have to set my lineup. That’s when I stop giving a shit about my fantasy football team.