2008 Woodie Awards
Fantasy Arrhythmia
Greg Jeffers
Issue date: 10/3/07 Section: Sports
Throughout life, we experience highs and lows, joy and heartache. But it's tough to compare anything to the pain that is fantasy football.
A relatively new American tradition, fantasy football has become a huge industry. A reported 15 million people played last year.
I'd conclude the total would be even higher this year, except that I'm certain a significant portion of last year's players succumbed to massive coronary events and now enjoy football from that big luxury box in the sky.
Upon signing up for fantasy football, each league usually receives a packet of goodies to help conduct the all-important fantasy draft. What it should include is a defibrillator, or at the very least a Surgeon General's warning about hypertension and cardiac arrest warning signs.
Oh, it starts out innocently enough, as my buddies and I get away for a few hours to have some beers and conduct our draft each year. All is right with the world-the nachos are perfect, and the pizza plentiful.
Things are so great, I almost expect the Swedish Bikini Team to show up at the door with another case of beer.
Once the season starts, however, fantasy football provides very little amusement. Each week is spent checking the rosters for injuries, match-ups and potential trade offers from other owners.
The stress builds as I labor over who will play, and which players will ride the bench.
Bench players accumulate zero points no matter what they do in the actual game.
Come Sunday, as I watch a player I have benched run wild for 150 yards and 3 touchdowns, my chest starts to tighten as the beast within begins to emerge. I shake my fist at the ceiling and shout "WHY DIDN'T I PLAY THAT GUY!" as my wife and child run for cover.
Someday, I'm going wake up, with someone pounding on my chest commanding me to live, and I'll have just enough breath to ask, "Did I miss the Monday night game?"
It's not the simple prospect of winning or losing that causes the stress. It's the second-guessing and the resulting self-loathing that will drive a good man to become unrecognizable to his loved ones.
Rare is the Sunday afternoon that doesn't provide a "perfect storm" of starters going
cold, untimely fumbles and opponents having career-best days. For those cursed with a competitive nature, it's a truly gut-wrenching experience.
So why do we do it? Why do we put so much effort into something that is only going to take years off our lives?
Well, because it's fun, of course.
I see that my quarterback just threw an interception to end the game. This is killing me.
But it's still fun.
A relatively new American tradition, fantasy football has become a huge industry. A reported 15 million people played last year.
I'd conclude the total would be even higher this year, except that I'm certain a significant portion of last year's players succumbed to massive coronary events and now enjoy football from that big luxury box in the sky.
Upon signing up for fantasy football, each league usually receives a packet of goodies to help conduct the all-important fantasy draft. What it should include is a defibrillator, or at the very least a Surgeon General's warning about hypertension and cardiac arrest warning signs.
Oh, it starts out innocently enough, as my buddies and I get away for a few hours to have some beers and conduct our draft each year. All is right with the world-the nachos are perfect, and the pizza plentiful.
Things are so great, I almost expect the Swedish Bikini Team to show up at the door with another case of beer.
Once the season starts, however, fantasy football provides very little amusement. Each week is spent checking the rosters for injuries, match-ups and potential trade offers from other owners.
The stress builds as I labor over who will play, and which players will ride the bench.
Bench players accumulate zero points no matter what they do in the actual game.
Come Sunday, as I watch a player I have benched run wild for 150 yards and 3 touchdowns, my chest starts to tighten as the beast within begins to emerge. I shake my fist at the ceiling and shout "WHY DIDN'T I PLAY THAT GUY!" as my wife and child run for cover.
Someday, I'm going wake up, with someone pounding on my chest commanding me to live, and I'll have just enough breath to ask, "Did I miss the Monday night game?"
It's not the simple prospect of winning or losing that causes the stress. It's the second-guessing and the resulting self-loathing that will drive a good man to become unrecognizable to his loved ones.
Rare is the Sunday afternoon that doesn't provide a "perfect storm" of starters going
cold, untimely fumbles and opponents having career-best days. For those cursed with a competitive nature, it's a truly gut-wrenching experience.
So why do we do it? Why do we put so much effort into something that is only going to take years off our lives?
Well, because it's fun, of course.
I see that my quarterback just threw an interception to end the game. This is killing me.
But it's still fun.
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