BOSOXBLOG

Final Thoughts on Fantasy Football

I told myself it was for the writing. It was for the art. It was because I wanted to try something new. But if that had all been true I would have tried skydiving, something further from me. For many, the only surprise was the mere fact I had never done it before.  Would I recommend it? Yes. Will I do it again? Maybe. The only reason I might make this my one and only fantasy football season, is because I won. And it so wonderfully pissed off my league.

It was every bit as nerdy as I imagined. I had to make rules. No fantasy talk during Patriots game. No computers. Unfortunately, everyone in my league minus me, had a smart phone. So they found ways around it.

My father complained to me Tuesday morning, he had been awake too late, watching a game, solely to root against Tony Gonzalez. He has no problems with Tony. For all my father knows, Tony dresses up like Santa each year and brings underpriviledged children presents. But if Tony had a good game, I lost. And that was enough, to hate Tony for the evening.

The best part about the season, was I had a co-manager. Usually, fantasy is equivalent to a one player video game. It is adding to the lack of social abilities my generation already lacks. Instead of watching football together and having beers, people watch numbers change on screens while drinking beers.

Sure, it improves math skills. And my students had a jolly time creating double bar graphs to help me choose my line-up. Or my favorite graph, “Ms. Kimpel rocks” which showed a double bar graph of each teams wins and losses. They decided the ‘trend’ was me killing it.

But having a co-manager actually made my season a little social oasis in the world of computers and numbers.

I came to have a co-manager not on purpose. But out of his inability to understand technology. He has always done fantasy sports on paper. So our first pick, Antonio Gates, was not actually our first pick. After Mr. Sweeneys tutorial on fantasy football, and studying his excel documents on player stats, Antonio Gates was supposed to be our fifth pick. Maybe fourth, depending on what happened before. But we didn’t understand the computer drafting system. So all the planning we had done sort of went by the wayside. But we managed.

We managed Stafford, a pick which was mocked at by many. We managed Fred Jackson. We managed Ray Rice. We managed Cam Newton. And for a brief moment in time we managed Tebow, but I couldn’t handle him on our team. He was already plaguing my dreams and Sports Center.

Each week we had the Newton Stafford debate. Christmas Eve we spent frantically texting each other possible line-ups. Not only had we made it to the championship, we also were playing against the equivalent of the Yankees. We had to make compromises. Something completely unheard of in the time of video games. Player one. Player two. Start. And our compromising made us stronger. He made the choice of Bell. I made the choice of Stafford.

It made me realize the absurdity of one person managing an entire team. Even a team just composed of numbers.

When we won, I had to go visit my equivalent to the Yankees opponent. Just you know, make sure he knew. With the holiday season being so busy I wanted to make sure he had noticed the final score. That of the Jay Street Elite destroying his team.

“I would rather be a full loser, than ½ of a winner,” was his rebuttle.

And there in lies the problem with my generation. So will I play fantasy again and risk losing to a whole loser? Maybe. But only if I can find someone to be a half winner with. Because sports aren’t really about numbers, as much as I try to convince my students they are. They about socializing. They are about being a part of something. Even if it is a fantasy.

 

'Twas the night before Christmas...and championships

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Jay Street,

            only one room mate stirred, fearing defeat .

The Patriots jersey was draped over the bed with care,

            In hope the Pats would win. But there was a fantasy scare.

 

The rest of the league, was still hungover in their beds,

While visions of Staffords and Newtons danced in their heads.

            And Luke in his Pats pajamas, and I staring into the light

Wondering if today could possibly be the day of surprise Urlacher fight.

 

            When out of my phone arose such a sound,

I sprang from my bed, and reached for it on the ground.

            Felix Jones is questionable, was written bleakly.

And I looked at my other running backs, feeling quite meekly.

 

            Now, Gerhart. (or) Now, Bell, Stafford or Newton

On Detroit D, On Williams, On Green(?), On Rice and Bryant!

            Get twenty points, get more, get thirty! Go on!

You all need these wins, before Tuesdays dawn.

 

            I spring to my computer, change the line-up five times.

And procrastinate finilazing it, by creating ridiculous rhymes.

            But tomorrow begins a new season of  NBA delight.

So Happy Christmas, even if for the Jay Street Elite it is good night.

 

We had a god, so what if we have a saint?

Valentine just came back from the Dominican in in effort to win Ortiz’ heart over. If only all we needed was heart for players to play. Ortiz was flattered, but at the end of the day, it’s a business. Well, that’s what the players and managers think.

But for real Boston it’s so much more. I spent my February 14^th eating hot dogs, throwing them back with my American beer from a plastic cup. Because for me, like so many others in Boston, February 14^th is often when our hearts open back up. I watched Bull Durham that evening. That night I went once again from hopeless to hopelessly romantic. Because my Grandfather never saw his team win, but he never gave up. And I had seen our team win twice. And on that cold night I could start dreaming up new romantic record-breaking ways our team could win as I watched footage of the catchers and pitchers reporting to Fort Myers.

This February it is going to take a lot more to feel that romance again. The Red Sox broke our hearts in an epic way last year. We schedule as much as we can around their schedule. We put in an unreasonable amount of our paychecks to see them play at our favorite place in the world.  We put way too much at stake to see Wakefield’s next win. We wake up drowsy after four hours of sleep to go into work. And we go in with a smile, gloating to coworkers of the reason for the circles under our eyes, even if it is a loss. Boston is baseball. So when the players weren’t, it broke us. It wasn’t that they lost, it was how they lost. It was how they acted as losers. Terry Francona, is a God, to so many of us. Tebow’s got nothing on Terry.  Tito took a team our loved ones; loved to death, without ever seeing them win a big one, and he made them winners. Twice. It was more than we could have asked for. Some, even complained, two wins seemed too much. So when our heroes did nothing to save our God, and they only looked to save themselves, our city grew quiet.  We looked to the veterans, because they knew, they understood Boston. But even they were too focused on their own personal dreams; their business broke our hearts.

So I hope, I sincerely hope, Valentine’s Day feels different than it has been feeling as of late in Boston. Winning over Big Papi’s heart, or leading Japan to victory, are still of little meaning. He needs to win back Boston’s heart. The best baseball city in the country is in need of some love and Boston might just be a harder language than Japanese. For better or worse, baseball is our one true love, we keep coming back. But as the case always is with true loves, will it come back to us?

 

Working Detention into the Budget

A co-worker recently asked me to talk about the Red Sox. I told her it was too soon. This was yesterday.

It's a little embarrassing to be a Sox fan right now. It's like bringing someone to a bar you know everyone hates, and you sort of hate them too, but you still owe them a round from a few months back. But as soon as you walk into the bar, you remember this person would never get you back for anything anyway. 

What a lot of people don't know about teachers, is we are all maniacally baseball fans. We do get a big promotion of the season off. Many of us became teachers for this reason. So the ten seconds spent away from children, we talk baseball. This Red Sox team is like the notorious class that sends all their teachers to early retirement or law school.

The most shocking moment of my first year of teaching was a comment made by a student. It was a Friday and no one was listening. I had the students come sit on the rug in a circle. 

The answer I got was this.

“Be mean. You got to give detentions and yell Ms. Kimpel. Otherwise we won’t listen.”

“How many of you agree?” I asked the rest of the class.

I was surprised by how many students raised their hands.

So when I imagine the Red Sox, I imagine them all sitting on the rug, criss-cross apple sauce. Francona holding a meeting. Asking these enormous kids what it would take for them to listen.

“Be mean.” Pedroia says.

I tell my students responsibility and choice are things you have to earn in life. Thinking about the future of the Red Sox, I think we need to rework the budget. Give less money to the players. Put some aside for behavioral specialists. And maybe a detention monitor.

 

The Turn

It started out like any other Sunday. The only thing to get me out of bed was football. The only thing to get me out of my house was not having the ability to watch football in my own home. So it was to the usual football house.

I got to the house and found, as usual, the host in his pajamas, his girlfriend reading a book, and people on their computers. The only difference between this day and every other football day, was now, I was in a fantasy league.

But I didn’t care, because who cares about fantasy football when there is real football on? My co-manager had just acquired Urlacher that morning. I told my friends we should have a no computer rule, but then I realized it would be useless, as I am the only one without a smart phone.

Before I knew it, it happened. How could it not? With the game Stafford played, how could I not turn. I found myself asking to use my friend’s computer. I would ask what happened, my friends confused would respond, “Dez Bryant got a first down.”

“I understand that. But what happened to my points,” I would inquire impatiently.

In math today I couldn’t help but explain watching my numbers go up and down, how I had been affected by what we call in elementary the ‘math curse’. But that was only the teacher truth. The real truth, I have come across the fantasy curse.

With 155.41 points (I won my game) I still have Reggie Bush and Jacoby Ford left to play. Luckily, I don’t have to cheer on Bush as we have clenched it. But I wonder. Would I have secretly wanted him to get more yards tonight? The Oakland game is on late. But I already now I will watch the points on my computer change as I lay in bed. I already texted my one of my two Raider fan friends. Usually my text would be something more negative. Today it just reads, “Go Jacoby Ford.”

Maybe fantasy is the key. Maybe having to cheer on all these non-Boston athletes will diminish my massholeness. Or maybe I will just have even less time for a life.

 

Fantasy Defeats Hurricane

Last night as the rain begin to pour down, and our friends in New York began checking themselves into Hurricanapalooza on four square, there were only two things on my mind. One being do I have to bring inside my window AC. Another, the far greater problem, how will this effect fantasy football?

After years of mocking fantasy nerds, I have stepped inside the strange world that has somehow replaced magic cards with baseball cards. Pi has been replaced with strange self-made ranking formulas. But as my new role as a math teacher this coming year, it seemed my professional responsibility to join a fantasy league.

It is around nine. I set my alarm for 7:30 this morning, to clean my house from the hurricane party in case our power goes out. I also had every intention of organizing and cleaning my room. I figured the neater it is, the less of my stuff will be ruined when this storm crashes all of our windows and floods our entire house. An hour and a half has gone by. I have edited my fantasy team countless times. My room already looks like a hurricane has hit. My AC remains in the window.  I still haven’t gotten around to purchasing a flashlight. I used up all my batteries bringing my radio outside to listen to Sox games.  But I don’t have enough time to fix any of these problems. Instead, I anxiously wait for 9:30, the proper hour to call my fantasy mentor.

I shouldn’t even call him. His wife is due any minute, and there may be a hurricane. There is no way he would be wasting his time with this rubbish. Maybe I will call anyway, need to see how he and his wife are doing in the storm.

 

Stuck in a (glorious) moment in O'Hare

My flight was two hours delayed. Of course I hand't checked before being dropped off, so I had a few hours to kill in the O'Hare airport. With all of the delayed flights I was surprised and delighted to find a seat at the Goose Island Bar right near my gate. The San Fransico Giants were playing the Atlanta Braves. Not two teams I particularly care for, but that I meant I could watch baseball, without anxiety. I soon realized why my seat was empty. I tried hard to focus on the game, but the couple beside me was screaming at each other. One did not want to mosh at the concert because of a sore throat. The other was not "understandably." This discussion kept going until their pints finally finished, and I was alas, left to watch the game in piece.

The other screen had Monday night football. Preseason, but it was football, so I couldn't complain. The bartender kept awkwardly trying to seat men who walked in alone beside me. Maybe she assumed the only reason to go to a sports bar in the airport was to meet a man. Because people are always at their romantic best when their flights have been delayed and cancelled.

By the time the seat filled next to me, I was actually starting to focus on both games, understanding my flight would not leave anytime soon, I had no choice to follow airport sports. It wasn't like being at my home bars, where if ESPN was playing teams I didn't care for, and Joe Buck was announcing on FOX, we could agree on NESN replays. So I adapted. The man beside me had his iPad out, so he could follow all of his home team sports. I asked if there was free internet, and he replied in iPad terms.

Then ESPN flashed an update. Thome had gotten his 599 home run. They also announced they would show his next at bat. The man  next to me briefly discussed sports. We both had been to a White Sox game while in town. Him for a bachelor party, me for an insane life project involving every ballpark and a coffee table. We both had already been to Wrigley and agreed in it's superiority. He went back to his iPad, and I went back to watching and hoping for a Jets loss. Mostly, because the Yankees were winning. It was starting to feel like Kansas City was following me around.

It was Thomes next at bat. The TV switched over as promised, and we sat silently. All of the what-ifs buzzing through the air. And it happened. With mighty force he hit his 600th homer. And suddenly, my two hour delay didn't seem so catastrophic. At the bar we smiled like little kids. Because baseball does that. One minute you are at the bar pissed off listening to a couple fight, and the next minute you are witnessing something completely glorious happen to make baseball history. I texted and congratulated my principal. The only Twins fan I know. And when I finally found my gate, I was the only one smiling.

 

Baseball in Chicago

Primarily I went to Chicago to visit friends and family. The trip had nothing to do with baseball, but as so much in my life, I found some time for baseball. I booked my trip and only hours later bought four tickets to see the White Sox play. It was slim picking for baseball in Chicago. The Cubs were out of town, and the Kansas City Royals were in town.. 

The last time I was at a MLB professional ballpark that wasn't Fenway was in 2006. I went to Wrigley right after Nomar got traded. I saw the Red Sox battle the Oakland As away, as well as the Angels. But this was new territory. And I was hoping for all an out of towner would hope for, a no hitter, and an Ozzie flip out.

Neither happened. It was a relatively normal game of baseball. I almost shook when I mistook fireworks for a South Side shooting. I missed the accents of vendors in Boston. I could not believe my eyes when a vendor walked by our bleacher seats with a Margarita backpack. What was even more amusing was the men a few rows in front of us who bought what the Magarrtabuster called "happy juice" and I saw it was bright pink. Now this was truly a thing of pink hats. 

As the first hit crushed a hit off Danks, my hopes of a no-hitter were also crushed. And with the four run lead, it seemed unlikely that Ozzie would start anything. The game ended, and we took pictures of the Chicago skyline. But I wasn't ready to be finished with baseball for the day. I told my friends, if they really wanted me to move to Chicago, I would need to find a spot to watch a Red Sox game. And not just any spot, a good spot.

We got on the L with a set destination in mind. Nic and Dinos Tripoli Tavern. Two friends displaced from Framingham who had set up a Boston sports bar. On the L we had to tolerate the loud voices of, wait for it, Yankee fans. Finally, we got off and walked to the Tavern.

I could see a Bruins flag and a Red Sox flag gleaming in the sunlight. We rushed in to catch the last full inning of the game. We had already seen the Sox get behind with Wake pitching on the fancy scoreboard at the White Sox game. But we were hoping for a comeback. People around us were in Sox hats. We watched the Sox lose, but somehow it was fulfilling, drinking Harpoon IPA. Unfortunatetely, the Sam summer had been switched to Octoberfest, but losing with each other around, hardly felt like losing.  We only planned to stay for one. 

But every time we got ready to leave another fresh pint was in our view. First by a local, who seemed enchanted by our baseball obsession. And then by Nick, who seemed to enjoy being in the presence of people who couldn't hear his accent. Well, at least, I couldn't hear his accent, until it was pointed out to me. We talked baseball. And for a few seconds, I started to believe Boston was not the center of the universe. 

   

Plus Red Sox

In your late twenties things begin to change. You have less time to think about yourself and do what you want, instead you have to focus on people getting married. You have to focus on the partnerships happening around you.

It's as if people think when they are ready to grow up, so are those around them. Suddenly we are supposed to have money and jobs in which we can take of a day to celebrate a union. Say goodbye to using your personal days on yourself. No more day games. Personal days get filled up for other people's personal celebrations. Going to a baseball game becomes selfish.

I am thinking about starting a registry for myself. I am not married, and I'm  nowhere near even having someone to bring to a wedding. If only I was allowed to bring my radio to weddings. I could be entertained by 850 the entire cocktail hour. I could dance to Sweet Caroline, and Shipping Off to Boston. I want to have a celebration of my union with the Red Sox. In sickness and in health, I will always have them in my life. Till death due me part.

So all I am asking for, is some time. Some time in which no one will judge me. If I want to watch the game rather than go out, allow it. If I have tickets to a day game, and I am supposed to be meeting some family members significant other, so be it. I am with my own plus one. In my late twenties, I am plus Red Sox. And of course, I may take on a few affairs in the off season. I am still crossing my fingers Ochocinco will move in. 

 

The Bums

A year ago my father and I decided to go on a baseball pilgrimage. It was our intention to make it to as many ballparks as we could in a year. Over a year later we have one new ballpark to cross off our list. No, we have not made it to watch his favorite childhood team, the Reds. Nor have we made the trek to watch our arch nemesis play at their home stadium,Yankee Stadium.

But we can now proudly say we watched the Beach Bums play like bums in Traverse City. I would suggest this to anyone who makes his or her way to Traverse in the future. It is a truly unique experience. Is it good baseball? Not quite…

Approaching the stadium it looks more like a newly built condo village. You know, the “if you lived here, you’d be home” sort of place. The only way you know you have  come to the right place is the lights with thousands of Michigan bugs illuminating.

Walking into the stadium we purchased the best tickets (right behind home plate for $10). The nice young man informed us it was buy one, get one for free night.

Picture Red’s nightmare baseball franchise. And you got it.

In between innings they had all sorts of competitions. Two kids dressed as tacos racing around the bases to determine what section would get free chips and salsa. The frozen t-shirt contest, where kids had to see how fast they could put on a frozen t-shirt.

As soon as Scott Lawson (the best Wild Things hitter) came to bat, a huge picture of a pig appeared on the jumbotron. Scott Lawson is our piggy hitter of the evening! If he gets out, everyone gets a dollar off pork sandwiches! And each time that old pig got ready to hit the sound of snorting echoed through the loudspeakers.

The other threatening Wild Thing hitter, had to hit with the distraction of BUBBLES coming over the speakers, and a huge projected image of Spongebob.

The Beach Bums were truly playing like bums. If any bum gets on base, it’s a dollar off beer for the rest of the inning. Who can resist such an offer?

Where are the insanity and discounts at my home ballpark? The game was wonderfully chaotic, and the baseball was…well…discounted. My cousin’s son had told me his lifelong dream is to go to Fenway. But at Fenway we drink nine-dollar beers, and can’t insult players over the loudspeakers.

My father and I celebrated our return home to Boston by going to the Monday night game. The two-hour rain delay couldn’t make us go home. Even with no discounted pork sandwiches and beers. Extra innings couldn’t make us leave either.

The tenth inning came, and all around the park some fans shouted MARCO, and distant fans replied with POLO. It wasn’t snorting or Bubbles, but it wasn’t bad.

The fourteenth inning came, and we all stretched again. We all sang take me out to the ballgame again. The entire crowd had found itself into the seats we dream of. The Sox played like Bums. But I remembered why I love Fenway. And why we might just have the best fans in the world, even without discounts, even with games that start over two hours late.