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'Fantasy football' is fanaticism

by TRISTEN CRITCHFIELD, C&J 371

Fantasy football is ruining my life.

There I said it. I am letting an imaginary team composed of players whom I have no control over affect my happiness on NFL Sundays.

Note: If you are one of those people who despise the ground that fantasy football general managers walk on, please feel free to stop reading now. This column isn’t going to make you any happier.

How did I get to this point?

The first fantasy football league I joined began innocently enough. It was a free league, and for me it was just another fun way to pass some time. Wins and losses were not life and death. The only time the league came up in discussion was before the draft and maybe at the conclusion of the season.

Now I have entire phone conversations that revolve around fantasy football.
Sometimes in public.

I can only imagine what people who aren’t in the know (non-fantasy football players, that is) are thinking while I discuss the merit of trading my top two wide receivers for a starting running back. The best-case scenario is that they think I am discussing a real-life situation in which my transaction will actually affect their favorite NFL team.

The worst case scenario? Say goodbye to any semblance of a dating or social life.
That’s fine with me. Give me a chance to hoist an imaginary banner in my imaginary stadium proclaiming fantasy football dominance over my friends, and I can live with the consequences.

Here’s the problem. At this point I am nowhere near proclaiming fantasy dominance. My two teams are a combined 4-11.

Even worse, as a rookie co-owner in my prestigious Albuquerque Journal work league, my buddy and I are living up (or down) to the expectations of everyone else – last-place fodder as the youngest players in the league.

This is in spite of the fact that I devote far too much Internet time to scoping the waiver wires and reading mind-numbing fantasy football chats than doing actual work (I hope my boss realizes the value of facetiousness).

Matthew Berry, Eric Karabell and the rest of the gurus at ESPN Fantasy Sports are my best friends. And my worst enemies. Give me another week and another loss and I will be more than ready to print the first batch of “I hate Cedric Benson t-shirts.”

Cedric, remember when you cried on draft day after suffering through the meat-market process that is the NFL combine? Well, now I cry because I made you a keeper in my fantasy football league, and you have rewarded me with 3.2 yards per carry.

Somewhere in Chicago, Cedric Benson doesn’t care.

I don’t know who cares. Not the heartless vultures that participate in my leagues. Not my non-sports loving friends who roll their eyes at my predicament (non-sports loving, and just why were they my friends to begin with?).

And I have already oh so subtlety stated that fantasy football talk serves as a surefire female repellant. But I do have to say that this information can be quite useful when applied at the right times.

I have compromised my integrity as a sports fan. Instead of cheering on my beloved San Francisco 49ers, I cheer for Kevin Curtis to gain just five more yards. Kevin Curtis?

So you may be wondering why I play this maddening game called fantasy football.
I play because it’s fun.

Wait, I think I hear my phone ringing. Looks like I have another trade in the works.

November 30, 2007

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