I forced myself to promise it would never be mentioned here, reserving this sacred Blogger real estate for hairy chested, manly men speak only. The other "men" (radio hosts, dorks, Eric Karabell) who speak publicly of it only come off as dateless losers, ninnies who cherish numbers over wins. Guys who feel up the Sports Illustrated Almanac at drive-in movie theaters. I would not sink that low.
And yet, here I am. About to dissect fantasy football.
The Christ is a must-draft, especially in point-per-reception leagues.
You know where fantasy football falls short? It doesn't mean anything, and nowhere near measures how good a football player is or isn't. I hate to break it to the apologists, but do you know how to calculate whether or not a player had a good game? (Hint: It has nothing to do with points per reception.) You actually, what's that called again? Oh yeah. You watch the games.
Two weeks ago against the Packers, Dallas wide receiver Roy Williams played like shit. He was awful. He dropped more balls than puberty. You know how I know? I watched the game.
In fantasy? Roy Williams was awesome. 5 catches, 105 yards, and a touchdown. (Most of it in garbage time when the Packers were way up and the Cowboys were just trying to avoid being shut out.) That's good for 14 points in my league (a point for each reception, a point for every 20 yards, and six for the touchdown). 14 points for someone who played the way Eric Stoltz looked in MASK.
Conversely, Philip Rivers (as usual) was great last weekend against Denver. A 109.1 QB rating, 77% completion percentage (17 of 22!), no interceptions, and, most importantly, a win. He was the definition of efficient, and everything you would want from your franchise quarterback.
So how did he do in fantasy? Eight points. Eight. He only had 145 yards and one touchdown. The Chargers' gameplan was to run all over the Broncos, which they did to the tune of 203 yards. Norv and the gang obviously didn't bother worrying about Pip's fantasy owners, because they wanted to, you know, win. And Norv needs his wins these days.
So what does this all mean? Well, it means this: It's a crapshoot. It takes relatively no skill, other than the draft (where most people get drunk or high anyway, and end up trading every guy they have three times over during the season). Baseball, basketball, and hockey are long, long seasons. You have to keep up with it. You have to dedicate yourself to it. And, in the end, it evens itself out. Football doesn't. Check this out:
Team #1
Team #2
Fantasy football makes diehard Colts fans like me root for Randy Moss. They make Patriot fans root for Reggie Wayne. They make Chief fans root for Bruce Gradkowski. (One of those is a joke.) And ultimately, will they skew what we remember? Will the legion of fantasy footballers argue in the future that Roy Williams was better than Hines Ward? That Larry Johnson had a more successful overall career than Kevin Faulk?
So a guy in a wheelchair (who had obviously been in some sort of accident) came up to me just now. Literally just a few seconds ago. Here's what transpired:
You know what year I was born in? 1972. '72. You know who's football number that was?
Him
That's right!
He then proceeded to talk about shooting hoops with Greg Graham back in the day and left. You know, just a normal conversation.
HOW TO CONVINCE NON-SPORTS FANS (OR PEOPLE THAT DON'T WATCH TITANS GAMES) THAT YOU ARE A PSYCHIC
1. Wait for a 3rd down in a Tennessee Titans game, preferably between a 3rd and 4 and a 3rd and 7, when the Titans have the ball.
2. Put your index fingers on your temples and close your eyes.
3. Dramatically open your eyes, like something of great importance was just delivered to you telepathically.
4. Say, "I see...I see Vince Young in the shotgun. He's...he's dropping back to pass, but he's not going to pass. He's going to look like he's going to pass. Then, he's going to, in a manner that looks a lot slower than it really is, run by two to three guys before getting out of bounds just past the first down marker."
5. Bask in the pseudo-supernatural glory.
HOW TO CONVINCE NON-SPORTS FANS (OR PEOPLE THAT DON'T WATCH TEXANS GAMES) THAT YOU ARE A PSYCHIC
1. Wait for kicker Kris Brown to run on the field.
2. Put your index fingers on your temples and close your eyes.
3. Dramatically open your eyes, like something of great importance was just delivered to you telepathically.
4. Say, "Kris Brown will miss this kick wide ri...no...wide left, followed by The Kubester (Houston coach Gary Kubiak) angrily throwing his headset in disgust."
5. Say, "Following the game, The Kubester will go to a local soup kitchen to personally witness the pathetic state of the homeless, and even volunteer his time. He will then say things like, 'Ya hungry? I bet you are' and 'You probably need this food to live, don't ya, ya bastard?' before throwing away perfectly edible food, all the while coldly staring in their faces and laughing dastardly." (Optional)
6. Bask in the pseudo-supernatural glory.
***
Not that it really matters, but I've fixed the comment section, so now anyone can comment, not just Google members, and I'm also trying to write the longest sentence in the world using only commas as punctuation, and I might have the fucking swine flu because someone casually mentioned having it that I've hung out with lately (and shared a pizza with), so you might be in luck as far as future material, because I'll have nothing but horrible free time on my hands! Thanks-fucking-giving!
I thought there was a "No Gradkowski Bashing" rule on this blog, what the hell, Stro? On an unrelated sidenote, Greg Graham once dropped his mouthpiece on my shoe as I sat courtside in Assembly Hall for an IU vs. Austin Peay preseason barnburner.
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