Fantasia
He talked me into it.
A few weeks ago, I was carving a path along the beltway, bound for Silver Spring and my part-time radio gig there. Four beeps emanated from my personal portable multi-communication device.
Before the first pitch of the current MLB season was hurled, Grant Paulsen, my friend and fellow seamhead (and he of his own Sunday morning show on XM Radio Home Plate, channel 175), was sending me a txt.
He's forming a fantasy baseball league, he txted. And would I be interested?
I hadn't been part of a fantasy league in over a decade. And no, I wasn't really interested. He send another txt. Was I sure? The draft was that night, 9:30 on Yahoo (during my radio gig). Could I draft?
Well, okay. I could. And I did. But I asked Grant if he minded if I half-arsed it. No draft prep, and (at the time) no care as to what happened afterward.
It's like this, see: Fantasy baseball is alright. It's okay, I suppose. Played a couple times many moons ago, middle-of-the-pack success. It certainly keeps one connected to the intricacies of bullpens from coast to coast, keeps one knowledgeable of lefty-swinging backup catchers wherever they're to be found.
But it changes the way one watches the game -- at least, it changes the way I watch the game.
I love baseball. Love it. Want it to be my life. (I'm a happier person now that I've permitted myself that self-actualization.) Put nine warm bodies versus nine warm bodies in a rough assemblage of baseball-like activity, and I'll watch it. And analyze it. And critique it, and maybe, maybe even praise it -- but I'm a harsh spectator.
Moreover, I look for teamplay. Who has the instincts, the particular athletic skill-set, the knack for doing those little things that create winning baseball? Who reaches beyond the stat-sheet?
But the stat-sheet is what fantasy baseball, shockingly enough, is all about.
So now, when I watch a major league ballgame, I'm not necessarily looking at scores as much as stats. I don't want Troy Tulowitzki to sit down because he's in a slump. I despair that Micah Owings might have to miss a start with a creaky ankle. I cried with Cleveland as C.C. Sabathia opened the season 0-7. (!) Each at-bat of Raúl Ibañez never meant so much.
So what if I'm in eighth place in a nine-team league? (Thanks, C.C.) We're keeping score; it's time to win!
Fantasy baseball changes the way the game is seen. The beautiful game, the ultimate team game which contains the ultimate mano-a-mano scenario with each plate appearance. It's an intricate game that lends itself easily to numerical analysis but is much, much more than a number could suggest.
But here I sit, pouring over available players to see if there's a suitable replacement for Juan Pierre. (Michael Bourne? Jacoby Ellsbury?) I need steals and runs, and the needs of the Los Angeles Dodgers be darned.
Probably won't play again next year -- even if I make a miraculous, Phillies-esque comeback. I don't like rooting so much for Victor Martínez to drive in a run that I forget he's playing against the Orioles. I don't like missing the forest for the trees, ignoring the teams for the players.
Maybe in another decade.