The world of sports is one I will never truly understand.
While it was easy enough to grasp that three-pointers are worth three on the court, a goal on the ice is worth one, and eagles are good on the green, grasping the “why” behind fantasy sports was much more problematic.
Before spending the academic year trapped in a 700 sq. ft. apartment with two hard-core sports fans as roommates, I was oblivious to the intensity of this bizarre hobby. As the NHL playoffs draw near, March Madness gets underway and the number one player in the PGA changes almost weekly, the stress level in our household has peaked judging by the iPhones being thrown across the living room and bruises acquired from punching walls and throwing hissy fits on the floor.
It took awhile for me to grow accustomed to the late night shouts and curses, footsteps and groans that made sleep elusive. As I spent months observing tears of both joy and despair within a single power play, I came to the conclusion running a fantasy sports teams is a sad hobby akin to playing outdoors in a thunderstorm. At first, it’s fun and liberating, but after awhile you grow cold, damp and start to miss your mommy.
As mealtimes were altered based on press conferences announcing when injured quarterbacks would return to the huddle, eating alone at the dining room table became a common occurrence.
Smartphone usage was no longer discouraged in the washroom when obsessively monitoring Tiger’s shaky comeback on the leader board. In fact, after careful research I’ve come to the conclusion members of this fanatical cult cling to the technological devices that provide them access to the standings like a recovering reality TV addict clings to season two of The Hills.
Hours would pass listening to the possessed debate over the pronunciation of the newest Russian import. At night voices in my head would sing a steady chorus of Byfuglien, Abdelkader, Bryzalov and other names with incompatible consonants, which convinced me there is direct correlation between world-class talent and unpronounceable names.
Social outings and recreational activities fell to the wayside, as couches and Quiznos takeout gained a greater appeal than dance floors and date-night dining.
Then the worst happened.
As a mere observer of their peculiar world where pouting like a spoilt child and swearing like a thuggish felon was considered acceptable and even encouraged, I began to understand things I won’t ever care to admit.
I had accidently accumulated enough information to tell which teams were leading the Eastern Conference, who Phil Mickelson was, why his wife was so hot, and how Chad Ochocinco’s ego and Twitter account got so out of control.
As a recent involuntary inductee into a realm where Crosby is God and the functionality of belly putters is always being pondered, my initial curiosity surrounding fantasy teams vanished and in its place turned to apathy.
If comprehending the mindset of grown men who spend more hours nurturing a phony team than setting foot in sunlight was putting me on the path towards owning a Ford F150 with my favourite NHL team’s logo plastered across the back window, it wasn’t a lesson worth learning.
I’ll cheer for a touchdown and clap for a hole-in-one, but I will never understand fantasy sports.
– Dedicated to the most intense fantasy hockey teams ever, "Welcome 2 Pomminville" and "Too Hot to Yandle" –