2.16.2005
FLB Goes on Sale
There are two schools of thought on fantasy baseball: it's either a curse on the game or a wondrous supplement to fandom. The former opinion used to be predominant, but truth be told I can't scrounge up anyone anymore who still feels that way. I imagine the only remaining fantasy-sports haters would be people over fifty, people without computers, and women...three demographics I rarely encounter these days.
So I guess that means there's only one remaining school of thought on the subject. FLB's sheer addictiveness has become the overriding theme; even those who didn't like the idea of it in the beginning now have their own array of teams, cheat sheets, stats services, and old editions of Baseball Prospectus stacked in the closet. A guy who pooh-poohs fantasy sports is simply one who hasn't been invited to the party yet. Like it or not, the train left the station years ago and is now coming back around to pick up another load of passengers.
Fantasy baseball is huge. I probably don't have to tell you that, but what's interesting is that MLB has finally hitched its reins on the wagon. I'm surprised this didn't happen five years ago, just as I'm surprised that Carlos Beltran doesn't have a clause in his contract that awards him a bonus for finishing in the top five on ESPN's Player Rater.
(Obviously the madness isn't limited to baseball either. I might as well point out that, in the midst of composing this post, I am checking out the NBA scoreboard for updates on games that won't even end for another hour or two, and it ain't because of a deep appreciation of the Atlantic Division race, it's to check up on Shane Battier's field-goal percentage and blocked-shot totals. Such is the drudgery of the sporting life in February; this will get much worse when the real fantasy season begins in a couple months.)
What we have on our hands is a booming sports industry for the Internet Age: ethereal, 'out there,' difficult to describe to an outsider, but still enormous. Celebrities have their roto teams, which leads to stories in prominent sports publications about celebrities' roto teams, which leads us directly to today's lesson, a truism even if celebrities are involved:
This means fantasy victories are private victories, for the benefit of you only, recognizable only to the foes you bested, not counting the ones who quit checking their teams in late May. I pulled off the season of my life in 2004: prepared extensively, aced the draft (snagging Santana in the sixth round), made killer in-season trades, and won my 12-team roto league by thirty points, a lead I had established firmly by June. The payoff in the end was that I could check the league standings the day after the season ended, where my team name was now adorned with the accompanying phrase "League Champion." The owners in my league were more personable than most, so I got a couple congratulatory notes too. But that was it. No celebratory parade, no PS2 in the mail, no gift certificates to Amazon or the local hair salon. Just a peculiar pride I couldn't share with, or even properly describe to, anyone else.
I will never top that performance, no matter how hard I try, and that's exactly the problem. With all the time and concentration I put into my team last year, I could easily have landed a better job, or published a novel of some kind. But here I sit, in mid-February, hardly able to contain myself because FLB goes on sale tomorrow. And we have passed the point where I might consider myself peculiar for feeling this way. There's no going back, gentlemen.
So I guess that means there's only one remaining school of thought on the subject. FLB's sheer addictiveness has become the overriding theme; even those who didn't like the idea of it in the beginning now have their own array of teams, cheat sheets, stats services, and old editions of Baseball Prospectus stacked in the closet. A guy who pooh-poohs fantasy sports is simply one who hasn't been invited to the party yet. Like it or not, the train left the station years ago and is now coming back around to pick up another load of passengers.
Fantasy baseball is huge. I probably don't have to tell you that, but what's interesting is that MLB has finally hitched its reins on the wagon. I'm surprised this didn't happen five years ago, just as I'm surprised that Carlos Beltran doesn't have a clause in his contract that awards him a bonus for finishing in the top five on ESPN's Player Rater.
(Obviously the madness isn't limited to baseball either. I might as well point out that, in the midst of composing this post, I am checking out the NBA scoreboard for updates on games that won't even end for another hour or two, and it ain't because of a deep appreciation of the Atlantic Division race, it's to check up on Shane Battier's field-goal percentage and blocked-shot totals. Such is the drudgery of the sporting life in February; this will get much worse when the real fantasy season begins in a couple months.)
What we have on our hands is a booming sports industry for the Internet Age: ethereal, 'out there,' difficult to describe to an outsider, but still enormous. Celebrities have their roto teams, which leads to stories in prominent sports publications about celebrities' roto teams, which leads us directly to today's lesson, a truism even if celebrities are involved:
Stories about other people's fantasy teams are intensely boring.This cannot be exaggerated. They are a social anathema, designed to relieve listeners of any obligation to continue listening. Want to set a captive audience free? Tell them how you rose to the top of your 12-team 5x5 league last summer, never to look back, when you declined to trade Johan Santana for Jose Vidro because you knew Santana was about to pull of a streak of Koufaxian dominance that would give you the lead in ERA, K, WHIP, and wins. By the time you reach the "declined to trade" part of that sentence, any bystander who hasn't already wandered off to the bathroom or to the fridge for another beer was already tuning you out to begin with and doesn't realize you've changed the subject to fantasy baseball.
This means fantasy victories are private victories, for the benefit of you only, recognizable only to the foes you bested, not counting the ones who quit checking their teams in late May. I pulled off the season of my life in 2004: prepared extensively, aced the draft (snagging Santana in the sixth round), made killer in-season trades, and won my 12-team roto league by thirty points, a lead I had established firmly by June. The payoff in the end was that I could check the league standings the day after the season ended, where my team name was now adorned with the accompanying phrase "League Champion." The owners in my league were more personable than most, so I got a couple congratulatory notes too. But that was it. No celebratory parade, no PS2 in the mail, no gift certificates to Amazon or the local hair salon. Just a peculiar pride I couldn't share with, or even properly describe to, anyone else.
I will never top that performance, no matter how hard I try, and that's exactly the problem. With all the time and concentration I put into my team last year, I could easily have landed a better job, or published a novel of some kind. But here I sit, in mid-February, hardly able to contain myself because FLB goes on sale tomorrow. And we have passed the point where I might consider myself peculiar for feeling this way. There's no going back, gentlemen.
