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Why Fantasy Football Matters: Countdown to Draft

By Max Handelman and Erik Barmack August 28, 2006 #ysparticleheadshot { display:none; } From the authors of the book "Why Fantasy Football Matters (And Our Lives Do Not)" – a celebration of the eccentric personalities, absurd rituals, and hilarious superstitions of the world's greatest obsession. Organizing your league's draft can be as difficult as understanding the religious and political dynamics of Lebanon – Question: Who are these Druze? And what makes them Druze-like? In the near future, could they somehow be associated with a rap group? Only in your league, there is no UN Resolution 1701 to … uh … help … make the peace. There's only Shaun Alexander, Donald Driver, and a host of egomaniacal managers who must be corralled. Political/Religious Organizations with Rap-Group Sounding Names – The Druze – The PLO – The Fifth Republic Movement – The Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade – The 700 Club The weeks leading up to the draft are pivotal ones, requiring equal parts discipline and ruthlessness. Like the victims of the Bataan Death March, every fantasy football commissioner must soldier on, driving their managers to redemption – a spot in the War Room. Or else, they'll suffer a far more unsettling fate – expulsion from the league, and death. John Bonham and the League Member Who Must Be Saved Some league members try to get out of the league by claiming that none of the draft dates work for them. This is a cry for help (of sorts). They are usually recently married or the father of a newborn, and being tugged by their wives/bosses to avoid certain people (read: other fantasy football managers), places (the local sports bar), and events (watching games at the local bar with fellow manager) that may trigger lengthy discussions/tirades on the state of their relationship. As a commissioner, a determination must first be made as to whether this manager is core to the league. If he won't respond to trades, won't make free agent pick-ups, and generally checks out after Week 1, he should be dropped anyway. But if this manager can shrug off his wife/significant other, has been in your league since its inception, has won at least one championship, and can fluently pull a Bill Walton quote or two in the clutch ("Mick Jagger is in better shape than far too many NBA players; it's up in the air whether the same can be said of Keith Richards"), he must be boxed in. A good litmus test of whether a manager must be kept is to imagine him as a member of a big rock group. Is he the Rolling Stones' Brian Jones – interesting, troubled, but ultimately placed on the PUP list? Or is he Led Zeppelin's John Bonham, the nucleus of a Super Bowl-caliber team that could not survive without him? Departed Rockers Vital to Their Band – Keith Moon: Brutally replaced by the appropriately named Kenny Jones. – John Lennon: Was simply John Lennon. – David Lee Roth: Drunken fights led to his exit; in his place, we got Sammy Hagar. Departed Rockers Who Were Replaceable – Duff "Rose" McKagen: Slash and Izzy were key cogs; Duff was not. – Bon Scott: Good guy, great founding partner - but Brian Johnson came in and belted "Back in Black." Scott's death, rumored to involve vomit, officially listed as "Death by Misadventure." – Cliff Burton: Brilliant musician who was on "Master of Puppets" but, in his absence, the band played on with "And Justice for All" and self-titled black album. Later, replacement Jason Newsted single-handedly destroyed Metallica street cred by joining cast of "Rockstar: Supernova." If your guy is a Bonham-type, you must do everything you can to save him. When he claims that "none of the proposed draft dates work," you must employ reason. You say, "Tell us a day or two that will work for you." When he refuses, you must apply guilt: "Eleven other guys are locked and loaded – you're the only unconfirmed spot." And then, finally, you must resort to sheer anger: "Dude, do you want to play or not? Because we really can't tell anymore." But ultimately, what this manager really wants is little attention and love. So, like Forrest Gump dashing into the jungle to retrieve a soon-to-be legless Lieutenant Dan, we attempt to save our fallen comrade. We tell him that the league needs him, that everyone's counting on him – that he belongs back in the fray. And finally, he concedes. The One Not Worth Fighting For Then there are the managers who simply aren't worth keeping around. You know who they are: they guys who refused to pay their dues until December last season, the ones who consistently fight with your commissioner about whether they won Jermaine Wiggins in free agency, despite bidding late and against protocol. Why Jermaine Wiggins was the subject of his fascination is beyond us (as were his other free agent pick-ups from previous years: David Carr, Vernand Morency, and Frisman Jackson). We don't know, we don't care, and we don't want to deal with his crap again this year. So when this manager sends us his "conditions for re-entry" into our league, we're somewhat mystified: 1. There will be a new commissioner. 2. There will be no more references to Eddie Kennison as "toad-like." 3. There will be no more jokes about his taking Duce Staley and Curtis Martin in back-to-back rounds in 2005. 4. There will be no repeated jokes involving the phrases "Koren Robinson," "Donte Stallworth," and "sleeper." 5. There will be a revised Constitution written "for and by" the people, but having nothing to do with the pass-blocking abilities of Tatum Bell. 6. There will be no sardines thrown in the War Room on draft day following any pick related to Daunte Culpepper. No, no, no, no, no and no. Our league was not devised to be steamrolled by one loose cannon. This guy must be dropped. The Draft Order Selection Ceremony Amid all the chaos, groans, and misdirection prevalent in the week leading up to your fantasy draft, there's always one guy who revels in the ritual of Draft Day preparation. To him, it's not work. It's an annual rite of passage. And there is no greater ritual in all of fantasy football than the Draft Order Selection Ceremony. So naturally, he nominates himself the Draft Order Selection manager. To assign draft order, most leagues drop names in a hat, and then select them at random. That would be easy. That would make sense. But that would also be boring, and some leagues won't settle for that. No, that simply will not do. Our league, for example, uses a far more exotic process. Some have called it barbaric, and others have suggested that it's in poor taste. "Tell that to Saddam Hussein," says one manager. No one quite understands his point, but most nod in agreement. The Draft Order Selection manager in our league has been waiting all summer for the Draft Order Selection Ceremony. Filled with childish glee, he heads to a pet store in Chinatown where he buys twelve goldfish. Each is distinctly different. Some believe this isn't possible, but, as it turns out, goldfish come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors. The gold fish are placed in small zip-lock bags. Swimming in sharp, two inch arcs, they're taken to his office, where they await their fate. "Gentlemen," the Draft Order Selection manager emails, "preparations for the Draft Order Selection Ceremony have begun. I haven't fed the Piranhas, Tarkanian and Peepers, for thirty-six hours. I have no doubt that they should make quick work of our twelve little friends." And indeed they will. In that aquarium lurk two lethal piranhas – the aforementioned Peepers and Tark. Peepers is pale and speedy; Tark is darker and more of a bruiser. They're the Stockton and Malone of piranhas. Each year, there's a palpable silence as all eyes focus on the piranhas. "Bring the pain," commands a particularly cold hearted manager. The Draft Order Selection manager drops the twelve goldfish into the tank. The order in which they're eaten will determine the league's draft positions. The owner of the first fish will receive the last pick in the draft. The last fish swimming – the first pick. The carnage begins quickly. Peepers instantly devours a slow-moving fish before turning his attention to another. Soon there's hooting and hollering as managers press their faces to the glass as the carnage unfolds. The water becomes rose-tinted. Half a tail rests inside a plastic treasure chest. With each new victim, an owner's name is called, and his draft pick assigned. Grown men cheer on small, scrappy goldfish as they dart around the tank, trying to avoid consumption by Peepers and Tark. So it goes until all twelve goldfish are gone, and the draft order is set. Now we know where we stand. The Bitter Rivals Rivalries are important to sports. The Yankees have the Red Sox. The Giants have the Redskins. And Rocky Balboa had Clubber Lang. Top Clubber Lang Quotes – "I'm gonna torture him. I'm gonna crucify him. Real bad." – "No, I don't hate, Balboa. I pity the fool." – "My prediction [for the fight]? Pain." – "What did you say, Paper Champion? I'll beat you like a dog, a dog, you hear?" Fantasy football is no different. Rivalries are the life blood of any league, Get two managers who are willing to send a blizzard of emails back and forth, debating some arcane scoring rule (and, more importantly, willing to end a friendship over it), and you have yourself some bitter rivals. Also, for whatever reason, these rivals usually end up getting sandwiched next to each other when the draft order is set. This is a crucial ingredient in creating invaluable draft-day fireworks. Call it ironic. Call it kismet. Call it entertaining to watch. But if two guys hate each other, they are more or less a lock to have back-to-back picks. "I can't believe I'm stuck next to you again," one will say. "If only my fish swam faster," says the other. For these guys, waiting for the draft is a kind of limbering up for the inevitable, close-quarters, Sunni-insurgency-style pitched battle that will be waged in the War Room on draft day. Typically, preparing for the draft initially requires a little good-natured backslapping. It's a new year, time for a fresh start, and these guys are due for a little "friendly chat." Each season, they pretend that this is the year when they might finally bury the hatchet and "get along." Yet, each year, they get in brutal, heavy-handed email slug-fests, mean-spirited trades, and general bursts of Schadenfreude. The chemistry just isn't right. True to form, the pre-draft jargon is always the same: seemingly well-conceived, initially neutral in tone, and always laden with falsehoods and misdirection. "Hey, bro, how's it going?" one says. "Good, good. How are your wife and daughter?" "You mean Sasha, my son?" "Right, your son. I meant to say 'son.' Didn't I say that?" "No. You distinctly said 'daughter'." "Oh. Right. For some reason, I must have had it in my mind that Sasha was a girl's name." "Bro, that's not cool. It's a boys name." "Really? You're sure? Kind of sounds like a girls name." "Of course, I'm sure. It's my son. I gave him that name. It's a boy's name." "Hmm. If you say so. I guess you would know." "Yeah, I would know." "Touché.” "Touché what?" "I don't know. Just Touché, I guess." There's an uncomfortable silence. It's time to shift gears. "Dude, so anyways, you jobbed me last year when you took my Priest Holmes handcuff, Larry Johnson. That was cold-blooded, and downright reptilian." Snickers are heard. "Well, yeah. I guess that was." "But anyway, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. So let's cut to the chase." "Yes, let's." The two men begin to circle each other. "Who are you looking at in the first two rounds? Stephen Jackson? Ronnie Brown? Fast Willie Parker? Kevin Jones?" "Those are all interesting names." "Seriously, let's share information. Help me help you." This is a perfect opportunity for the other manager to throw down a smoke bomb of meaningless and utterly transparent players whom he'll never, ever take. "I don't know, boss," he'll say. "I'm thinking of reaching and taking Michael Vick. Or perhaps Chad Johnson. Could be Ahman Green. Or maybe Domanick Davis." "Domanick Davis? If I tripped and fell over myself, I'd have a higher yards-per-carry than Davis. You're not taking Domanick Davis. I'm serious dude, let's work together this year." But no, it's too late. The other manager has gone into lockdown mode. He's shut it down. Top Smurfs – Clumsy Smurf: Wears baggy cap, collects rocks. – Finance Smurf: Introduced gold-coined money system to Smurf-land. – Grandpa Smurf: Favorite expression: "Smurfatoodles!" – Scaredy Smurf: Liked by Smurfette because he's more "sensitive" than the other guys. – Weakling Smurf: Used chemical-inhancers to win the Smurf Olympics. "I can just imagine you cackling like Gargamel over his cauldron, ready to boil some Smurfs. You must be so proud. But for the life of me, I have no idea why you won't cooperate." "Cooperation, Schmooperation," his fellow draftee says, and with that, their conversation is over. No information of any value, suffice it to say, is ever exchanged. They have merely engaged in a well-choreographed routine. A dance they do every year. A dance that has them waving their hands in the air, sighing repeatedly, and engaging in assorted other histrionics prior to Draft Day. And so it begins. Max Handelman was introduced to fantasy football as an investment banking analyst at Salomon Smith Barney, and as a director at News Corporation helped launch Fox Sports' fantasy games division. He is now an independent film producer in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife. Erik Barmack is a director of business development at ESPN, and is the former vice president of fantasy games at The Sporting News. He is the author of The Virgin and has written for The Sporting News, The Sports Business Journal, The Atlantic Monthly Online, and others. Max Handelman and Erik Barmack are authors of the book "Why Fantasy Football Matters (And Our Lives Do Not)". Updated on Monday, Aug 28, 2006 8:37 pm EDT