A Fantasy? No, the Draft

by Jake Simon

The time is currently 10:15 p.m. Most nights, I am either asleep or researching for work at this time. However, tonight is different.

Tonight is special.

Inside, my body feels stretched razor-thin; as stressed as Star Jones' bra strap. Tense drops of nervous sweat are forming on my right eyebrow.

I know the outcome of my decisions tonight will affect me until...football season.

Da Nang? No.
It's fantasy baseball draft night.

Think that is scary? Try this...

I don't take it as seriously as most of the other guys in this league. That's saying something since I'd have a tough time answering this question…

Situation #1: A fire rages in my kitchen, and I'm moments from suffocation.
What do I do?

A: Leave the house
or
B: If I have the swing-around pick, try to evaluate whether or not the guy in front of me will take Oliver Perez.

Hi, my name is Jacob Simon and I am a fantasy sports-a-holic.

It's now 10:26 p.m. My friend Matt set the draft time this year. He set it this late because he knows I'm not a night person. My concentration won't be optimal. My mind will be foggy. He knows my weakness.

"Under Pressure" by Queen is quietly playing in my IPOD. I play music while I draft because it helps to block the outside world. I don't want to hear anything else. Fires, floods, locusts and my girlfriend will all take a backseat tonight.

The danger of entering the draft room before everyone else lies in the morbid thoughts that start swirling in my head.

"What if I go to the bathroom and miss my pick?"

"What if I have the fifth pick and none of the big four are available?"

You have to block them out. Thoughts like those will make you do horrible things, like see shadows that aren't there or tell your girlfriend you love her when all you want is a decent night's rest.

10:33 p.m. It's almost time now, and the room is getting darker. Did I turn my phone off? Is my fridge stocked with Dr. Pepper? Am I wearing pants? No? Good. It's go time.

Yes! I refreshed the draft page, and I have the fourth overall pick. At least I'll get Beltran. He will solidify stolen bases and runs scored. However, my draft strategy revolves around pitching, so maybe I'll draft Johan. Head games.

One of the great aspects about a live online draft is the trash talk. For instance, my friend Zach just called me "A worthless sack of monkey excrement who couldn't draft himself out of his grandmother's girdle." How droll. The questions remains, "How did I get IN my grandmother's girdle in the first place?"

10:45 p.m. The draft is starting and, like a rapid-fire 9mm, Pujols, A-Rod and Vlad all find homes on other teams. It’s my turn. My finger quivers over the mouse as Beltran’s name is lit up. Thoughts of home runs and stolen bases are dancing in my head.

But first, a few comments from my fellow drafters. Let the head games begin.
"Well, his average wasn’t the best last year."

"He didn’t really have his coming out until the playoffs."

"What if he hits in the .270’s this year?"

My friend Matt then fires this gem at me: "You know Jake, he might as well be Abreu, and Lord knows I wouldn’t take Abreu fourth overall." Matt knows my buttons. He knows what makes me tick.

Like I child who just knocked over a lamp, I draft Johan. Then it begins…

"You moron! You just passed over five-tool Beltran for a pitcher?!"

Then, my friend Steve summarizes my decision in one word.

"Idiot."

It’s now 10:53 p.m., and the guy two picks down grabbed Helton. After the first Scott Rolen sighting of the night, I grab David Ortiz. I’m feeling good because one of the new guys over drafted Carl Crawford. When worse comes to worse, you can always use other people’s shortcomings to feel better about yourself. Ah, the life lessons taught by fantasy baseball.

At 10:59, the tides turn.

Steve, who was the loudest critic of my Johan choice, blew his third-round pick (22nd overall) on Juan Pierre. Now the time has come for my Machiavellian retort.

"Idiot." Sweet, sweet revenge.
The draft’s early rounds are slowly ticking by. Ozzy Osbourne has never seen as many curse words as I did when I took Oliver Perez in the fourth round, one pick ahead of Matt. I don’t know if God was watching, but I hope for Matt’s sake he wasn’t.

As soon as my Perez pick is in the books, I realize I’m out of Dr. Pepper. Of course, I’m too scared to embark on the perilous journey to the fridge incase I miss my pick. So I wait.

While I was waiting, I look at my roster and discover for the first time that I have no relief pitching. Anyone who has ever paid attention to any of my stuff knows that my bread and butter is relief pitching. I wait on baited breath as Michael Young, Tim Hudson and Jake Peavy go before me. Then I snatch K-Rod. The fantasy Gods are smiling on me tonight.

In the sixth round, our draft finally has its first infamous, "If…then" statement. I’ll explain. Last year, when one of the chumps in the league drafted Ken Griffey Jr., my friend Adam dropped an "if…then:"

"Hey, if pulling up lame after breaking a fingernail and spending four months of the season on the DL was a category…then you would win for sure!"
Pure gold.

This year, Matt put into effect the edict stating that no one in the league, no matter how witty, may submit more than one "if…then" statement. Personally, I wanted to save mine until the later rounds when eyelids were heaviest and resolve was at its lowest. I would make mine count. And I did when my friend Marx drafted Pat Burrell.

"Hey Marx, if unfulfilled potential coupled with a cocky personality and nothing to back it up was a category…then you would have this league locked up." Genius.

Even though I would never tell it to his face, Matt had one of the steals of the draft with Jake Westbrook in the sixteenth round. Matt is a Twins fan and I know it pained him to take an Indian. However, Mat has the same theory on starting pitching as I do with relief pitching. With Westbrook, he might have the upper-hand.

My iPod is switching to Willie Nelson now. The song “Crazy” is starting. So I take it as a sign and promptly draft Preston Wilson. Hey, when the gods call, you answer, right? If the song were called “injury prone and career role player,” I would have drafted Moises Alou. Oh man, that’s good…I’m writing that one down.