Fantasy Football Anonymous

Greetings friends, I stand before you here, in a place without judgment. Hello. My name is Rob Hill, and I am a sports fan. No, make that a sports fanatic. Not like you people. Many of you are probably sports fans. Football, baseball, basketball, maybe even some of those little foreign sports. Most of you enjoy watching a good game, perhaps with an adult beverage in hand. Not I. I keep my mind at its sharpest. The better to cut you with, my dear. Some of the more devoted of you might even have a jersey or two in support of your favorite athletes. Not I. My loyalties have been bled too dry by the fickle winds of fantasy and the drought of the Raiders these five long years. Additionally, killers don't wear uniforms.

No matter how desperate the status of your fandom, don't worry. You don't have problems. Not like I do anyway. I have issues. Real ones. Scary ones. Darkest of all, I have fantasy football ones.

I have to slow down. Back it up. I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday at work, my senior coworker says "Ro-obbb" in an "uh-oh" kind of voice, and my heart starts pounding. Oh, God. What could she be calling to me for? Please no. I nearly have a heart attack thinking something happened to my running back at practice.

That honestly was my first thought. Not a problem with my job, not extra work to do, not anything from real life at all, even during these dire economic straits. I was worried L-T was hurt. This might be a problem. I'll let you all decide. Let's go back further, to the start of it all.

1: In the Beginning,

It all started innocently enough. A friend of mine was in a league at his college, and they had an odd number of teams. I just wanted to be the nice guy who rounded off the schedule. I was killing bye weeks. I was a humanitarian. I deserve a medal.

It was love at first sight, and I never had a chance after that. I didn't win the title that year. Actually, in a 12 team league I only managed 5th place. But I got a taste of blood. "Hey Mikey, he likes it!" Indeed I did.

The next year I was invited back, and I wanted more than just a few drops of that sweet plasma of life. I wanted the jugular. In a further attempt to satisfy my male needs to kill and to win, I launched a small league for my friends. From these humble beginnings were the days of darkness ushered in.

2) The Dark Ages.

In one of my leagues, I had first pick in the draft, granting me rights to the league's premier running back, LaDainian Tomlinson. L-T, an honest-to-God fantasy football legend. My team, The 300, is incredibly stacked for being in a 16 team league. I am easily the prohibitive favorite. People are scared, and they should be, as I'm still undefeated. Fortunately it's 2008, and a kinder, gentler Rob is playing. A year or two ago, I would have simply started running my mouth so fast that Jamaican sprinter Bolt would have had no chance of catching it.

That was when my competitive edge got out of control. You're all about to lose whatever respect you might actually have for me. In a league for my fraternity, I am two time defending champion. And every one of my competitors knows it. I make sure they do. Every week I considered my opponent to be the scourge of humanity. The houses of Capulet and Montague never knew such enmity. The breadth of these insults was nearly beyond comprehension, from attacks on their questionable ancestry to boastful odes to my incredible masculinity. All this while spending hundreds of dollars just to spend more time intently watching large sweaty men in tight pants.

Another issue entirely.

I think the low point came when I made a slightly lopsided trade with the boss's son, a big time Packer fan. In my defense, he was seven years old, plenty old enough to check the headlines. It's a money league! If you're dropping $50 for the right to compete, you better bring your A game. It's not my fault the little cheesehead traded a top tier receiver for a crippled Green Bay running back. Not. My. Fault. It was the capitalist in me. A bad knee was lemons, so I made lemonade. Or sold him a lemon. Pick an analogy and run with it. Anyway in the long run I was doing the kid a favor. Think he'll ever forget to do his research again? He will be ON that carfax.com report, and you know it. Thanks to me.

3.) Redemption

Okay, that might have been slightly ethically questionable, but all's well that ends well. This ends with me in a Renaissance. Now is the time of a more open me. I've come full circle. I'm back to being the nice guy who helped round out a league. It's all for fun, I keep telling myself. Winning doesn't really matter. It's all about the friendships you build over the friendly contest. In fact, in the spirit of such friendly competition, if and when I win a third straight title, as a consolation prize, I'll auction to them the rights to one of my unborn children so their inferior little gene pools will at least have a shot at a title in the next generation.

I'll even throw in a picture of my junk, a memento for their computer's wallpaper. Give the degenerates something to aspire to.

The epitome of a martial artist, he enter the arena. High cheekbones underline challenging eyes, daring any man who would test his mettle. Gifted physically and mentally, he approaches the ring, every step deliberate yet smooth. The agility and the confidence, every muscle efficient and trained. Graceful as a dancer, Anderson Silva enters the cage, his Octagon, the web of the Spider.

And here is where the artist goes to work. Each jab and kick the stroke of a brush, trained at the Chute Boxe Academy. Swift and smooth as bullets they fly, perfected over countless hours of training, his strikes find their marks with unparalleled consistency. Long limbs and flawless technique make him impossible to out strike. Ask iron-jawed, hammer-fisted Dan Henderson.

But to call Silva a striker would be to designate Leonardo da Vinci a mere painter, for inside with the Spider, it only gets worse. His guard is an impossible web, entangled by a black belt in Brazilian Jujitsu bestowed upon him by the Minotauro himself. With a long torso for his height, even at 6'2'', side control is a mile away for opposing middleweights, ground and pound a frivolous dream. No battle can be won when the goal is a stalemate, yet on the mat with Silva, there is little hope of victory. Rich Franklin learned this. Twice.

Franklin was lucky, however, for he got to lose on the ground. It is on the feet, in close, where even God abandons those who stand against Silva. The clinch of the Spider is the omega, an event horizon from which nothing escapes. It is where razor blade elbows and sledgehammer knees fall without mercy, cutting, battering, and breaking both the body and the will.

A Renaissance man, this artist works with every medium of mixed martial arts, and each masterpiece is unique unto itself. Regardless of how it begins, the end is always the same: hands held high, a shining belt around his waste, and the blood of his adversary staining the mat. Oil on canvas. In the web of the Spider.

Ace the Spider

Tomorrow night, in the headline event, we will all be treated to a fascinating match up, as Rich "Ace" Franklin looks to reclaim his title from Anderson "The Spider" Silva, and will be doing so in a sold out arena full of supports in his home town.   Last time the two met, Silva dominated Franklin, but we didn't see the best Franklin can offer. 

The Spider's clinch and strikes are legendary, but he's a little questionable on the ground game.  I know, a Brazilian without a ground game is almost a contrast of terms, given the skills in jujitsu so many of that nation possess.  Last time Franklin, armed with a very impressive ground game, was foolish/arrogant enough to clinch with Silva. Root all you like for Franklin, but no one can play that game with the Spider.  If Franklin tries it again, the fight will be ugly. 

Yes, those of you who will post in anger, I am well aware that Franklin has been working on his clinch, but engaging thus with Anderson will only end one way: badly.  With his long limbs, sharp knees, and lightning reflexes, Silva's clinch leaves opponents beaten and bloodied in no time.  Franklin would need years to elevate inside game to Silva's, and even then, his body type doesn't favor that style as effectively.

 

On the other hand, if Ace is smart enough to fight it his way, we'll have a new champion.  As lopsided as the clinch comparison appears to be, the ground game is equally lopsided the other direction.  Rich Franklin is tough as few men are, and driven.  On the mat, he will dominate the Spider.  Better skills, better strength, and more experience mean

 

This match comes down to Franklin's willingness to abandon his old strategy and focus on his own strengths, and his ability to carry out this plan.  No predictions here, as I don't presume to know the mind of Franklin.  Either way, I'm just hoping for, and confidently expecting, a good show down.

September Thoughts

Facts, opinions, and witticisms from the sporting world over the last month plus.

Football

Not one of last season's three worst teams is below .500. 

Of the three teams with the best regular season records last year, not one is above .500.

The Cowboys have 4 wins over 4 teams with a combined 3 victories, and have given up 71 points.  Call them the Allas Cowboys.  No D.

Detroit is 3-1 despite having given up more points than they have scored.  Maybe the Etroit Lions as well.

How did T.O. get fined for that camera pose after his touchdown?  Honestly?  That was funny and wasn't disrespectful to his opponent.  Come on NFL, lighten up.

Sometimes I hate the No Fun League.  Arena Football is such a nice break from this.  Too bad I'm a sucker for the best talent.

I hate the Patriots.  They will win the Super Bowl.  Again.  I just pray they don't go undefeated.  I am a little worried.

I think LSU is the best team in the country, but they are ranked #2.  Who really cares what the AP votes?  Until the coaches say so, USC is still #1.  Stop saying "the top ranked Tigers."  The AP is as fickle and enlightened as child.

 

Baseball

Was this an amazing pennant race or what?  This is why I don't get a sports off-season.  This is the type of race that turns non-fans into fans.

The Yankees scored 3 on the road against Sabathia, the man who should/will win the AL Cy Young award.  The Red Sox scored 4 at home against Lackey.  Offensively, I'll take NY.

Of course, Wang and relievers gave up 12 more runs than Beckett.  Who says pitching wins championships?  Oh, right.  Everyone.

People favoring the Cubs?  Here's to getting swept by the D-backs.  It's the only good curse we have left.

Red-hot Phillies meet white-hot Rockies.  Denver has a baseball team?

Yankees have best 2nd half of any team to nearly take the division, Mets put on a clinic on how to collapse.  Blue collar New Yorkers 1, white collar New Yorkers 0.

MMA

This month is killing me.  Three times now I've started to write "October" and finished writing "Octagon."  I need a life.

In MMA's marquee division, light heavyweight, fighters ranked first, third, and fourth have all lost in the last 45 days.

The UFC-Pride title unification was fought by two Pride fighters.

Michael Bisping lost, got the win, and bragged about it.

Chuck Liddell's loss was God's punishment for being in a Nickelback video.  And he deserved it.

With the acquisition of Pride, does anyone watch ANY non-UFC MMA events?  It's like a AA baseball game; fun to attend, but not really television worthy.

The IFL?  Team based MMA only sounds fun if all 10 guys are in the ring at once.

What's Vince McMahon doing now that the Fertitas brothers are taking his PPV money?

Kurt Angle and Brock Lesnar are going to become mixed martial artists.  Taking wrestling's cash isn't enough, now MMA wants its talent, too.

Is the UFC taking Lesnar Dana White's payback for Ken Shamrock?

 

More overhyped and unprepared: Shogun Rua or the San Diego Chargers?

So it finally happened: Barry Bonds is the All-Time Home Run King. And
while his name may be smeared from sea to shining sea and his
achievement referred to as tainted, I say it is hypocrisy, and that we
should crown our king, no strings attached.

The player isn't tainted, the sport is. Back in the 90's, (remember
then) baseball had record low viewership and attendance. You see, a
bunch of millionaire players and billionaire owners had a big
disagreement over a relatively small percentage of their money, and the
players didn't play for half a season over it. Unfortunately, this
small percentage was exponentially more than the average baseball fan
family made in a year. People got angry, and stayed away in droves.

Then, in the 98-99 season, something magical happened. Players began
hitting baseballs, literally, like never before. Two steroid users were
each threatening the sport's longest standing important record. This
home run chase saved the sport, and brought it to where it is today.
Period. Barry is simply the greatest of these enhanced hitters. Barry
broke the record set by that chase. Barry hit baseballs that were
thrown by steroid enhanced pitchers. Barry hit more HRs than any man to
ever live. This is a sport where players have popped pre-game
amphetamines for decades and were seen smoking in the dugout in the
sport's so-called glory days.

Do any of you honestly believe Babe Ruth was a better man than Barry
Bonds? Seriously? The Segregation King? He was playing homerun derby
with a bunch of 150 pound scrawny white pitchers before literally anyone
lifted weights. If he had not abused his body so badly with all the
standard vices he easily could have set records that still would stand
today. The only difference in perception is 24 hour news services.

So crown Barry Bonds. Do not let the state of sports as a whole bury a
lifetime of dedication and perseverance. Hank Aaron saw through the BS
and the e-lynchings. We are all dictated by our times. Thomas
Jefferson had slaves. JFK had mistresses by the dozens. Barry has
steroids. Hope for the future, but do not dwell in the past nor deny
the present.