It’s time to rest my chemistry

The time has come for me to admit a few things.

I’ve lost my passion.  It’s gone.  Beaten out of me as if I had stolen it in the first place.  The soundtrack of this disaster has been playing in my head for the last several years.  Discovery is an ugly terrible thing on occasion.  This realization was horrifying, terrifying beyond words and enough to set the voices in my head chattering non-stop.

I did not listen.

I agreed to go down this dark path again.  I knew what I was doing.  There is a self-mutilation streak in me that is a mile-wide and three feet deep.  I cannot stop myself from wanting to damage my psyche and hurt my soul.  I revel in it, thrive on it and regret it much later.  It is my Sisyphean burden.

The beauty parlour is filled with sailors, the circus is in town.  My Desolation Row.

Fantasy Fucking Football.

I’ll set the scene.  Sunday September 15, 2008.  Approximately 4:15 PM on the East Coast, the Denver Broncos hosting the San Diego Chargers kicked off from Invesco.  Jay Cutler (still of the Broncos at that point) was the starting quarterback against my two teams, an unhappy coincidence, but one I remember thinking could work out if San Diego’s stingy defense showed up and made it a low-scoring, taut affair.  One of the teams opposing me was also starting the Broncos’ Brandon Marshall at wide receiver, and while I had been impressed with Marshall, again, I trusted in San Diego’s defense.

What followed was three and one-half solid hours of torture.

I am vaguely recalling the scourging scene from “The Passion of the Christ”, the overwhelming violence and anger, the pathos, the catharsis when it was over.  My temple is itching just thinking about this game.  It is imprinted on my brain like the day I came to America.

The Broncos and Chargers engaged in an epic Week 2 battle.  If you’re not recalling the details, allow me.  The final score was Broncos 39, Chargers 38.  Jay Cutler passed for 350 yards and 4 touchdowns, and Brandon Marshall had 18 receptions for 166 yards and a touchdown.  The leagues that counted me as a member are both point-per-reception leagues.  Cutler had accounted for 42 points, Marshall 40.  It was agony.  Hateful, awful agony.  I stormed around my house.  I wanted to kick things, to break things, to drink myself into oblivion.

But not because of Jay Cutler and Brandon Marshall’s point totals.

I repeat.  Not because of Jay Cutler and Brandon Marshall’s fantasy exploits.

There is a certain base element of sports.  The competition.  The action.  The unpredictability.  The drama.  Growing up in a land that has the spectacle of Saturday afternoon soccer, I knew about all of those things.  I thrived on them.  I wanted to be a part of the mass hysteria when a goal was scored, feel the rush when a talented player lined up over a free kick, gasp with delight when a goalkeeper made a huge save.  My enjoyment of soccer has always been pure.  It has never been tainted with trying to make something more of it.  Agreeing to fantasy soccer this year because I help run a soccer blog?  Okay, yes, it’s true, but honestly, when the games are on I never think of it.  I never think of anything when soccer is on but the enjoyment and love of the game.

I felt the same way about American professional football.  It grabbed me and did not let go when I arrived on these shores.  My friends back home cannot fathom how I have fallen in love with certain North American sports that are non-starters in England.  They do not understand.  I love sport.  I thrive on watching competition at it’s zenith.

Fantasy football has effectively murdered my love of the NFL.  It started simply enough with me realizing that the fantastic show put on that afternoon by the Broncos and Chargers should have made me stand up and cheer.  Some amazing individual efforts took place in that contest, not the least of which were Marshall and Cutler.  Phillip Rivers threw for 377 yards and 3 touchdowns, Tony Scheffler caught 6 balls for 64 yards and two touchdowns.  Quentin Jammer had 10 tackles, an assist and a forced fumble. Mike Shanahan, then the coach of the Broncos, went for two on the game-tying touchdown and got it to win the game.  It was a contest that should be remembered in the annals of the NFL as one of the greatest regular season games ever.

Instead, I hated it.  I hated it because of Fantasy Fucking Football.  It was a stunning realization for me.  I’m not lying when I say that I did a lot of reflecting after that game and my subsequent reaction to it.  The context is that I had been participating in Fantasy Fucking Football since I arrived on these shores.  25 years.  My first team included Jim McMahon and Willie Gault (what did I know, the Bears were awesome when I got here).  It has been a rite of the arrival of Autumn to gather at one of the houses of my friends and pick a team.  I have won a few championships and had a joyful time with it.  I learned as much as I possibly could about the game, grew to love it, went to a Super Bowl (Eagles/Patriots in Jacksonville) and then began to hate it.

I could not just go cold turkey.  I needed one more year to prove to myself that I truly had to be done with it (part of the entire self-mutilation curse I carry).  With great trepidation, I agreed to it.  I quit my work league and told my friends here at home that this was truly it, my last season.  I felt a huge weight lift just to tell them.

I can’t escape it though.  I fucking HATE it now.  I hate having to put a lineup in every week, I hate searching the waiver wire, I hate having so little control over players who don’t give a rats ass that they are on my team and thus, should care more.  I cannot wait for this to be over.  It would appear that I will get my wish relatively soon as my record stands at a pathetic  two wins and four losses.  I simply cannot wait to actually start enjoying the games again.  I cannot wait to watch a 39-38 regular season game between two teams that I don’t care about in a rooting sense and revel in it’s artistry and beauty.  That’s what I want from watching sport.

Then I’m going to rest my chemistry.

Tags: fantasy football, Two Yellows is on his high horse again
Categories: Daily Specials

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 22nd, 2009 at 2:30 pm and is filed under Daily Specials. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.