Next week at this time, I'll be sitting around a table at some country club in Grand Island with seven other middle-aged baseball nerds immersed in what will seem like Round 765 of a fantasy baseball draft. Most likely I'll be working on my 10th soda; eyes glassed over; picking at cold, hard French fries; randomly circling my finger around a page of names I don't recognize; and saying "Eenie, meenie, minnie, moe" before I jab the tip of my index down on some sorry sack who will help my team, the glorious Wild Samolians, on its journey toward finishing somewhere in the middle of the pack or worse yet another year.
Truth be told, I love baseball. Absolutely love it. I'm only "eh" about fantasy baseball, though. I never win; I don't have the time it takes to improve my standing; and although its blasphemous to say so, there can be such a thing as too much baseball. I'd much rather watch a game than spend several hours week in and week out analyzing why my team's pitching stats suck so hard or if I should start Mr. Strikes Out A Lot But Hits A Lot Of Home Runs or Mr. Gets On Base But Doesn't Pop For RBIs.
The problem for me is that there are plenty of guys who get off on that stuff, and more power to them. I'm not a fantasy sports snob. I don't think it's just for geeks. I don't think it's ruining the game or all fans care about anymore is individual's stats vs. how their home team is doing. I don't believe that to play fantasy sports you have to live in your parents' basement and not have a girlfriend or wife.
What fantasy sports is, nor more or no less, is an early form of social networking with competition mixed in.
Social networking is, in fact, the primary reason I play fantasy baseball. Our league is dubbed "Pinetar," and a good chunk of the fellas who are in the league have been playing before personal computers were hip and household items. My team is the Wild Samolians, named in honor of Afa and Sika, members of the Wild Samoans, the greatest pro rasslin' tag team to ever enter the squared circle (outside of the Road Warriors, of course).
Combined, the Wild Samolians and Pinetar give me just enough of an opportunity to escape the stress of deadlines and responsibilities and bills and so on come my way throughout the spring, summer, and fall. Pinetar has been in operation for, jeesh, roughly 15 years or so. Over those years, a lot of inside jokes and nicknames have been created. People have come and gone (maybe because of the names), but fresh fish always enter the pond. Pinetar and the Wild Samolians gives me an avenue to talk all sorts of junk and drop rain on my fellow league suckas. Believe me, when I'm motivated, I can bring the pain with my smack. I can also take it, and I do, whether it's from Big Dave, master of the Gravy Ladle; Pimpfitz Brad, an old man of the sea with a Mr. Magoo infatuation; or Daryl, "Mr. Two Pumps & A Quiver" himself.
The fact that maybe 10 or 15 people walking planet earth would understand those references and nickmaes is what makes fantasy sports worth it for me to throw $30 or so into the vapor come every March when the Pinetar Clan gathers once again for our yearly ritual of eating, drinking, watching March Madness, and mixing in baseball picks along the way.
Camaraderie. Friendship. Verbal abuse. Who couldn't use more of those things?
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