You'll never fully realize how an uncertain fate torments human beings until you play fantasy football. You'll never realize how maddeningly inconsistent people are, how indecisive leaders can be, how off the mark predictions often are. But fantasy illuminates the human flaws of the game, both physical and mental.
Case in point: Curtis Martin. I have watched with quiet fury as Martin has torn up the league this season, regularly skating past the 100-yard mark as if he were 25-years-old, making regular visits to the end zone. I had him on my squad last year and laughed openly at the guy who took him at this year's draft. I remember saying, "I didn't know Father Time was still on the board." I had a few more chuckles in private later that night.
Now, I feel like a fool. But how could I have known? Martin scored twice for me last year. Twice! He looked tired, cranky, and sore. He looked like a man on his last legs. But then, unbeknownst to me, he spent the offseason enduring a Jerry Rice-like training regime, exhibiting such focused dedication that even Jim Brown expressed awe. So now the guy who drafted Father Time is sitting atop our league, three games ahead of me. Why couldn't Curtis Martin have "re-dedicated" himself last year?
As I was laughing myself silly that someone drafted Curtis Martin, I confidently took Michael Bennett with my second pick. Despite the cackles of cynicism from others, I knew that Bennett would explode onto the scene this year. Finally healthy, he would return to the sprinter/tailback role he held with the Vikings two years ago. And I remembered him destroying plodding Big 10 defenses when he ran for Wisconsin. It was a lock.
And then the preseason happened. Bennett twisted his knee on a late carry in a meaningless game. Just a twist, I thought. Six weeks later, he was still "recuperating." This was unacceptable behavior for a second pick. This was insulting. I was hoping nobody noticed.
At last, Michael Bennett suited up -- for practice. On his first carry, on his first contact, he hurt his other leg. Surgery. Another five weeks of recuperation. I was thinking, "This guy should just quit football. He's an embarrassment to himself and, more importantly, to me."
Now he's slated to return next week. Of course, in the meantime, I've picked up Mewelde Moore, who is playing superbly and who I'd hate to see benched. So, after two months of anxiously awaiting his return, suddenly the return of Michael Bennett has become a threat.
Elsewhere, just as Koren Robinson has a breakthrough performance -- nine catches for 150 yards against the Patriots -- news surfaces that he couldn't shelve the hashish and faces a four-game substance-abuse suspension. It would be his third. Fortunately, Michael Clayton was languishing on the waiver wires. And yet Clayton too faces an uncertain future. Joe Jurevicius is rumored to be returning soon, sure to take catches away from Clayton. And not hours after I acquire Clayton, the man I dropped for him, holdout Keenan McCardell, is traded to the Chargers, a team desperate for pass catchers.
The one constant in fantasy football is change. Ruthless, unexpected change. It's enough to drive a man crazy, to usher dementia into your daily routine. And then there's the scoring formula, that always arcane statistical matrix that seems specifically designed to obscure the real value of your players -- and overemphasize the value of everyone else's.
A post on our league website yesterday asked, in furious disbelief, why running backs did not receive a quarter of a point for carries. The owner who posted the manic message owns Ruben Droughns and Clinton Portis, who carried 38 and 36 times, respectively. I imagined the owner, pacing his living room Sunday night, thrilled at massive point total that 74 carries would produce. And then I imagined the crushing rage he felt when he realized his mistake, that carries were worthless.
Since that same owner beat me to Droughns in the free agent pool, I picked up Sammie Morris, the latest in Miami's now infamous no-name backfield. I was pleased with the pick since Sammie had rushed for 81 yards in the first half on Sunday, before the Fins fell behind -- predictably -- and Jay Fiedler took to the air with his errant arm. I thought, "Finally, someone solid and reliable I can count on."
But at lunch, I read that Ricky Williams, shorn of his dreadlocks and living in a campground outside of Brisbane, Australia, was seeking immediate reinstatement with the Miami Dolphins.
I squeezed the newspaper in anger; there was simply no relief for a fantasy football owner. I began to wonder if it was all worth it in the end, if the months of agonizing over the whims of -- but wait, had anyone grabbed Ricky off the free agent market yet? And if not, how would his rumored vegetarian diet affect his ability to run inside? And how -- ah, forget it. I'm living in a fantasyland.
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