The Oakland Post

Virtual fantasy insanity

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Dear thoughtful and loyal readers of The Oakland Post,

It is with great consternation and unending regret that I inform you of a recent heinous use of judgment on my part, for I am about to travel down a path many have trekked before, but few have ever returned the same.

I was recently invited by a friend and former Postie Paul Gully to join a fantasy baseball league. In a moment of temporary insanity, that may lead to a permanent condition, I accepted.

I have a feeling that as I am lying on my death bed 106 years from now, I will look back on this as one of the most catastrophic decisions I ever made. What good is living to be 128 when your soul died when you were 22?

Now, instead of spending my summer days tanning my chiseled physique on the beaches of Lake Michigan, hoping not to get overwhelmed by incredibly sexy co-eds, I will be stuck in my basement scouring the interwebs to see if Joey Votto hit a home run or praying to the Lord that Wilson Betemit’s groin pull will not be severe enough to put him on the 15-day disabled list. It is a good possibility that I, a mature, sophisticated, college-educated adult, will lose sleep over the turf toe status of a grown man named Coco Crisp.

I am entering an enterprise known for its great propensity to turn red-blooded, pilsner-swilling, barbeque-grilling, independent, no-nonsense American males into nerdy, number-crunching fanboys.

The name alone should tip you off as to the overall extremely geeky nature of this activity. Fantasy baseball. Let me tell you, I’ve had a lot of fantasies in my life, and David Wells was in none of them. What kind of mentality does it take to find glory and mysticism in comparing the on-base plus slugging percentage of back-up catcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates to the designated hitter for the Kansas City Royals? I’ll tell you what kind of mentality — my best friend’s, that’s who. I speak of which I know.

I remember a time when Andrew Joseph Bsharah was a real guy’s guy; a spry, engaging, well-liked fellow who was always willing to have a good time. It seems like only three years ago when we used to swim in the stone quarry, play a round of disc golf and go back home and kick back a couple brews.

We used to call him A.J. Now we don’t call him. Not unless we want to witness a panic attack after Alex Rodriguez strikes out three times in a game. Not unless we want to see a young man cry when his ace pitcher gets traded from a pitcher-friendly park in the
National League West to a hitter’s paradise in the American League East.

I remember a time when A.J. used to play real sports. Remember those? Football, basketball, golf. Hell, he was even an NCAA baseball player himself. With the way fantasy sports have exploded in recent years, I wouldn’t be stunned if someone owned A.J., the former Limestone Saints centerfielder, in a Carolinas Conference fantasy league.

Now, we can’t even get him to go fishing without hearing, “Hold on. I gotta see if the Blue Jays called Jack McJerkhoff up from AAA today.”

I can’t believe that, after being exposed to such a brilliant example of the corrosive effect fantasy baseball has on one’s social skills, family life and career aspirations; I have agreed to follow the same path. In a related story, I am thinking of getting a giant tattoo of a doorknob on my forehead.

Now, I know what you might be thinking. You might be thinking, “But Sean, fantasy baseball players/owners have a lot of fun doing it, and most men are able to manage this hobby and still lead a productive life.” This, my friends, is a mere charade, a feeble attempt by the fantasy geek to make his destiny seem more normal and less tragic.

Trust me, when he’s going through the numbers at work, he’s thinking about Edinson Volquez’s ERA. While his friends are talking about “scoring” with some lovely lady later that evening, he’s fantasizing about Miguel Tejada sliding head first into home plate. And never, under any circumstances, take him to a Denny’s where the words on the menu “Grand Slam” are certain to cause him to break out in hives and cause him to throw up on his plate. (Even though, it is Denny’s and nobody notices the difference anyway).

So alas my good compadres, I have sowed, so now I must reap. It was my choice to sojourn the land of RBIs and 3 a.m. viewings of “Baseball Tonight,” and I must deal with the consequences. Wish me and my healthy brain well on our journey of trepidation. I just fear it might not be enough.

Yours now but no longer,
Sean Garner