The Sad But True Story Of The Fantasy Nerd

I know a young man, who suffers from a crippling affliction. A man who, in normal circumstances, thrives in social settings. Some have described him as gregarious, jovial, mercurial. Others have used terms such as humorous, intrinsic, elloquent, and morovian.

Regardless, once this disease sets, all hopes of human interaction and social skill are thrown immediately out the window. If a window isn't immediately accessible, then the nearest garbage can or kitchen disposal.

For those of you who have read the title already, you know of the disease of which I am speaking. It deals with the curse that is Fantasy Sports.

This young man, who shall remain nameless, plays the Holy Trinity of Fantasy, Basketball, Baseball, and Football. Though he loves them all, Baseball and Basketball are easily the most demanding. And, having watched this man suffer through two straight championship runs in the sports just listed, I feel it is necessary to sketch a story of his tales, promote his compassion.

Every other week of the season, outside of the final weeks, the team takes up a minimal portion of the day. He only checks in down time. When he wakes up, before he goes to sleep, before he goes to eat, after he goes to eat. While he's eating. Before he showers, after he showers, while he showers.

However, once it gets to the final week, the promised land, the mecca that is Championship Week, the attention paid reaches an all-time high. Suddenly, every game has meaning. Devil Rays vs. Indians. Magic vs. Bucks. These, once meaningless, matchups have the weight of the world resting in their outcome. And he couldn't be anymore aware of it.

For days, he doesn't leave his room, with his hand glued now to the refresh button on his computer screen, rather than to his tube of vasoline and dirty magazines. Update, update, update. And the games haven't even begun yet. This is just to make sure everyone who needs to be playing is playing.

After a certain point, he's admitted several times to me, confided (if you will), that he's lost the desire to even win any longer. That if it could simply end and that would be it, he'd be happier than having to deal with another pain staking second.

Alas, he has survived each tramatic episode. Once emerging victorious, the other time as the loser. Yet, dissappointment doesn't get him down. That's probably the most curious thing of it all. How can something that consumes a man so fully for so long simply be shrugged off after a day?

I, personally, wouldn't know.

I guess I'll have to ask him.