My Fantasy Baseball League: 32 Years and Counting
When our draft day tradition started, we didn’t know this would become a lifelong ritual
Fantasy baseball is more than a game. It's a platform that caters to those who enjoy statistics and routine as much as the Great American Pastime.
Fantasy baseball offers no quick fixes. Each season, owners have to evaluate and activate 25-man rosters for 162 days.
Fantasy baseball offers no prestige. Most of us who play don't advertise the fact that participation in this hobby automatically makes you a bit of a nerd.
For over three decades, my friends and I have selected various locations to meet for our annual fantasy baseball draft. In addition to meeting in houses, we've also met in bars, a bakery and a government subsidized high-rise.
For many years, the only thing we had to do to guarantee a successful draft was to make sure to keep the last Sunday in March available for our meet-up.
When this tradition started, we didn't know our passion would become lifelong, so aesthetics didn't seem too important. For many years, the only thing we had to do to guarantee a successful draft was to make sure to keep the last Sunday in March available for our meet-up.
For the first few years, things went smoothly, but as time passed, life began to happen as it does. Just about the time our league celebrated its tenth anniversary, logistics became more complicated. Some of our owners changed career paths and had to relocate. In addition to promotions and demotions, half the league members went through divorce. All these factors contributed to a widening geography of our owners.
'Hope Springs Eternal'
Not always, but more often than not, most of us have found a way to make it to the draft. Years ago, I considered why we drove countless miles to drink good beer and eat bad food while forecasting unclaimed victory.
If the poet Alexander Pope was still alive, he might suggest we gathered with an understanding that "hope springs eternal" and each of us probably wanted to enjoy a final moment of camaraderie and equality before the games began and fangs found their purpose.
As the years have given way to technology, as my league's team owners have gotten older, it would seem natural that we would give into convenience and draft online from the comfort of our homes. But we haven't because we want to be together.
When our gang gets together, we don't hug or show displays of emotion. Half the time we don't even shake hands.
At this year's draft (which took place in St. Paul), each of us arrived sporting our best poker faces. Last year's defending champion, a guy named Steve, walked into the war room with a grin that momentarily unnerved me. At first, I sat quietly, speculating what sinister strategies he was conspiring for the day's showdown. But the more I watched his calm demeanor, the more it occurred to me that his smile wasn't sinister, it was sincere.
When our gang gets together, we don't hug or show displays of emotion. Half the time we don't even shake hands. But decorum dictates that it's poor form not to congratulate a champion, so I walked over and asked Steve if he was looking to repeat his success this season.
In past years, my question most certainly would have been answered with sarcasm, but instead, Steve bypassed our traditional quips and responded by telling us he had just driven 461 miles from a farm where he is now living, located outside of Kansas City.
Several of us became confused. Steve is a lawyer and had lived in St. Paul throughout our league's duration. Finally, I bit and asked if he'd seriously taken up farming. The champ grinned and reassured us that he was still practicing law, but his father recently passed away and now he and a brother are fixing up the old homestead, which entails trying to figure out how to remove raccoons from the attic of their farmhouse.
As we waited for the final owner to arrive, last-minute preparations were made by some, while others discussed topics ranging from Detroit's lack of relief pitchers to the Yankees' new torpedo bats.
I drove home considering how fortunate the owners in our league were to have each other, even if it was only one day a year.
As this took place, I noticed our commissioner Chuck, a guy who drove 234 miles from eastern Wisconsin, glancing at a buffet table covered with chili cheese Fritos, Pringles and a couple of twelve-packs of Bud Light.
Chuck doesn't usually smile. He's a level-headed genius and possibly the only person in our league that everyone trusts. When somebody asked him what he was grinning about, he responded by telling us how he couldn't believe how much we drank at our drafts in the 90s. This summary made everybody smile, as each of us took a moment to relive our past. The final owner, a guy named Paul, walked in and began setting up his station next to Chuck's.
Navigating Life's Changes
Paul and Chuck have worked in different states for the same company forever. As the two of them began to talk shop, it was revealed that their company was downsizing, and along with many others, Chuck lost his job. Somebody asked if he was OK. Chuck slowly nodded and assured us he would be all right financially, but said not having purpose was where he was struggling. So, he got a job stocking groceries.
As the draft started, a guy named Dale sat across from me. We joined the league together in 1993. Dale is a local, he lives in Prior Lake and his commute was only 32 miles. He's a couple years older than me and recently retired.
As players began to get plucked off the board, jokes were being made, people were laughing, but I let my focus slip for a minute and thought about several times in my life when I had fallen in crisis. Dale was my first phone call.
Eventually sentiment faded and my attention turned back to my mission. Once the draft was over, once I said goodbye and pulled out of the driveway, I drove home considering how fortunate the owners in our league were to have each other, even if it was only one day a year.
