Fantasy Life: The Outrageous, Uplifting, and Heartbreaking World of Fantasy Sports from the Guy Who's Lived It

by Matthew Berry

  SAL: I’m sorry to bug you at home, but I really just need to know about one player.

  EDITOR: How the fuck did you get my number?

  SAL: I don’t know, really. I just got it.

  EDITOR (sensing Sal was crazy): Well, what do you need?

  SAL: Haywood Jeffires. I know he had six catches—was it for more than 75 yards?

  EDITOR: Six for 77. Don’t ever call this number again.

  SAL: Thanks . . . wait. He didn’t run the ball at all, did he?

  CLICK.

  While I am sure the editor was confused, I totally get Sal’s laserlike focus on trying to find info. When fantasy is at stake, people can’t be deterred. They forget whatever else they are doing and have their sights set only on the fantasy task at hand, no matter how it effects other people.

  On July 17, 2009, Brandon Treadway had his Houston, Texas–based league over to his house to pick the draft order. “As with anything fantasy football–related, beer was also involved,” Brandon remembers.

  Which explains why Brandon didn’t realize his girlfriend was calling; he was on the phone with the nonpresent league members to tell them what pick they had.

  And why was the girlfriend calling?

  Because it was Brandon’s wedding day.

  AND BRANDON WAS LATE TO HIS OWN WEDDING.

  The guys in his league were also Brandon’s groomsmen and had actually stopped by the house to put on tuxes, but then they started talking about the upcoming draft, and then they were picking names out of a hat and calling nonpresent team members, and, well . . . yeah. Late. To his own wedding.

  As Brandon notes, he loves his wife, but “she has the remarkable ability to remind me of this incident every time an argument about my insensitivity arises.”

  Listen, Brandon, your wife experienced what most of our friends and significant others do—they get sucked into our fantasy madness. And it’s not just wives and friends who get sucked in. Sometimes it’s . . . innocent kids?

  Cameron Hefner was a student teacher who, thanks to the teacher’s (misplaced?) trust, more or less totally oversaw a fifth-grade class. As Cameron says, “I loved the kids, and I loved what I did, but unfortunately it was fantasy draft season.”

  So Cameron’s obsession leaked into his lesson planning. “I did many a math problem for the kids using fantasy stats: ‘If the league awards 1 point per reception, 1 point per 10 yards rushing, 1 point per 10 yards receiving, and 6 points for a touchdown, how many points would Adrian Peterson have if he rushed for 90 yards and had 4 receptions for 20 yards and 1 touchdown?’”

  Twenty-one points! I don’t want to brag, but I knew that on the first try. Oh yeah. I am smarter than a fifth-grader.

  “I finished up my student teaching, graduated, and got my teaching license. I am not, however, currently teaching, but decided to follow another passion and became a youth pastor. Still working with kids. Still playing fantasy football. Still mediocre at both.”

  I’m sure you’re great, Cameron. And seriously, don’t sweat it. Your story is nothing compared to Mark ’s story. Mark was in college in 2010, and while he played in a few fantasy leagues, his roommate Charlie was on a different level. “Charlie was basically eating and breathing fantasy football 24/7,” Mark explains.

  One night Mark and his girlfriend Anna are back at his apartment having sex when suddenly, Charlie walks in the room, looking for Mark’s computer!

  The girlfriend is, ahem, at an angle where she doesn’t see him come in and, Mark says, “I didn’t want to draw any attention to the situation and make her uncomfortable, so I just kept going.” Charlie is aware of what’s going on in the room, but as Mark and his girl continue on, Charlie just says, “I need the computer,” finally finds it, and then leaves, thankfully closing the door behind him. Later that night, the girlfriend is asleep, and Mark confronts Charlie. “What the hell?”

  Well, apparently, while Charlie was out he got a text that Adrian Peterson was on the trading block, so he had to act quickly. No apology, no embarrassment, just a simple “I needed to make an offer.”

  Mark continues: “Stunned, I had nothing to say and went back to my room. The worst part is, he didn’t even get Peterson.”

  First the “borrow your camera for Larry Fitzgerald” story and now these guys? If I’ve learned anything in doing this book, it’s that a lot of college kids are having to watch their friends have sex in the name of fantasy football.

  But it’s not just college kids who ignore everything else around them for fantasy . . . Rock-and-roll icon and Rush frontman Geddy Lee is so into fantasy baseball, he always looks at his team’s live box scores during the band’s intermission. Many years ago, sportscaster Dan Patrick left a hospital early after knee surgery to make his fantasy draft, and then, when he realized he still wouldn’t make it in time, stopped on the side of the road and used a pay phone while standing up for an hour and a half to do his draft. And while Grantland.com’s Bill Simmons was walking the red carpet at the 2004 ESPYs, he was on his BlackBerry trying to swing a trade for Ichiro Suzuki. “It was one of the five most ridiculous moments of my life and couldn’t possibly be explained to any foreigner.”

  Steve Straub’s story is tough to explain no matter where you live. He is a member of the Erie, Pennsylvania–based Chauncey Billups Fantasy Football League. And Steve was stationed at Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan when he was having his online draft with his buddies back home. Time differences being what they are, it was the middle of the night while Steve drafted. But of course, that wasn’t the only thing that made Steve’s draft different from yours or mine. “It was about 1:00 AM local time when rockets began to hit our base,” Steve recalls.

  Wait. Hold on. Rockets?

  “Yeah, the rockets landed about 50 yards away, and three or four of them landed in my general vicinity in a period of about 10 minutes. They are deafening when they land, and they are usually 107mm rockets.”

  And you didn’t get the hell out of there?!!?

  “Well, no shrapnel or dirt or anything was sent in my direction, and I couldn’t go anywhere else or I would have lost my Internet signal. The Internet here is poor at best.”

  You know what else is poor at best? Surviving rockets.

  According to Steve, “Security officials began walking around in battle gear as they ordered me to the bunkers. I told them that I couldn’t go at this time because it was a crucial point in the draft. They could see the frustration on my face, as I saw on theirs, and they insisted, ‘Sir, you need to get to the bunkers.’ I replied, ‘No, I need to find a good running back for my flex position. Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?’ They became irritated and then finally walked away.”

  That’s right. They walked away. And Steve kept drafting through a bombing. I take it back about Sal. THIS is laserlike focus.

  “I finished the draft with no more issues, and right now, I am getting the last laugh, as I am tied for first place,” Steve says.

  Well, I’d argue you got the last laugh by cheating death, but tomato, tomahto. Incidentally, Steve also sent along the Associated Press article about this particular bombing of the Bagram Airfield. They destroyed a NATO helicopter. Steve tells me his team name is A Doctor Without Borders, since he has been in a different country for every fantasy draft the league has had. Which maybe explains why Steve didn’t understand what the big deal was. “Security was disgruntled with my reaction, but I was just as perplexed with their reaction. Fantasy football doesn’t seem to take its toll on their lives as it does mine.”

  Hard to top that, but I will say Keith Clark has a story that epitomizes fantasy sports obsession better than any I’ve ever heard.

  In 2006 Keith’s best friend (and league-mate) Chuck Cope suffered a collapsed lung and was rushed to the emergency room. Chuck was in an induced coma for a couple of days as his family and Keith waited hop
efully at the hospital.

  It was 50/50 as to whether Chuck would even make it.

  Eventually . . . a break! Chuck had awoken. He was barely clinging to life, but at least he was alive. Chuck’s wife hurried their son and Keith into the ICU, where Chuck was. Still intubated, Chuck couldn’t speak, so he had a piece of paper and pencil. And very shakily, he scratched out his first words after this near-death experience.

  “Did I get Romo?”

  11.

  When Death Impacts Fantasy

  or

  “This Little Society That We Construct in the Ether Has Real-World Implications and I Am Grateful for It”

  “Because I’m miserable.”

  She stares at me blankly. I have been in therapy for all of 30 seconds, and the first question my therapist asks me, of course, is why I am here.

  And after I answer, I get no reaction. She’s just staring at me. Not judging, not encouraging, not anything.

  Just staring.

  A million thoughts race through my mind. Is this what therapy is? We just look at each other? What the hell am I supposed to do now? Keep talking? Is she trying to “break” me? This is weird, right? It’s weird.

  I stare back. I can actually hear the old-fashioned clock on her desk ticking as the second hand moves slowly. Finally, she breaks the silence.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you miserable?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?” I joke.

  Again she stares. Tough crowd. Apparently, I’m gonna have to do all the talking.

  I plow ahead. “My career as a screenwriter is going well. I have good friends. I’m healthy. I’m winning my fantasy leagues. I have parents who love me, a younger brother I’m close to, and I’m happily married to a nice Jewish girl. I even have an adorable puppy. On paper, my life is perfect.

  “So why the hell,” I ask my therapist, “am I miserable?”

  I should have been thrilled with my life. Fulfilled. Grateful. Looking at my situation objectively, I knew I was beyond lucky.

  So why didn’t I feel like it?

  All the personal stuff I was dealing with was affecting every aspect of my life. Especially fantasy sports. I was getting in fights and email wars with people in my leagues. I was getting super-upset when I didn’t win. What the hell kind of pressure was I putting on a fantasy sports league?

  There’s not much positive I can say about it except this: I was only putting pressure on myself, not on anyone else. Something that Ryan’s father can’t say.

  Ryan grew up in Dallas in the early ’90s in a house full of die-hard Cowboys fans. When Ryan was eight years old, he was in a simple, six-member, touchdown-only fantasy league with his family, including his previously mentioned dad and his Grandpa Jack. League rules were basic: You played one QB, one RB, one WR. No pickups or trades during the season, and each year you could keep one player.

  It was that age-old “who to keep” question that had eight-year-old Ryan racking his brain heading into the 1997 season. He was the defending champ, and now Ryan had to choose among these 1996 fantasy stars:

  QB Brett Favre (39 TDs)

  RB Terry Allen (21 TDs)

  WR Cris Carter (10 TDs)

  Ryan’s dad is a competitive guy. Like, competitive competitive. The kind of man “whose antics force you to stuff all your Monopoly money into your pockets as you run to the bathroom at 2:00 AM during an eight-hour game.” Dad had been pressuring Ryan during the off-season, telling him that Redskins RB Terry Allen was the enemy. That a real Cowboys fan would cut him. “So, I reluctantly kept Brett Favre,” Ryan remembers, “and a few minutes later, when my Dad selected Terry Allen with the first pick, I knew I had made a mistake.”

  Ryan continues: “I am not ashamed to say I cried at the realization of this deception. Cried. Like a baby.”

  Ryan, dude, you were eight. I don’t blame you. Kinda awful your dad would do that. That any dad would do that.

  “My Grandpa Jack consoled me, telling me, ‘Your dad is a damn fool to take Allen first; he won’t have another year like last season again.’” And Grandpa Jack was right. Terry Allen finished with just five scores in 1997 and never had another season with more than eight.

  So Ryan’s dad got what he deserved. Sadly, Grandpa Jack did not.

  “Two days later, Grandpa Jack announced he had lung cancer,” Ryan said. “A lifelong smoker. It was a painful process to witness. But by the following February, he had reached a sort of calm clear-mindedness and seemed content. Then the day came, February 3, 1998. Everyone knew it would be soon, so we were all given alone time with Grandpa Jack. My dad told me to talk to him normally, as if nothing were wrong. Grandpa Jack did not like giving an appearance of weakness, a true Texas Cowboy at heart.”

  Ryan continues: “When my turn came, he seemed happy but very sick. We talked Cowboys, Ranger baseball, school, and a myriad of other topics for about 30 minutes. The only thing I truly remember is the very last thing he said to me. . . . As I rose from the chair next to his bed, he gave me a big smile and said, ‘Ryan, don’t let that cheating dad of yours steal Emmitt Smith off my team. I left him to you in my will.’”

  “I managed to chuckle out a ‘Thanks, Grandpa,’ and left as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He died a few hours later.”

  Ryan remembers that, after Grandpa Jack’s funeral and wake, when the dust settled, “my dad comes to me after the reading of the will. ‘How did you get Emmitt Smith? All I got was Isaac Bruce.’”

  The two of them honored Grandpa Jack’s wishes by each keeping the player they were left. The following 1998 season, Emmitt Smith had 15 total touchdowns. Isaac Bruce had one. Why do I think Grandpa Jack was laughing his ass off in heaven that year?

  In addition to exchanging emails, I’ve met Ryan and I have to tell you, he’s perfectly normal. It’s amazing that he’s not screwed up with that family dynamic. Guessing Ryan has Grandpa Jack to thank for that. Because personally, I’d have been very angry if my dad had manipulated me at eight years old to try and win a family fantasy league. Of course, had that been the case, it would have taken me forever to realize I was, in fact, angry at my dad.

  You see, as I continued in therapy, I realized I’d been angry for a long time but had just pushed it all down, pretending everything was fine and then taking it out on something dumb, like the drive-thru getting my order wrong. Or, you know, a fantasy game not going the way I wanted.

  I wasn’t angry at my dad or mom, but lots of other stuff? Man . . . I had a lot of deep-seated resentment that I never knew existed. I won’t bore you with everything I learned in therapy, but suffice it to say I’ve got a lot of issues.

  Like that I moved around a lot as a kid and had trouble fitting in, which led to me somehow associating success with being liked and included, which then made me put way too much pressure on myself to be successful, to seek out recognition only to feel better about myself. Like that when you do that, there’s no such thing as enough success to make you happy. It has to come from within.

  Among my issues was a struggle to reconcile the fact that I am an extreme personality but I also have a desire to be liked by everyone. I feel strongly about certain things (like fairness and bullies—I will always stand up and help those I can), and I’m not shy about voicing my opinion, even if it’s unpopular. But, of course, that sometimes rubs people the wrong way.

  As I was finding out, being extreme can be helpful—it certainly gets you noticed—and it means that while there will be some passionate fans, there will also be some very strong opposition to you. And that was something I could understand logically but had trouble feeling emotionally. One of my biggest issues was how I focused on the negative. Like, I could write something and show it to 10 people, have nine people love it and one guy think it’s okay, and all I would do was obsess on the
one guy and not get pleasure from the nine who loved it. Most folks accept all the praise and none of the criticism—I actually did the reverse.

  Told you. Me = screwed up.

  It was something, I told my therapist, I was going to need to work on. You know, for as long as I can remember, people have used sports as a metaphor for life. So if sports is life, and fantasy is sports, it should come as no surprise that between all the crazy stories and wacky hijinks, between the wins and losses, life and death make their way into fantasy sports. Reality has an unfortunate way of interfering with fantasy. . . .

  At the 2008 trade deadline for the Steelers Fan’s Keeper League out of Pittsburgh, Dan was trying to make a move. In heavy negotiations with his buddy Dave “Tij” Armitage, Dan was trying to acquire LaDainian Tomlinson. Multiple offers went back and forth between the two friends, but in the end Dan came up just short. Tij told Dan he was going with what his brother-in-law Jason had offered. “In addition to draft picks, Jason offered to work on Tij’s kitchen for free!”

  I know what you’re thinking: hey, Berry, we already read about this guy in chapter 7. That’s true. But there’s more to the story. I just wanted to save it until now.

  Anyway, Tij got a new kitchen, Jason got Tomlinson and the title that season, while all Dan got, frankly, was some frustration. But as it turns out, Tij wasn’t just a guy who didn’t have to pay for renovations; he was also a wheeler-dealer and a truly fantastic guy.

  How fantastic? When Dan complained about being aced out of LT for a new kitchen, Tij offered to make amends. And make amends he did. He traded Aaron Rodgers to Dan for below market value.

  Not surprisingly, Dan won the championship the next two years in a row. “Do I owe it to Tij’s kitchen and good graces?” Dan wonders. “Probably more than I want to admit.”

  And after the Rodgers trade, Dan hooked Tij up in return, sending Calvin Johnson to Tij for a below-market-value draft pick.