You Always Remember Your First
But now everything’s different. I’m old and my father’s older. Fantasy leagues are mostly done online and not in somebody’s den. And my father hasn’t been in one in years. He quit after he started noticing how seriously people were beginning to take it, how the mood was changing. The last straw was when the leader of the league started bringing his 8-year-old son to their meetings. Then the whole thing warped. It wasn’t the fun escape anymore that it used to be. There were no more darkened corners and elaborate storytellings.
Then one day last month, separated by cities and states and schools and schedules, we all found ourselves connected online for the first time—my brother Chris and I, my father, and some friends—waiting for a draft to start, talking trash in the chat window. Chris and I had never been in a fantasy league before and to be in our first with our father seemed right, natural even. No one stays in retirement forever these days.
“I think Matt Clay’s got a leg up,” my dad types, “but watch out, because I plan on winning it all!”
“That’s funny,” Chris writes. “But really, how do you want to lose: strikeouts, homeruns or stolen bases?”
Then it starts; it’s official; the clock starts counting down; and I’m third pick. You only get 90 seconds to draft a player. And it’s way more tense than I expected.
Matt Clay fires back, “Yeah, good one. I’m gonna smoke you guys.”
My dad picks Johan Santana.
My brother picks David Wright.
And I’m frantic. The clock is ticking, you can see it in the top left corner of the screen, counting down from 90, beeping, beeping, getting louder as the numbers dwindle.
Ohh, God…. I pick Manny Ramirez.
“Nice pick, Mike,” someone says. Then someone else tells him to shut up.
I scroll through teams and batters and pitchers. Closers, starters, homerun hitters, speed—I need them all and I don’t know how to prioritize. I didn’t plan enough beforehand. Didn’t do my research. I have no Plan B’s.
Spencer picks Evan Longoria.
Moe Clay picks Moises Alou.
“Um…he’s retired, Moe,” someone clicks. And I smile. Crash and burn, Moe. But now it’s my turn again and that timer won’t stop beeping. It’s like an alarm clock you can’t reach, a dog somewhere down the street that won’t stop barking.
I pick David Ortiz, and worry that I’m focusing too much on batting.
My Dad picks another pitcher. He knows what he’s doing. At this rate, he’s going to have a great staff. Damn.
Matt Clay picks Jose Reyes.
Chris Picks CC Sabathia.
And now the rotation feels like it’s going even faster. Everyone’s picking in rapid fire, and all the players I wanted.
The timer’s ticking. My turn again. It’s beeping. Loud. Too loud.
Julio Lugo! And I click Draft.
…Julio Lugo? I plant my head in my palm. Isn’t he hurt? Oh, dear Lord…
My Dad picks. Chris picks. Matt Clay. Moe. Spencer. After every pick I watch my spot get pushed up in line, closer to my next turn. I’m scrolling as fast I as can through the list of catchers and third basemen and shortstops. I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for. I look at the chat box.
“You may have pitching but I have bats.”
“You got jack.”
“Just wait, you’ll see.”
“Dude, you picked Alou!”
I can barely read it, let alone talk back or play their mind games. I’m flustered, the screen glazes over and their comments build in my peripheral vision almost as fast as their draft picks.
I’m down to the wire again, down to the last 10 seconds where the beeping is the loudest.
I think back to the Spring Training game I went to last month with my uncle and two cousins. We sat in the picnic area in left field—right behind the Mets bullpen—eating hamburgers and sharing sun screen and watching guys who are now only names on my computer screen warm up and play. They were right there.
In the car on the way home we talked and listened to Springsteen. One cousin slept. He drove straight over for the game after working the graveyard shift the night before and was beat. Outside was blurry and the air inside was both cool and warm together. Over the back of his seat, I could see my cousin’s hat resting on top of his head, laid back casually above his forehead like it was taking a break. On the inside bill was an autograph he’d just gotten from John Franco. It was neat and legible, not one where you can’t even make out the letters. He’d already taken a picture of it with his phone and sent it to his dad. When he gets home, he’ll set it on a mantle or table top and use it as a talking piece. The ride went by fast.
Jolting my mouse from one set of stats to another, to pitchers, then catchers, then back to pitchers, I wonder if players feel this same rush of adrenaline before their first game in the Bigs, this feeling of helplessness and excitement right before they go out and get that first day’s dust on their shoes.
I pick Joakim Soria because he had good numbers last year.
“What a draft!” someone says. And I’m still too frozen to type. I think I’m in a post-imagination-adrenaline stupor.
“I got a good team,” my dad types. “I’m gonna beat Matt Clay!”
“Funny,” Matt Clay deadpans. And I laugh.
The rosters are set–all we can do now is wait for the season–but there’s an odd feeling of accomplishment to it, of community. It’s like we’re all sharing the same daydream, lying that we’re a part of something bigger, owning our very own personal band of what-ifs. We’re all pretending together, throwing our dice in the corner and motioning wildly with our hands as we taunt each other. We’re children, each standing on the same earth, looking up at the same sky and pointing out funny shapes in the clouds.
“This is going to be a lot of fun,” my brother types.
I guess this is what growing up feels like.
—
Mets Opening Day: Monday 1:10 @ CIN
Rest of the League: Sunday
If, for whatever reason, you’d be keen on following our league…
http://games.espn.go.com/flb/clubhouse?leagueId=166485&teamId=2&seasonId=2009
This entry was posted on Saturday, April 4th, 2009 at 5:45 pm and is filed under creative nonfiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
One Response to “You Always Remember Your First”
Chris April 9th, 2009 at 11:59 am
Fantastic.
