Fantasy Football season is upon us once again. I have my live draft scheduled for next week, but I’ve yet to do any preparation.
Tony Gervino, in an essay titled “Eternal Bragging Rights,” reminisces how he’s been playing Fantasy Football since 1991. Since then, his friends have married, divorced, re-married, lost jobs. Only the enthusiasm for Fantasy Football, it seems, has remained static. He confesses further:
A few years ago, I offered to host the draft on my Greenwich Village terrace, but apparently I failed the most important criterion. “Do you have a pool?” a league member asked. “Because the hotel has a pool.” I confessed that while I could have almost anything their hearts desired delivered to my apartment, day or night, I did not, in fact, have a pool.
It has been widely assumed for some time now that I would eventually quit our league. No one has said as much, but I’m not an idiot. I’m the only one who lives in New York City. I don’t play golf or smoke cigarettes. I’m childless and devour The Paris Review. And my team moniker, The Fifty-Pound Head, is derived from the dark British comedy “Withnail & I.” I’m closer in species to a unicorn than I am to some of my friends. Yet I am also resolutely unwilling to surrender one of the few uncomplicated pleasures in what has become an increasingly complicated life — and the tether it provides to friends I might otherwise fall out of touch with.
Is your FF league a lifetime commitment?