How Fantasy Football Makes Me a Bad Person

The one thing that cushions the blow of summer ending, for me, is that it coincides with the start of football season. I am a big pro football fan. (The Jets are my team. Although they only occasionally resemble a pro football team.) Since the Jets more often than not make my Sundays miserable, since they more often than not make football irrelevant for me late in the season because they're usually out of it, fantasy football keeps me invested. And, most of the time, it keeps me happy as well. Recently I shared with you why I need fantasy football. I highlighted the positives that come from my participating in this annual Dungeons-and-Dragons-for-jocks exercise.

But it's not all a positive experience. There is a dark side. Yes, this game could certainly take a sinister turn. In fact, fantasy football can bring out the worst in me. Here's five ways how:

1. No compassion I root for people to get and stay injured. This goes against everything my dad ever taught me about sports. I remember one Sunday when the Jets were playing the Patriots. I was about 10 years-old. One of the Patriots' top players got hurt and I cheered. My dad yelled at me. "You don't cheer for someone to get hurt," my dad told me. "He's someone's son and father. Besides, you want to beat them with their best." From that point on, I didn't root for injuries. I felt compassion. Except...

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Why I Need Fantasy Football

"It's just a fantasy. It's not the real thing. But sometimes a fantasy is all you need." -Billy Joel
It's the most wonderful time of the year. You know that old Staples commercial with the dad dancing through the aisle as he shops for school supplies with his kids who are miserable because summer is ending and school is starting? Well that's how I feel about football season. More specifically, fantasy football season. I'm willing to bet most football-loving men feel this way about fantasy football. At the risk of sounding cliche, a majority of women I know - My Director included - have no idea why this is so important to us. Well, I have no idea what the allure of shopping without a purpose is. So until someone explains that to me, let me explain why I need fantasy football...

The winner keeps the cup for a year.
(It's engraved with the names of all the champs.
My name's on it three times.)

First off, I'm a Jets fan. My season is usually over before it begins. Especially this coming season. Fantasy football keeps football interesting for me. It also keeps me from crying in the fetal position every Sunday afternoon.

Second, there's the gambling. Whether it involves money or not, most men like to gamble. Not only does fantasy football provide an outlet, it is socially acceptable. (And perfectly legal.) So we're not degenerate gamblers, spending all night in a casino feeding our debit cards into the ATM because we feel a hot streak is coming. Speaking of legality, according to a recent ruling by a federal court in New York, poker is a game of skill and thus not considered "gambling," I am willing to apply the same reasoning to fantasy football. Sure, plenty of luck is involved. But there is also skill and strategy. Above all, money is on the line. And the only thing sweeter than hoisting that championship trophy in December is one of your buddies handing over a fat wad of cash to help ease the burden of the Christmas bills. (Yes. There is a championship trophy. Any respectable league has one.)

Third, there's the competition. It's healthy competition too.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Green with Empty

Every week brings a new letter for Peanut to study at school. Each week, she needs to bring in a picture of something that starts with that letter. She likes to draw her pictures instead of taking them out of a magazine. When it came time to talk about "J," she drew this:

Notice how much hair she gave me

That's me - Justin - with the Peanut. 

Gotta work on those J's and S's

You may notice, Peanut drew me wearing my Jets sweatshirt. I had to model for her:

Jets fans rarely smile

Every now and then, Peanut will humor me and pretend to "look like daddy:"

She can make anything look good

As you might have figured out, this year's Super Bowl is a nightmare matchup for me as a Jets fan. The Patriots are the Jets' hated rivals. Their head coach deserted the same job on the Jets to join the Patriots, and the rest is history. They play each other twice a year. (The Jets were 0-2 against them this year. Ugh.)

The Giants are the big brother that the little brother Jets never seem to be able to live up to. They beat the Jets on Christmas Eve, ruining my holiday and changing the direction of both teams' seasons. The last time the Giants and Patriots met in the Super Bowl, it was a no-brainer: I rooted for the Giants. The Patriots were going for a perfect season. 19-0. Immortality. No way was I going to support that.

This time around, I just can't pull for the Giants again. I can't possibly cheer for a year's worth of yapping from their whiney, obnoxious fan base. Since I live with, work with, and am related to so many of these blowhards, I refuse to support their team again (But I still love all of these people.) And I certainly can't bring myself to root for a team from New England.

So I've to decided to vote for a third party candidate:

from the classic movie "Brewster's Millions"

Even though her dad is a long-suffering Jets fan, the Peanut has decided she is most certainly NOT. In fact, she roots for one of the two teams playing today. I wrote about that here.

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New York, New York

"The trouble with having a stubbornness contest with your kids is that they have your stubbornness gene." -Robert Brault

I definitely had this coming to me. It was only a matter of time. I did the same thing to my father, but never for a minute considered how it made him feel. The only positive to come out of my child's making a decision to truly aggravate me, the only positive that I can possibly think of, is how early in her life that she made it. Even though I may be virtually powerless to overturn her decision, at least I have a long time to get used to it if not get over it.

There we were, on a football Sunday. It was the first Sunday that I was able to enjoy NFL Red Zone. For those of you who are not aware, this is a channel that takes you to any game once a team enters the red zone. That is, inside their opponents' 20-yard line. When a team is close to scoring, you're watching it live. There is non-stop action. No commercials. For $50. That's it. Worth every penny. Next year it's included in the cost of my service. Next year I get a catheter implanted.

So there we were, the Peanut and I. It was moments after I made this wise purchase. And I was enthralled. I was excited. I was voicing my pleasure loudly as NFL Red Zone took me from city to city, game to game, stadium to stadium. With every turn, I shouted, "Now we're in Kansas City!... Now we're in Baltimore!... This is amazing!"

And she was amazed right there along with me. "Oooh, daddy... who's the team in red?"

"That's the Chiefs."

And then the setting would change.

"Daddy, who's purple?"

"That's the Ravens."

And then it happened. The scene switched to the Meadowlands. The Giants were playing the Titans. This is the game that I would have been stuck watching before the days of NFL Red Zone. A game I would refer to as "nap time" since, as a Jets fan, I find the Giants mind-numbingly boring.

"Ooooh.. daddy... who's the blue team?"

"The Giants are blue."

"I like the Giants."



She developed Gang Green during last year's playoff run

  And there you have it. My three year-old's favorite color is blue, and thus she has decided that her favorite football team is - gulp - the Giants. I have decided to take her decision in stride. After all, she's doesn't root against the Jets. Not yet, at least. In fact, she still does the old J-E-T-S chant for me during games. Still, ask her which team is her favorite, and she will tell you it's the Giants.

When she didn't have a choice...

I guess I deserved this. I guess I had it coming to me. My father was a Giants fan. And before I decided to root for the Jets, I was actually a Dallas Cowboys fan. Two teams that are definitely not among the preferred alternatives for Giants fans. Not only did I root for the Jets. I made my father become a Jets fan. Not only did I make him become a Jets fan, I made him disavow the Giants. I made him take me to Jets games. I made him suffer all those years along with me.

...those were good times

I still have time to win her over. Still have time to convince her. Still have time to instill in her that our house is a Jets house and under no circumstances is she to be a Giants fan. But that sounds a little ridiculous. The Peanut can decide for herself. She will decide for herself. All I can do is provide her with the information, with my perspective. It's up to her to agree or disagree, whether it's sports, politics, or religion.

We'll see if history repeats itself, and if she someday converts me. I certainly hope not. But what goes around, comes around.


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The Age of Precarious

"And I will warn you now that not their blood but your suspicion might build evil in them. They will be what you expect of them." -John Steinbeck

The terrible twos have one hell of a public relations machine. That's all you really hear about. Even before you have children. Well, we're living through the terrible twos. It's a daily grind with its ups and downs. But overall, not so terrible. 

Until...

We are being told of a another, lesser-known, seldom mentioned phenomenon approaching. I'd never heard of it before. It's called the "trying threes."

The name itself is pretty lame. You can see why the "terrible twos" get all of the publicity: great name, great anticipation involved (albeit nervous anticipation), great drama. 

The "trying threes." Sounds made up, right? I thought so too.

Now I know... the terrible twos are apparently just a warm up.

At a moment's notice, she can go from happy, smiling, singing, to throwing herself on the floor and screaming and crying because she doesn't want to take off her jacket. As a result, the priest is now on speed dial.

But I'm renaming the "trying threes." This, my friends, is the dawning of the "age of precarious." God only knows which age - if ever - it will end.

At times like this it's best to call an audible. Like in football, when you know the play you called isn't going to work against the defensive formation. That split-second decision can win or lose the game.

There we were one October Saturday, like so many other families, picking pumpkins at a local farm. Everyone wants that magical, adorable, memorable snapshot. The child holding the pumpkin. The child walking amongst the pumpkins. The child frolicking amidst the pumpkins.

We got none of that at first.

Our daughter could not have been less enthused. She could not have been less cooperative.

You could almost sense that she understood perfectly well that this was going to be a walking activity. Yet, she insisted on being carried... and only by my wife. My wife, who is starting to complain loudly and not all too indiscreetly that her "back is hurting" because our daughter is "getting heavy" and that she "can't carry you around as much anymore."

She was whining, crying, complaining. My daughter was, not my wife. 

So we put her down in the pumpkins, let her cry, and we huddled up to decide how we should proceed. Do we stick to our parenting plan, and make this excursion miserable for all of us, or do we want to have fun with our daughter in the pumpkin patch?

We called an audible.

We made her stop crying first. And in exchange for her peaceful compliance, we picked her up. Rather, my wife picked her up. She was fine after that, and so were we. The remainder of the expedition was enjoyable. Laughter ensued. Smiles surfaced. Memories - happy ones - were captured.

There is no rule book, no playbook. There are just reams of blank paper awaiting the chapters of her life.

You never know what defense she is going to throw at you. The schemes, the blitzes, the coverages. She's a mad scientist. You just have to be prepared to change your strategy when your plan isn't working. Line up in the shotgun. Run a reverse. Fake a punt. Sticking to your guns and digging in your heels is just plain stubborn and childish. It's a recipe for disaster. You will lose. Your child will lose. The people around you will lose. Misery will ensue.

So expect the best, but prepare for the worst. And if she gives you her worst, change the play. Make chicken salad out of it. For your sanity. For hers. For everyone else around you. What other choice to you have?

It's a new age. The age of precarious. Time to be flexible enough to come up with a new approach in the blink of an eye. 

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