Grown men sure are remarkable creatures. Many of them have amassed small fortunes, conquered obstacles that indeed seemed impenetrable, built businesses and careers that have tested the limits of their creativity and wisdom and utter ingenuity, and cared for their wives and children with the utmost tenderness and love. And yet, when it comes down to it, men love to play with the fervor and vigor of little kids. Last week Friday night was another such opportunity to see grown men playing with the intensity of warriors in what seems to the outsider to be an utterly trivial game.
The occasion for the gathering of these warrior soldiers was the 3rd Annual Lottery Party. Before all the bloggers out there in cyberspace start sweating and hyperventilating about a group of church-going men getting together for an organized “gambling” activity, realize that there was no money involved, though one may not be able to suitably put a price tag on the potential glory and pride at stake in these festivities. Besides, to quell any notions of impropriety we always make sure we have a member of the clergy with us to give us a sense of virtue and status. Well, to be quite honest, it just so happens that we’ve happened to have a minister at each lottery party, from Brother Al last year to the Hairy Reverend joining this group of merry men this year via video-conference, direct from America’s heartland, which, coincidentally shatters any misconceptions about Iowa not yet having heard about the internet.
We gathered together to . . . play with some ping-pong balls . . . without a table or a net or any kind of paddles. We were content to just throw the balls in a big water jug, shake ‘em up and watch them spill out. To the ignorant observer or reader it seems about as exciting as watching paint dry or watching grass grow or curling, but to those directly involved, the excitement level is akin to taking the final turn at Daytona and seeing the checkered flag starting to fly and realizing victory, while at the same time being able to laugh at your fellow racers for flaming out or crashing, or, in other words, having the ball not exactly bounce their way.
The whole charade is the official beginning of the fantasy football season. We gather together with ping pong balls in hand to determine the draft order for our annual fantasy draft in August. Thus, with glued eyes and fluttering hearts, we see our balls with our individual logos tumbling in the hopper and hope that ours do not come out in a timely fashion, as the balls exiting the jug determine the draft order in reverse fashion. Thus, the first ball to spill out of the hopper belonged to the Bug Killers, giving him the 12th pick in the upcoming draft. Next the logo ball of the Natedogs departed the jug, giving him the 11th pick and initiated the first real guffawing of the season as he finished in 12th place last year, which, with the weighted system of our lottery, should have seemingly given him a much greater chance to have a top pick in this year’s draft. But, alas, as stated above, the balls don’t always exactly bounce your way.
The balls continued to tumble out and the rest of the first round took shape until the final two spots were up for grabs, with the Bad News Bears and the Raider Nation (belonging to yours truly) having yet to see their balls arrive on the scene. And then as 11 pairs of eyes watched closely (even from as far away as Iowa) the Bears logo appeared and the Raider Nation was left, holding the first pick in the draft and a small piece of fantasy glory. It may be the only victory, legit or moral or otherwise for the Nation this whole year, but at least it’s a victory nonetheless.
And thus commenced the official fantasy season as the rest of the summer will be spent studying fantasy football magazines as if they’re detailed instructions for a covert CIA operation and we’re bonafide agents and doing mock drafts more often then some of us brush our teeth. (Notice in the opening paragraph that all the accomplishments of men didn’t include personal hygiene.) Yes, some may think it a bit much and could speculate about how we could learn Russian or knit sweaters for everyone named “George” in the Foreman in the time we spend on these trivial matters, but when you’re playing for fantasy glory, there’s no price tag or time limit that one can attach to it.
Hilarious to see Scott's little face on the computer screen! I heard there were some comments about being able to push the mute button on the computer. :) Neat pictures of a neat group!
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