My live fantasy baseball draft was Friday night when we were just starting to realize the "oh shit" factor of Coronavirus. The NBA was suspended the night before, but that morning of I still wasn't sure if I was going to the Big East tournament or not. So we weren't in full social distancing mode yet. My co-owner cousin and I went to the local VFW where the draft was being held, grabbed a bucket of Millers and table that was the furthest away from everyone.
I don't like this league very much. It's a spite league for me. The first year I joined was just to help my cousin split the cost of the team. We're the two youngest people in the league. It's a strange mix of guys. There's mostly old guys, one washed up Jersey fist pumper, a biggon with the highest pitched voice I ever heard in my life, couple of nice dorky dudes, and a Floridian who videos in every year tripling our draft duration. They look like a last place Church league softball team. They make jokes for the entirety of the five hour draft and none of them are funny. It's a lot of fake laughing with head nods. My first draft with these guys, they explained to me that I'm not going to really get the scoring at first because they've been doing this almost decade. "Hahaha how old are you? Don't worry you'll catch on if you stick with it". I torched that fucking league. Second draft there was a lot of beginner's luck and fluke jokes. Second year my team led the whole season in points and lost in the chip from a couple of bad timed injuries. Of course, this draft was the year they decided to respect me as their conquerer, and not let me do my draft in peace.
I never received a handshake from these guys, which was fine. I preferred it that way. I wanted to drink with my cousin and chat some baseball. It was always a nice night for us. This year however, I was greeted by each individual owner. The commissioner came up first, elbow out, with a "Haha we're doing elbows this year". I had to stand up and reach across the table to touch elbows with this grown man or else he would have left his elbow there for probably forever. Totally humiliating. I don't know if the draft would have started if I didn't high elbow this guy. Every owner came over to make me chicken wing across my table in the middle of a pandemic. Threw my whole steeze off.
Normally I would walk up to the board and put the little name sticker on it with my chest out, and stare down every dude on my way back to my wobbly table. Like, "Go ahead. Say somethin about that pick ya jamokes". This year I lost my fire. Every single draft I had done with them, no one wanted to talk to to me after the first five minutes of niceites. Now the year where my health depended on that, I couldn't shake these dudes. Owners were coming up to me after their picks each round with "What do you think of that pick? I might've reached but I don't think he would have been there next time around". Or "Haha you were looking at that guy weren't you? Totally stole him from you haha". Gleaking, coughing, sniffling, and asking questions. There was no where to run.
I tried to find solace in the bathroom and that turned out to be a nightmare. It's a VFW with wood paneling walls that looks like it hasn't been renovated since the 70's. How big do you think the bathroom was? I was approached at the sink for some scuttlebutt, while trying not to get hit by the stall door that swings into my direction. I've been washing my hands better since the panic, as in I've actually been doing it, but come on, twenty five seconds is an eternity. I was about to quick wash and bounce, when I was asked while soaping up why I drafted Moncada in the eighth when I already had Bregman, Trevor Story, and Javy Baez. Afraid of the backlash of my would-have-been twelve second wash, I got baited into washing my hands for like a minute while trying to find a nice way to say to this guy, how the fuck do you let Moncada fall to the eighth round. I got smacked by the stall door, "Haha sorry buddy, little tight in here am I right?"
In hour three I went outside for a cigarette break. There's normally about twenty minutes in between my picks so I thought I'd get away from every one for a bit. Immediately, I was followed by spreadsheet guy who reached around my body to open the door for me. After my thanks, I left the standing ash tray and walked down to the street to smoke, hoping he'd get the hint. He did not. This guy was two feet from me and offered to light me, but I told him I had my own lighter. I shit you not, this guy took out a single rubber glove to put on his smoking hand so he wouldn't touch his face while smoking his cigarette. C'mon man, boagies have way more bodies on them than Rona does, have some sense of irony. Not to mention the door handle you touched to get out here and being close enough to give me a smooch. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
I thought about snorting the pepper on my table and having a sneezing fit, but I decided to be the bigger man. Plus, those bastards probably wouldn't have even said bless you. By chance I had unknowingly scratched a scab on my leg. I had an itch and forgot there was a cut there from a scratch I got wrestling with my pups. My grossness was pointed out by another league member that I should clean up the dried blood streak that ran from the middle of my calf down to my sock. From then on, I was avoided like the plague and crushed the back nine of the draft.
All in all I had a terrible draft. I should have taken Carlos Santana over Moncada who will now be riding my bench. My pitching is weak and should've went Verlander in the second instead of Story with all the shortstop depth. Plus I let a guy get Aaron Judge in the sixth round, in a world where he'll probably be ready to go by Opening Day. Draft grade: C-
No comments:
Post a Comment