Themes that would show up throughout my life suddenly surfaced: If you tell me I can’t do something, I immediately set out to do exactly that. And no journey is taken alone.
I printed up flyers and posted them all over. I went to a bunch of classes and made my case. “They say this has never been done, they don’t think it can be done, I’d like to prove them wrong, who is with me?”
Turns out, a lot of kids just wanted someone to say, “Hey, we’re meeting Saturday at three.” We got more volunteers than we needed.
Now, this wasn’t just low-budget; it was no-budget. We had to bring in a remote news camera for our three-camera sitcom, which meant that every third shot was a little grainier than the others. We had college kids playing all the parts, no matter how old the character was supposed to be. And we only had enough money for one wig. There was lots and lots wrong with it, but we had a really funny cast, and if nothing else, it made us laugh. We ended up doing 20 half hours of the show, it won some student awards and got syndicated nationally on a college TV network, and many of the kids who worked on it went on to Hollywood careers. But the biggest thing for me was that I belonged.
There were lots of late nights setting up the studio, longer days shooting, and even more laughs, but through it I developed a good group of friends who worked together, hung out together, and played fantasy football together. And that’s why this story is in here. One of the guys who worked on the sitcom was my friend AJ Mass, now a fantasy analyst at ESPN. He’s the commissioner of the Doug Logan League (named for the longtime former radio broadcasting voice of Syracuse sports). I decided to co-own a team with the star of our sitcom, my college roommate and one of my best friends, a guy named Chris Lindsay.
You already know I stayed in the league, but I am proud to say, 21 years later, 11 of the original 12 members are still in it. It’s been a great way to keep in touch with everyone, especially Chris, since we live on opposite coasts. Every week we’re talking, texting, or emailing to set our lineup, prep for the draft, make pickups, or discuss the latest terrible trade offer. Neither of us needs to co-own a team, but I wouldn’t want to do the league without him, and vice versa.
The bonds of fantasy leagues formed in college run deeper than most. And they exemplify the spirit of fantasy as well as anything.
In an odd way, a league is like a college. You have your own rules, language, and inside jokes. So whether it’s ultra-specific scoring, unique rules, or strange traditions, a fantasy league, like college, is a universe unto itself.
Take, for example, Ryan Lents’s CFL Fantasy League. Going into year 12 with 10 best friends from the Newman Center at Ball State University, they have a pretty good tradition.
“A month before the draft,” Ryan tells me, “we all start growing out mustaches.” And then Ryan went one step further. “I take pictures of all the guys’ ’staches, and throughout the season I make vintage 1970s-era football cards for each of them with their league nickname and their actual NFL team of choice. It’s been an epic hit.”
Of course it was. As someone who actually collected cards in the seventies, these look damn authentic. I’m not even in Ryan Lents’s league, but after Ryan sent me this . . .
. . . how could I not feel a kinship with them? I drew the line at growing a ’70s mustache.
A ’70s mustache rule, meanwhile, might be the only thing the Ducal Crown Fantasy Football League doesn’t have. Formed by fraternity brothers who went to the University of Virginia, the league is so popular, commish AJ McGraw tells me, that they have a waiting list. “It’s a group of guys who play in a separate league that we pull from when needed. Kind of like a fantasy farm system.”
The Ducal Crown guys have a six-page, fully vetted and ratified constitution, an off-season rules meeting, and AJ writes a weekly blog during the season. But what really sets them apart is the trash talk. The constant trash talk. They do so much tweeting about the league, in fact, that the whole league created separate, private Twitter accounts for the sole purpose of trash-talking each other. Brilliant. Deranged and obsessive, but brilliant.
Now, on Twitter, these “@Ducal” accounts just follow each other, so the only people who see the trash talk are the guys in the league. At least, that was the idea. Until one day, out of nowhere, there was a new Twitter account following all the guys in the league: “@DucalSchefter.”
Oh yeah. It’s a parody account of ESPN NFL reporter Adam Schefter. But unlike the real Schefter, who reports on the entire NFL, this one has a very simple beat he covers: the Ducal Crown League.
“Yep,” says AJ. “Our league has its own ‘Insider.’”
And if you think that’s obsessive, wait until you hear this. According to AJ, “We don’t know who is running the account.”
That’s 50 shades of genius right there. One of the guys in the league started this account in secret, and now he’s alternately helping and screwing the guys in the league.
“Yeah,” AJ explains. “He’ll direct-message you for information about your trade talks. Then he’ll report on it.”
But, as AJ notes, talking with “@DucalSchefter” is playing with fire. You can potentially get good insider info on what other owners are doing and this “Insider” allows you to sneak false information to another owner. But since no one knows who it is, you could be sneaking info to the same guy you’re trying to deal with!
Personally, I love that they have an anonymous “Insider” reporting on and talking to everyone in the league. Very simply, whoever started that account is among the most clever fantasy minds ever. Diabolical, even.
Whether it’s Twitter handles or football cards or even producing a league-only podcast (several leagues I’ve heard of do this), I’m a fan of any tradition that makes the league and the experience more memorable, more special, more . . . fun.
Jeremy Gurvits’s Gizmo League from Newton, Massachusetts, arrives at their draft in a stretch limo, all dressed in mandatory formal attire, and they’re videotaped as they walk down a red carpet. After each pick is announced by Jeremy, the owner comes to the podium for handshakes and a photo holding a copy of the player’s jersey. Think that’s over the top? Andrew Foster’s TGKL League has an anthem (yes, an anthem) that they all sing before the draft. And Anthony Bouressa is in a longtime 14-team league from Kaukauna, Wisconsin, that requires all owners to eat a live moth to gain admittance and maintain membership in the league. You read that right. A live moth. Tattoo is sounding better by the page, isn’t it?
Sometimes the traditions are what make a league unique; other times it’s the rules. Michael “Duca” Manduca finished second so many times in his Sacramento, California–based league that they enacted “the Duca Rule,” where first and third get paid out but second gets nothing. I know of leagues where you get two points every time your kicker makes a tackle, leagues where you can’t draft a Yankee, leagues where the team that finishes last gets kicked out forever, and one league where every team had to be named after a weird kid from high school. In the St. Clair Rescue League out of St. Paul, Minnesota, John Palmersheim explains that the top two teams from the previous year do a “draft” in the off-season to decide who is in their division with them. Love the idea of choosing your own division and debating the merits of your league-mates right in front of them. “I’ll take Keith, the human black hole. Where running backs go to die.” “That’s fine. Gimme Charlie. He just sucks.”
And while that tradition is good for stirring up heated rivalries, there may not be a league rule that creates more of them than what they do in the Blut 3000 Fantasy Football League. Sal Iacono, better known as “Cousin Sal” from The Jimmy Kimmel Show, is a member of the league, an 11-team (yes, 11) league with a few celebrities and one very specific rule. “Whoever wins the league gets to vote a team out the following season, Survivor-style. Then the owner who was voted out gets to return the following season replacing the newly ousted owner.”
Thirty minutes pass. More texts, more frantic calls. The shoot’s still going. Finally, after two hours, Jon arrives. “He was out of breath and very apologetic (clearly having made an effort to be there), and then . . . promptly voted out by the winning owner. In very cavalier Don Draper fashion, Hamm took a swig of beer, flipped the room the bird, and took off.”
Great rule. Hilarious to 10 people and really annoying to one. And while Sal’s league keeps one person from playing in the league that year, there’s another league that has a different type of exclusion based on, well, I’ll let “Jane” (not her real name) explain it.
“I’ve played in and commissioned an all-girls league for the past three years. We get together to watch the games, gossip, and drink martinis.” And like lots of leagues, it was at those get-togethers that a specific tradition was born. One that I’m guessing isn’t in most leagues. “You can’t own a player you’ve dated. If you have dated a defensive player, you can’t draft his team’s defense,” Jane explains. “We are a bunch of hot women who have dated a lot of NFLers in our days. So with this twist it makes us really think, Do I want to draft him or ‘date’ him?”
I am guessing there’s lots of laughs and pointing at Jane’s draft, especially when someone passes over an obvious pick. Either that, or some jealous turf claiming. “Oh really, Miss I already have two running backs? You better not be passing on Dez Bryant.” “What? He’s injury prone.” “Mmmmhmmm. Sure he is. Excuse me. I got to make a call.”
Adam Squires’s 10-team Guinness Bowl League in Cleveland, Ohio, has been together for over a decade, and draft day is an all-day event where, Adam’s wife Jennifer tells me, “I have one job: get the hell out of the house.”
How big is draft day for the Guinness Bowl? Two years ago, it was on Adam’s seven-year-old daughter’s birthday. Take one guess which celebration got rescheduled. Hey, she was only seven. It’s not like it was her 16th or anything.
Anyways, the Guinness League guys enjoy draft day so much, they don’t simply analyze the draft right after, like many leagues do. No, they analyze every draft in the 10-year history of the league.
“Prior years’ draft boards are dragged out of the basement and hung next to the current year’s board,” Jennifer tells me. Fueled by Bud Light and Jäger bombs, the guys crush each other’s picks over the years and passionately defend their own all night long.
And that’s what it’s about. Spending time together. Whether it’s eating a live moth, wearing a T-shirt of your buddy hooking up with a dude, or just sitting back, having a beer, and asking someone what the hell they were thinking in the third round seven years ago . . . these moments create memories and bond a group.
There may be no better example of that than the South Side Fantasy Football League (SSFFL) out of Kansas City. As Kyle Maciejczyk tells me, their commissioner, Bruce J. (“B.J.”) Collins, “is the most genuinely nice guy in the world, a die-hard Chiefs fan who injects fun into everything we do.” He would buy draft day T-shirts for everyone, personalized with their team names. B.J. had everyone over to his house to watch games and handed out customized scoring and matchup sheets along with a coaster featuring each person’s favorite NFL team. Whenever there was an opportunity to make the SSFFL a little bit more fun, B.J. did it.
But a month before the season, Kyle tells me, the league got some terrible news. “B.J. was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in his jaw.”
“Due to the circumstances, we didn’t even know if B.J. would be up to playing in the league, let alone running it.” After talking to B.J., though, they realized that he desperately wanted to play that year—it was one of the few things he was looking forward to.
“So we brought the party to him and had the draft in the lobby of Good Sheperd Hospital in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.”
Most hospitals only allow family members to visit a patient. Which is exactly why the SSFFL was allowed to see B.J. . . .
3.
Drafting in Strange Places
or
“Turns Out, a Cheat Sheet Taped Inside My Beak Was Not Ideal”
Jeff Ralabate had a problem. As the commissioner of The League, a 10-team fantasy baseball league in the Buffalo area, he was used to problems. But this was a new one. And to make matters worse, he didn’t have a lot of time to solve it.
The problem was Joe Bozek. Specifically, Joe Bozek’s job. More specifically, the fact that Joe had been called in at the last minute to work said job. Two hours before the draft.
Jeff tried a bunch of different solutions, but they kept coming back to two main issues: One, this was the only time everyone in the league could get together for the foreseeable future. Two, the baseball season started the next day.
They say desperate times call for desperate measures, and this certainly qualified. So, Joe suggested, why not keep the draft time the same and switch the location?
To Joe’s workplace.
Which was the chain restaurant Red Robin.
Where Joe would be dressed as the Red Robin.
Yep. They were running a promotion, and Joe had to wear the Red Robin suit, hand out flyers, and shake hands.
They let the Robin draft 10th so he would have plenty of time between picks. “Every few minutes,” Jeff remembers, “he would waddle over to our table to see what pick we were on and who had been selected.”
Joe explains that it wasn’t easy. “Turns out, a cheat sheet taped inside my beak was not ideal. Nor was making picks quietly enough so children at nearby tables couldn’t hear. It was, however, a fun and memorable experience.” Jeff agrees. “It ended up being the most fun we’ve ever had at a draft.”
I have no doubt. Is there any draft, anywhere, that wouldn’t be improved by the addition of someone wearing a giant bird head? I was in a fantasy NBA league for a few years where a guy would come to every draft dressed in a head-to-toe Wookiee outfit. (Team name? The Wookiees, of course.) It was always funny. Always.
If you think about it—and by “think about it” I mean if you think about it with the goal of trying to make a flimsy connection between “real life” and “fantasy life”—draft day is the official start of your fantasy season, just like your first job out of college is really the official start of your professional life. Now, I never had to dress as a large bird, but dealing with kids? That I totally get.
After graduating Syracuse with a degree in writing for electronic media and having done the prestigious (as far as you know) student sitcom Uncle Bobo’s World of Fun! I wanted to be a sitcom writer. So with my college writing partner (another big fantasy player named Eric Abrams), I moved to Los Angeles to try to break into television.
Which I accomplished, of course, by getting my first job at FAO Schwarz, the famed toy store. Sigh. A successful sitcom writer had told me to get a retail job. “Assistants in show business work long hours, rarely leaving time for writing. So with some nine-to-five retail job you can just concentrate on writing.”
Which is very true. The problem is that once you’re done writing, all you can really do is show your sample scripts to other toy store guys. You never meet anyone. Well, that’s not true. I did get to wait on stars, including Arnold Schwarzenegger (at the height of Terminator fame), Denzel Washington, and many other celebrities. But none of them were looking for scripts from the guy wearing a hat made of Legos.
The job was no big red bird, but it was close. Since we had demos of every toy out, parents would just leave kids in the store to play. I couldn’t believe it. Who just leaves kids unattended? And unattended kids do, well, what attended kids do, just
more of it and with reckless abandon. Throwing things, breaking things, peeing everywhere. Seriously. I cleaned a lot of pee that first year. Hmmm. Maybe I would have been better off in a robin outfit.
I worked with lots of nice people, but I hated the job. My writing partner and I kept cranking out sample scripts and eventually I left FAO to get a job as a production assistant (read: gofer) on The George Carlin Show. I loved working for George, and a year later he wrote a recommendation letter for my writing partner and me to get into the highly regarded Warner Brothers’ Writing Workshop. Through that I got my first sitcom-writing job on a show called Kirk, starring former teen heartthrob Kirk Cameron. I’m sure you’re a big fan.
We were super-excited to officially be TV writers, but overall it wasn’t fun. The only writers on the show were, frankly, writers who couldn’t get jobs anywhere else. We were two newbie kids with a “Gosh, it’s so awesome just to be here” attitude, which did not play well with grizzled, bitter comedy writers. Very tough year for a first gig. Anytime we’d try to be positive (or even pitch a joke), we were told to shut up.
But there were some positives. One writer on the show, Nancy Steen, was great, and I learned a lot from her. We managed to get an agent and kept writing scripts. And after that first year, the Parents Television Council declared Kirk to be the safest, most family-friendly show on TV. That’s why I was so proud our next job was on the show they called the worst: Married . . . With Children.
Fantasy Life: The Outrageous, Uplifting, and Heartbreaking World of Fantasy Sports from the Guy Who's Lived It Page 3