Once upon a time, I loved to play golf. I must have started playing around age 15 or so, and it wasn’t too long before I caught a serious bug with it. I started with a crappy set of Fuzzy Zoeller clubs from my hometown K-Mart, and within a few years I had custom clubs and Ping putters and shoes and bag and towels and all the assorted crap that comes with the game. For a handful of years I had a membership at a local public course, and I played nearly every day. I couldn’t get enough.
Over time I changed from being an embarrassing hack to a passable hack. At my best I was a bogey golfer, landing in the upper 80’s/low 90’s for 18 holes. And for a couple years, that was my wall. I could play the game and hit some beautiful shots, but usually once per hole I would fuck something up — hit a beautiful drive and approach, then three-putt; send a drive into the rough and scramble to the green before sinking a beautiful putt to save bogey; being on the fringe in two and then duffing a chip two feet forward.
When I began to notice I wasn’t ever getting below bogey golf, I started to get pissed while I was playing. There’d be times I’d slice my drive on Hole One and be such a headcase I may as well have walked back into the parking lot and gone home.
I’d talk to myself. I’d swear a lot (my specialty being the invention of songs and rhymes wherein I’d curse myself up and down the fairway). I broke a club or two. Wasn’t long before I was a double-bogey golfer…or worse.
At which point I got to thinking: why the fuck am I playing a game I’ve grown to hate so much? Golf isn’t a cheap sport, and I was getting noticeably worse by being a mental patient on the course, and it was ruining my day. So, somewhere in my late 20’s/early 30’s I played one last round of golf and walked off into the sunset, free from the frustration of a game I used to love and had grown to loathe.
What the hell does this have to do with fantasy football, you ask?
Every-fucking-thing, I respond.
You don’t need to look any further than this weekend’s matchups to see how FF can be the most frustrating game ever invented, even more so than golf. Take my QB Farm Team, as an example. Now, I went into the weekend not even paying attention to my squad. I had five starters out on bye or injury, and was a huge dog in the matchup against Growler Prowler (especially after George Pickens had two catches for -1 yard on TNF). But then Otton scored 20 points and Stroud went absolutely bonkers for almost 42 points, getting my hopes up. God, I’m dumb. I start feeling positive, and the fantasy gods piss all over me with 2 points from Geno and an immediate injury to Downs, sealing my fate, 92.68 – 112.62. *sigh*
Still don’t believe me that this game sucks? Go ask Packer Hater how he’s feeling today. Granted, he was down about 55 points to The Analrapists going into SNF. But the co-champ still had a pile of weapons at his disposal, and his Allen-Diggs stack rose to the occasion, eating up a little over 44 points of that deficit. That left 10 points for Garrett Wilson to get on MNF. So what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Wilson ended up with only 9.5 points, The Analrapists won 106.22 – 105.82, and Alex’s asshole now sounds like this on a windy day:
Maybe you feel like those examples had deficits that were too large for you to consider hating FF. Ok, fair. But what about Urban Achievers, who went into MNF only down about 20 points to ZaWood and still had Breece Hall, Justin Herbert, and almost-every-other-WR-is-injured-so-it-should-finally-be-my-szn Quentin Johnston in his arsenal. Surely two studs and one wannabe could get 20 points?!
Of course they didn’t get it done, you schmuck! Somehow they only got around 18 points, giving ZaWood the win, 85.48 – 83.86. A win for Zach that snapped a nasty losing streak. A win for Zach against the league villain. A win that kept Zach’s narrow playoff hopes alive. A win for Zach tha—.
In most games, getting the win isn’t a bad thing. I mean, who plays to lose, amiright?! But in the case of ScienceWalrus, after having his hopeful season turn into a complete dumpster fire — achieving an 0-7 record through the first seven weeks — it’s safe to say he’d be fine losing the rest of the way and securing the 1st pick in next year’s rookie draft. Unfortunately for him, his team woke up two weeks ago, and stayed up to its winning ways in Week Nine, crushing other league-doormat Buzzystinger, 94.82 – 81.70. What once looked like his pick of the litter at the top of the draft has suddenly turned into a different kind of litter altogether.
Then again, every rule has an exception, and it’s no surprise that Evil Empire was the one to buck the trend. Hell, it didn’t even matter that he was going up against Puff’s Punishers. Skeletor just laced up those pretty purple boots and kicked that ass, 142.26 – 109.48, not only earning high score for the week (against the 3rd highest scorer, no less), but also catapulting the Empire into 1st Place on the season. The feat got Scotty so excited, he didn’t even make it as far as the pussy cactus this time.
Best of luck in Week Ten, fellas!
Andy
p.s. For those who want more wit and humor, you’re in the wrong spot to begin with. If you care about the last time I played golf, then carry on…
At some point in the mid-2000’s, I decided to stop playing golf. As I said, I wasn’t enjoying it, so why bother. But sometime in the year that followed, a few guys in the Finance Dept needed an extra for the annual Park Nicollet golf tournament. I really didn’t want to do it, but it was a scramble tournament (which I’d never done before) and they persisted, so I caved.
I’m pretty sure the event was at Ridges at Sand Creek in Jordan, MN. I don’t remember how many teams played, but it was a fairly large event. Hell, Growler Prowler may have even been there (Scotty and Ted weren’t at Park yet). Anyway, tourney starts and we’re dreadful. I’m bad (which I already knew), but the other guys on the team were also bad. On top of that, the other guys were absolutely shitfaced by the time the match was over. Most teams were well under par; our team was last place at 78, if I remember right, and that was probably generous scoring on our part.
We finish the 18th hole and one my teammates is driving his cart into the lot to unload his clubs before the dinner starts. He drops off his cart-mate, then drives toward his car. No idea what he was doing, other than that he was waaaaaaaaasted, but he suddenly floors it, loses control, and plows into a doctor’s Beamer or Benz (I forget). I mean, he caved in the side of this guy’s car and hit it so hard the back end of the cart lifted off the ground. You have never, and I mean NEVER, seen a guy go from sloppy drunk to stone-cold sober as fast as he did. He got out and then made the walk of shame into the clubhouse to find out whose car he’d ruined.
The following year we each received a letter from the company stating we weren’t welcome back.
I wasn’t even involved, and hadn’t been drinking because I had a long drive home afterwards…but it still felt like the perfect walk-off to an otherwise unnoteworthy golf career.
The Terrible Ten 