You see, for the last 6 years, I've been involved in various YahooSports.com fantasy baseball leagues. Each year, I dominate the regular season, only to lose in the playoffs or, more often than not, the championship game. I'm like the Buffalo Bills of Yahoo Sports. Check it out:
2006: John .316, 2nd Place
2007: The Wookie Stompers, 2nd Place
2008: Abe Vigoda's Boner, 5th Place (everyone else cheated)
2009: Clown Baby, 2nd Place
2010: Shark Week, 2nd Place
But finally, a team of mine broke through:
2011: Fat Jesus, 1st Place
Woot! Woot!
It wasn't easy though. Turns out, my arch-enemy and best man Brad was my opponent in the finals. A looooooooong while ago, back in March, Brad had the #1 overall pick in our fantasy draft. Like any sane person, he drafted Albert Pujols with that #1 pick.
Seen here tattooing a ball into orbit
Not only did Brad luck into the #1 pick in our keeper league, he used it to draft the best baseball player (non-'roids division) of my generation.
As luck would have it, Brad and I were locked in a virtual tie after a full slate of Sunday afternoon games. There was just one game left in our fantasy baseball season--last night's Cardinals/Phillies matchup--to determine a league champion. And, between our two teams, there was just one player active in that game: Albert Freakin' Pujols.
I won't bore you with the details but I had a .899 to .889 lead in OPS (On base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage) heading into that last game. And, after Pujols destroyed the very 1st pitch he saw 15 rows deep into the left field stands, I was suddenly down .899 to .907. My only hope for victory was for Mr. Pujols to go hitless in his last few at bats.
He did, in fact, go hitless in his next 2 appearances heading into his final at bat in the 8th inning. Brad was up 7-6 (categories-wise) and if I could flip OPS, I would win the league. So, 6 months after we had all gathered at various computers around the city and country, our entire fantasy baseball league literally came down to one at bat. It was simple: If Albert reached base via a hit, a walk, or a hit by pitch, Brad would win. If Albert made an out, I would win.
At this point, I was a little drunk and nervous and kinda shaking...I think Krishni was a little worried about me.
Albert Pujols came to the plate in what would likely be his last at bat of the game and took strike one, ball one, missed at a pitch and...struck out! "YES! Victory is mine! Wo-hoo! Wait, why is he still in the box? Christ, he fouled off that last pitch! No! Nooooooo!"
I have never in my life been more sure that a hit was forthcoming than at that moment. I knew--deep down in my testicles--that Pujols was not only going to get a hit, he was going to deposit another one onto the left field concourse, making the recipient of that ball amazingly happy, as I chugged vodka in soul-crushing defeat.
Happily, that was not to be. On the next pitch, the greatest hitter of my generation swung and missed at a sinker, low and inside. I screamed for joy, Krishni asked "What happened?" and I gave her an awkward high-five. We popped the $12 bottle of "champagne" that she had purchased for the occasion and we shared some bubbly as I reveled in my victory and giggled for the next 20 minutes.
Thank god for stupid shit. What would life be without it?
Dork.
ReplyDelete