Our good buddy Matt K is continuing the harrowing adventure that is his first fantasy football league. If you want to get caught up, click here.
It’s 10:50pm pacific. I, a temporarily-displaced Bostonian, sit in my San Francisco hotel room with a text editor docked small in the corner of my screen while Parts Unknown plays behind it on Netflix. My body is still on east coast time, and I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I have no idea why. I’d like to say this is my first stop on a cross-country tour wherein I find the members of my fantasy team and whine at them until they understand what a fuck-awful position they’re putting me in, but that’s not true. Instead I’m simply at a conference, which is the kind of thing that gets you a bazillion points for Stevie Johnson’s fantasy work team.
“BLUE! 42! FUCK MATT FOR NOT BELIEVING IN ME! HIKE!”
Part 1, In Which Our Hero Makes a Reasonably Good Quarterback Decision
Last week I made a joke about how I would have to start Joe Flacco as my punishment for being a New Englander who drafted Peyton Manning. That night, as I was laying in bed about to fall asleep, I was hit with the realization that Baltimore was playing against Fucking Carolina, meaning I couldn’t start both Flacco and the Panthers and expect any sort of point gain. The two would offset each other, I thought. I should get a different quarterback, I reasoned.
The available players on the waiver wire with a point projection higher than ten were Teddy Bridgewater and Jake Locker. Here’s a thought, does anyone refer to him as Hurt Locker? If not, is that a thing that we can do? I feel like that should be a thing. Somewhat related, this exchange happened last week:
Nate: “TEDDY THROWSEVELT!”
Me: “Is that his nickname?”
Nate: “It is now.”
I picked up Bridgewater – sorry, Throwsevelt, and moved Flacco to my bench. Then I overthought things and figured the Panthers might suck out loud again (spoiler alert: hahahahahahahaha kill me) so I picked up the Steelers D as well.
After registering at the conference on Sunday I moved back to my hotel room and spent the day watching whatever games were available. And, for the first time all season, I was That Guy who keeps a browser tab open displaying his team, refreshing it like a psychopath to see what changed. I cringed in horror as Flacco put on A Show, scoring 25 points on my bench. The Panthers? We’ll get to them. Oh, yes we will. We will deal with those fuckers shortly.
Throwsevelt didn’t find the end zone as often as Flacco did, but goddammit did he ever live up to that name. He put up a very strong 22, largely by heaving the ball to anyone in a purple jersey that he could find, ending the day with something like a hundred million yards passing. Then he was carted off the field on one of those golf carts, because Vikings aren’t allowed to have nice things. Still, I suppose it’s better than being put out to sea on a flaming ship. I suspect his injury had something to do with Loki and/or Frost Giants. These are Norse mythology jokes.
Part 2, In Which the Carolina Panthers Are Tried for War Crimes
I have a simple message for you, Carolina, and it is this:
I mean, I honestly don’t know what else to say here. I’m reluctant to drop them from my team on the chance that they remember how to play football again, but the thought of starting them at this point is about as sexy as a plane crash.
Thanks to Dave Parsons for the animated GIF, though. Man that thing is radical.
Part 3, Wherein Fuck Everyone, Man, Seriously
Seeing as I’m still in San Francisco I’ve started to think that it might be worth it to have a litle chat with Vernon Davis. I figure this isn’t that far out of the realm of possibility, since given the amount of injuries he’s accrued over the last few weeks it’s a fair bet he wouldn’t be able to outrun me (and I could always just sit on him, if it really came down to it). Starting him was a decision I was uneasy about, but I did it anyway and then watched the 49ers/Eagles game wondering whether he was ever going to catch anything ever again. Then he left the game. I flipped off my television. Middle fingers, I mean, pressed right against the screen.
For his insolence Harry Douglas is no longer with us. What was I even thinking there anyway?
In the end I was obliterated 99 to 77, which is fine. Looking at my alternatives (aside from “draft better, asshole”) the best I could have done was 90 points, and even that wouldn’t have been enough. I’m projected to put up 101 this week against an opponent projected to score 59, and who currently has players with a bye week in his starting lineup, so as long as I can continue to pound on the folks who auto-drafted and then vanished I should do well enough to get a playoff spot. And really, that’s all I want: to fuck up a serious player’s fantasy season.