During my adolescence, there were several days which were sacred to me. Foremost among these, usually, was NBA Draft Night. When TNT suddenly cut to a shot of Craig Sager in the Dallas Mavericks War Room, mulling over whether to select Corliss “Big Nasty” Williamson from the 1994 champion Arkansas Razorbacks, I got a warm, tingly feeling all over my body.
There was butcher paper everywhere. Many disgruntled old men, probably bittered by their lack of ability to run the point in high school, sat around a smoke-and-donut-laden table, speakerphone in the middle, ties undone, screaming obscenities about the “94 feet of Hell.” Oh, but it was bliss to me. I wanted to be there. I could have a chance, someday, I suppose, but who would hire me to direct the draft decisions of an entire franchise? Have you ever seen me dress myself?
But, fair reader, I got the chance this past Sunday. After a night of late night limo carousing, I awoke early and logged onto ESPN.COM. Our fantasy basketball league, sponsored by the good people at Yahoo!, was set to begin at 1:35 p.m. I had to figure out if the so-called “fantasy experts” thought Dirk Nowitzki was primed for a big year. Could Jason Williams do anything in Memphis? Was Ruben Patterson in jail? Was Exree Hipp alive?
I walked down the hall to the apartment of several of my rival managers. I logged onto a computer right next to one of them, and promptly selected yes, Shaquille O’Neal, the Big Aristotle, as the first overall pick. The holder of the second pick was not logged on. An auto selection was made by the “Moderator of the Draft” for him, as well as the third pick. The editor of this section held the fourth pick, and decided to gamble and rock it on MJ, His Airness himself, passing on both Vince Carter and Tracy McGrady as well as his personal favorite, DerMarr Johnson. In later rounds, he managed to select Pau Gasol, as well as yes, Mr. Johnson, the future on the wing for the burgeoning Atlanta Hawks.
Controversy ensued in the third round as I selected Nick Van Exel, the combustible floor leader of the simultaneously burgeoning Denver Nuggets, perchance my new favorite team. The editor of this section, a long-time Cincinnati Bearcats fan sitting downstairs, screamed so loudly at my selection of the Cincy alumnus that I believe fans in Henle might have heard the expletives. Hehe. I did it out of spite.
My team was finally assembled, and dare I say, ‘tis one of the sickest in the league. I won my game last evening, by a score of 9-3. I am currently engaged in trades which may allow me to acquire Jason Terry, the knee socks rocking floor leader of those zany Hawks (did I just call the Hawks zany? I think Lon Kruger is rolling over in his grave) and Paul Pierce, the last bastion of manhood in Boston.
Fantasy basketball makes you follow the game closer than you normally would. I check it maybe two, three times per day. You have to know that Mike Miller is out four to six weeks, for example, and that George Lynch, an attractive option on the “Available Players” list, will be out six weeks as well. Blast! My power forward slot could use some help. After Curt Schilling waddled across the infield of Bank One last Sunday looking for someone to hug to gracefully end the 2001 baseball season, my life shifted to basically, yes, this. NBA. Sure, college basketball, but that doesn’t get muchas interesantes until like February, March. The NFL is cool, but it’s only once a week! Oh, how to fill my weeknights … and then I remembered, NBA. Fantasy is just one way to keep better track of the league I love, and the league which I will dedicate most of my second semester to.
By the way, what does everyone think of Rusty LaRue? And Eric Montross?
