fantasy baseball can make you hate yourself

Last night, while a surly (yet cute) Russian clown contorted balloons into a vaguely cat-like construct, I watched my beloved Sox lay down for the lowly Baltimore Orioles. The Sox may not be my favorite team (the dearly departed Seattle Pilots shall live forever in my heart), but for ages I have suffered with this team, exalting with their ecstatic highs, and reeling from their crushing lows. The pain of losing for so long is keenly felt by me and all my fellow long-suffering Red Sox fans. Yes, these last seven months have been a real drag. But despite the ever-present doom that has firmly attached itself, barnicle-like, to this beleaguered franchise, this year really does seem like it could be the year, and nobody is more excited about that than me. Except maybe those millions of Sox fans who gave a shit before last August. Who knows.

But so! While drinking and dining amidst the 28th birthday festivities of our fave local chum-house, my dear benighted and I watched the old ball-game. And despite my deep, abiding, reverent love for the hometown team, I found myself silently rooting for the Baltimore nine, and all because of that accursed game known as fantasy baseball (or, in the parlance of the addicted, "the devil's jai alai"). Baltimore's portly pitcher, Sir Sidney Ponson, is the number five starter on my money team, and a good year from him could be vital to my winning the diamond and sapphire encrusted spit-cup that is our ceremonial prize. And so, I wished failure upon the Sox. And failure is what they endured. In hopes of a few meager points, in some meaningless kid's game, I turned my back on the team I grew up loving over the last seven months.

I can't tell if this sharp, piercing pain in my groin is my conscience, or merely my kidney stones.   ¶ posted by darkness at 9:10 AM