Ultimate fantasy

I attended my first ever Fantasy Football draft the other night. Thankfully there was enough beer flowing to bury my mistakes!

There were only a few rounds, of beers that is, but I felt it enough to relax the troops through eighteen rounds of tense player picking. Turned out the guys were pretty lenient on me, considering I didn’t have much of a clue beyond the seventh round, or my third pint. Any dud picks I might have made, were lost amongst the sipping of frosty brew and hot-but-oddly-mild buffalo wings. Bless that sports bar.

With the second pick overall, monster Kansas City running back Larry Johnson, fell into my lap. Well not literally—that'd really leave a mark. But seriuously, it was nothing short of a Fantasy day miracle. No doubt this rubbed a few of my new pals the wrong way, but hey, the whole thing’s a lottery, so I figure a little beginner’s luck was on the cards. Johnson is an animal and was favored by every single Fantasy magazine I saw in newstands. If he wasn’t prominently on the cover, he was the second head poking around—like Han and Chewy in most Star Wars posters.

I was keen on last year’s league MVP, Seattle’s Shaun Alexander, myself. He just seemed more solid. Apparently so was the manager of the “Second Strings”, the team with the first pick on our draft board. So I happily took Johnson for McMahon’s Headbands (named in honor of the NFL’s biggest ever goon and my last post), the consensus Fantasy No.1 across all glossy $10 mags.

I’m just hoping the NFL’s “LJ” is not as big a let down as the NBA’s once greatly hyped version. The Charlotte Hornets’ Larry Johnson was a hoops superstar for about three years, so by that precedent, pro football’s equivalent should be alright for at least another season.

The thing about these drafts is, I wonder who actually knows what they’re talking about. I mean I’m sure there were a couple of seasoned veterans at my event, you know the kind; cellophane green visor, cheap cigar in the corner of the mouth, faded and unwashed Giants jersey hiding a beer gut. But mostly, I felt I was hitting my weight. Yeah, I struggled once the middle rounds shipped in, with "Who the heck is T.J. Houshmandzadeh and doesn't he sell souvlaki down the road", and similar comments peppering my conversation at that point. But with my trusty Fantasy guidebook tucked under my arm and the beer goggles on, my selections felt as sharp as anyone’s.

Perhaps that was just the buffalo wings talking.

Either way, it was a good night had by all, and something I highly recommend. In fact, I’m going to propose to a few friends that we adopt the “draft day” format for several of our weekly conversations; best bands, favorite celebrity women, top directors or actors, greatest burgers. The possibilities are endless, and the chance to invest money in mindless “Fantasy” pools seems far more enticing than dumping it into slot machines or on the ponies.

But before I get too excited, ask me how LJ’s going in a few weeks.

Mr Popular

If you’ve ever enjoyed a good teen flick, particularly one from the Eighties, you’ll know the quarterback-jock character all too well. He’s the guy with the perfect mane of hair, the Cruise-esque smile and the blonde-cheerleader girlfriend. Yes, life is delightful for the high school QB; he can wear painfully tight stone-washed jeans and still claim the respect of his friends. They were more innocent times my friends.

It’s not until the QB hits the pro ranks, however, that he comes into his own. He’s no longer dating the head cheerleader but rather, a supermodel; he’s paid in millions of dollars instead of free cafeteria hamburgers; and most importantly, he competes in a world that offers immortal status. (This is even higher than being the coolest kid in school!)

To help you with this picture, there are a couple of NFL characters that suitably fit the movie-QB persona. Jim McMahon of the 1985 Chicago Bears immediately comes to mind. McMahon, a wise-cracking, showboating goofball, who had a penchant for headbands and big sunglasses, was an incredibly skilled quarterback. Possessing a good arm and an uncanny knack for reading game, McMahon mostly took things into his own hands—much to the disgust of Head Bear, Mike Ditka. At Super Bowl XX, in fact, when asked by reporters about a buttock injury, McMahon dropped his pants and mooned them. Now that’s nifty play-calling!

While McMahon's the guy who has his popular-but-bullying-ways come back to bite him at the end of the movie, Brett Favre is the perfect-gentleman-popular-QB. Since his his turn in Something About Mary, I can’t help but think of Brett “Fav-re” as the ultimate popular high school jock. He’s got the build, the rugged looks, the stylish name—something just tells me he was prom king. I wouldn’t be surprised if made an appearance as an Alpha Beta jock in one of the Nerds movies actually. Anyway, Favre’s NFL heroics, which thankfully don’t including mooning, position him as one of the coolest QBs ever.

When you think popular quarterbacks throughout NFL history, you’re most often looking at Joe “Cool” Montana of the 49ers, Dan "Laces Out" Marino, John "Super 7" Elway of the Broncos, or maybe the Bills Jim “Machine-Gun” Kelly. You might even cast you’re mind back to New York’s Broadway Joe Namath, or the crew-cut Colts captain, Johnny Unitas. There aren’t many as loved as these guys anymore.

In the last few weeks though, two great QB names have come to the forefront of the pro football world; Warren Moon and Damon Allen. Moon, you may recall, was a star play-caller with the old Houston Oilers. Versatile, smart and with a great arm, he was always fun to watch.

But before Moon entered the NFL, he played for the Edmonton Eskimos in the Canadian competition, the CFL. Many pundits say Moon went undrafted in the NFL because he was black. This was probably true, though I still contest that I was never drafted because I’m only 5’8. Still waiting on the results of that one. Anyway, you can’t keep a good Moon—I mean man down. Moon went on to lead the Eskimos to an unprecedented five consecutive Grey Cup championships and threw for 21,288 yards and 144 touchdown passes. Trust me, that’s more than you and your brother are throwing down at the park, lifetime.

Moon, surprise-surprise, was suddenly coveted by the NFL. He moved to Houston and the rest is history. Amongst his many achievements in the American game, Moon joined “Laces Out” and Dan “the Wolfman” Fouts as the only quarterbacks to post back-to-back 4,000-yard seasons. Hey, tough.

The reason I’m going “full Moon” on this post, is because the dynamic Oiler No.1 was recently inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame. In doing so, he became the only player ever to be inducted into both the CFL and NFL Halls of Fame.

Moon’s CFL and NFL yards thrown combined, are a staggering 70, 613 yards. That’s like driving through your neighborhood Burger King, like, 14,000 times. Think about it. I mention this feat because on Saturday night, at Toronto’s Skydome, I saw the Argonauts’ Damon Allen literally leap for the Moon. In accumulating 70,112, as of Saturday, Allen became only the second pro QB ever to pass for 70,000 yards.

The beer-chugging and cheerleader-hugging must be fun for a while, but surely becoming a legend leaves the rest a blur.

Montreal's Expos-ition

I picked up an official Expos t-shirt in Montreal over the weekend, and it’s a gem; red sleeve ends, the retro “elb” logo and an emblem marking the 1982 All-Star Game. And I thought my mate Jose’s Nintendo T-shirt was old-school. Throw on some Bon Jovi jeans and pair of Dunlop Volleys with this baby and watch the ladies swoon.

While the shirt instantly earned a spot in my weekly rotation, it joins the wardrobe with some sorrow in tow.

I never saw the Expos play, you see, or even watched a game on TV, but what I do know of them from highlight reels and baseball books is enough to feel some regret. I regret that I never caught even a glimpse of Canada’s first major league team at Olympic Stadium—maybe even bought up a few extra tickets to help them stay in town.

But would that have helped?

The Expos were apparently doomed for a long time, so my money probably wouldn’t have made a dent, I recently learned. As a new baseball fan, my trip to Montreal had me asking, “What happened to the Expos?”

How did a team with such a cool retro uniform and such a wonderfully random nickname loose its place on the sporting landscape?

Here you had a pioneering club—the first of its kind in Canada. If you’ve ever seen the photo of legendary Canadian PM, Lester B. Pearson, throwing out the Expos’ first pitch you’d say it was all smiles for French Canadian baseball.

Maybe that was just a façade but I like to think the Expos were hard done by. At least then my romantic ideal of the battling club from a non-traditional town and a retro era can live on. For me, the Montreal experience is not unlike that of the North Sydney Bears. The Bears were as retro-chic as it gets in the Aussie rugby league world; furry red jerseys, complete with awkwardly rectangular black stripes, and a squad that barely seemed capable of mustering a few wins per season. They had a rich history of losing, as did the Montrealers, and fan base that was small—cultish. Like the Expos, they had a few good years, a couple of decent players and an hard-not-to-love outdated logo. But thanks to money—or more specifically, a lack there of it—found themselves being run out of town.

As if perennial losing wasn’t a big enough kick in the teeth, the Bears were forced to merge with their biggest rivals, the Manly Sea Eagles in 1999. Five years later, the Expos were similarly shuffled off to Washington DC. The Expos' boot to the choppers? How about that when on the verge of a breakout season in 1994, one in which they appeared destined for incredible heights, they were cruelly cut down by a players strike and never recovered.

Almost tragically, the Expos were denied the possibility of winning 105 games that season. At 74 wins and 40 losses up until August 12th, Montreal amazingly had the best record in the Majors. The powerhouse New York Yankees were next at 70-44. Does it get any crueler than that? They were better than the Yankees!

To rub salt into the wound, the owners at the time hadn’t the cash flow to retain the team’s best players, so there was no push for the World Series the following season as you’d expect. The winning squad, the morale of the fans and the future prospects for the club were all flattened like a French crepe.

If that wasn’t enough, baseball’s commissioner, Bud Selig, decided sometime in 2001 that he’d like to kill off two teams; the Minnesota Twins being one—and you guessed it—Montreal, the other. How these types of drastic moves are placed in the hands of single-minded individuals I’ll never know. I liken this decision to Channel Nine’s screening of Seinfeld at 10.30pm in the early Nineties.

Anyway, it was simply another sports club at the mercy of money merchants. Sure, a sports organization has to make moola in order to survive and be a viable part of its larger network, but nothing was done to save the Expos. Nothing. They were essentially pillaged by other clubs and psychologically dismantled by men in suits. In 2002, they played 22 of their home games in Puerto Rico for crying out loud! Which braniac proposed that idea?

Following the mid-Nineties, it was like the whole thing was on a contingency plan. Instead of being properly invested in, built a new stadium, or more than adequately marketed, the Expos’ history and fans were nonchalantly dismissed. The team finally packed its bags for the US capital in 2005, where contract disputes for a new stadium and attendance numbers have hindered success.

It’s interesting how things turn out. The Washington Nationals have one of the worst records in baseball, and a superstar in Alfonso Soriano who doesn’t seem interested in even playing there. And most importantly, their logo is nowhere near as stylish as the Expos’.

At least Montreal will always have cool t-shirts to remember their team by.

Hoopless in Seattle

The floral emblem of Oklahoma, mistletoe, appropriately signals the Sonics’ kiss-off from Seattle. In a deal that has caused both puckering and pursing—depending in which state you hang your Sonics hat—the team’s selling maybe shouldn’t have surprised. But it’s definitely breaking hearts. At least mine.

Oklahoma Investment group, The Professional Basketball Club LLC, are the proud new owners of my basketball club and once again, it seems, I’m forced to pack up on my team and hit the highway in search of a new allegiance.

You see, I’ve experienced this kind of eviction before. It was after the Los Angeles Lakers abandoned The Forum for The Staples Center; Laker basketball died for me that day. With a new mega-sized arena, a less team-orientated playing style and superstars that would never replace Magic and Big Game, I stuffed my duffle full and headed north for the Emerald City—emotionally that is.

The Pacific Northwest—an uncharted land in my sports world—where potential appeared more vital than potency. The Sonics hadn’t won since ’79, but what did I care? This was a fresh start, and with a team I felt better suited to. I’d outgrown the big Laker market, and more poignantly, I believe the Lakers had outgrown me. How could someone from the “Hip to be Square”/ Who’s the Boss generation possibly support a team more akin to a Melrose Place episode? It just didn’t feel right. So I gave the “it’s not you—it’s me” line, and left my heart not far from San Francisco.

I’ve bled green and gold for a few years now, leapt from my seat every time Kevin Calabro’s voice exploded through the radio, cheered whenever Ray Allen lobbed a perfect rainbow over three defenders, and pumped my fists when Rashard Lewis launched for a booming dunk. Yes, despite the many losses, it’s been a good time.

But as Seattle’s favorite sons, Pearl Jam, once cried, “They’re leaving here” or so most NBA experts are assuming. Too bad really—maybe Ray, Lew and Luke could have built something special at Key Arena; something to validate my decision to cheer for the Supes. Not to be, I suppose.

Of course, I’m not the first fan hurt by pro sports’ penchant for comings and goings. How about the old Brooklyn faithful, forced to watch their Dodgers as west coasters? Or Expos supporters, losing their club after 35 years to D.C.? Or worse, Oakland fans who dealt with their football team moonlighting in LA for more than a decade. These traumas aren’t covered in the fan’s manual. There’s no anonymous support group. There’s no prescription drug. As a fan, you just suck it up.

So now the search for my new team begins. Not that I have anything against Oklahoma City, you understand. Just that when you invest your soul into one town, that relationship can’t continue in a healthy manner elsewhere—can it? It’s kind of like the best friend you had as an eight year-old, the one who lived two doors down. You played with him after school, rode your bikes around the street on weekends. You were the first one to receive an invite to his birthday party; the first one to stick up for him against a bully. Then, without warning, his parents up and moved the family intestate. The relationship suddenly ended with a handshake and a hug—the kiss-off, if you will.

The worst part is looking for a new best friend. Will they like your style of play? Will they share your sense of fun? Will they be someone you can trust? Hard to hang onto such relationships these days, just ask the folks in Hartford.

Deep down, I’m sure Howard Schultz didn’t want to let go either. I’m sure he suffered a lengthy deliberation—over a couple of Colombia Nariño Supremos—and decided he was investing more than he was getting back. Sometimes you have to act on instinct, like Gary Payton’s famous behind-the-head alley-oop to the Rain Man. I understand. Just don’t expect me to sleep well.

The Sonics could be a better team in Oklahoma City but most Seattle fans will find it difficult to care. Like me, they’ll feign some interest for a while, maybe catch a few highlights, and even buy a jersey if the team ends up winning. But it won’t be the same. It’s a “long distance”, and everyone knows they never work out.

Nope, for us Sonics fans, it may be time to move on. Portland still has a squad, right? They’re players always seem to make headlines, even if not for amazing basketball feats. There are always the Bay area’s Warriors, farther south. Though I can’t say I like the latest club logo—it looks like a billboard for a tire store.

Maybe a break from basketball is best. Yep, that’s what I’ll tell myself. Plenty of other interests to pursue…fishing…hiking….tennis…

Is Frasier still taking calls?