Well, I find myself on the cusp of my second season of Fantasy Baseball, a hobby that wastes prodigious amounts of time, and you don't even have a pair of mismatched socks to show for your six months of effort. I could probably have learned how to play the guitar and be able to read Mandarin based on the amount of hours I spent last year analyzing stats, following games online and reading news about some pitcher's wounded elbow. (Dammit! Ichiro has a bleeding ulcer ... how much did I pay for that guy ...?)
The funny thing: I don't really know that much about the game. Well, more accurately, that much about all the players. Sure, I know A-Rod was having relations with Madonna or Todd Helton is the reason the Rockies can't afford to win. But do I know their battering averages and strikeout to walk ratio from 2003 to 2008? The guys I play with have a sickening, encyclopedic knowledge of even the most minor characters in the great baseball drama. Stuff like how much Nick Swisher strikes out against lefthanders in ballparks built prior to 1984. I have trouble remembering if the Atlanta Braves are in the American or National league.
So why do I play?
Well, obviously it's a guy thing, this obsession with statistics and numbers. It's a confirmation that there is an established order to the universe, that even the best of us can only hit the little white ball with the red seams and get on base about one-third the time. The other two-thirds of the time you're striking out, getting thrown out or popping out. It's sort of like dating with cleats on.
I guess that's enough mixed metaphors and one-liners for one post. I gotta go: My first baseman, Kevin Youkilis, isn't feeling well ...
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