Faux Nirvana

I must say that I am not at all feeling what I felt last year when I got my first win of the season. Maybe it's because my playoff hopes are chaff and the dessert was larger than I realized it would be, but I believe there is another reason. This season, though I am still actively participating in the league, I have found a certain calmness about the outcome of my games. Perhaps I have been comfortably desensitized to losing or have gotten my priorities a little more straight than in previous years, but I believe I came to a realization this past week. I had convinced myself that I no longer desired to win. As you all begin your Buddhist mantra, let me explain. This was not a conscious decision or willed immunity. I simply found myself indifferent to the outcome. That is, until I won. I suddenly realized that my emptiness had not been sincere. Fear of the disappointment that hoping had brought me in the past paralyzed any desire I still had to win. I was, in effect, running into the void to escape an uncertain future. I was afraid of losing, so I stopped wanting to win. This goes back to the formulaic adage: Satisfaction is found in the balance of expectation and situation. If you want to be happy, you must either lower your expectations, or improve your situation. My fear chose the half of this equation I could control and numbed me to the fact that I had chosen it.

This is a sad fantasy football story, but the sadder fact is that this mentality is not isolated to the realm of make believe sports. Millions of people are finding themselves paralyzed each day, running into the void to escape the uncertain. We don't know the future, and that terrifies us. The fear of disappointment is a powerful chemical designed to subtly change our outlook on life. People who are afraid seem nonchalant on the surface, apparently indifferent to their spiritual wellbeing. I am so thankful that our God is much bigger than Montee Ball, and MUCH MORE RELIABLE. We serve a perfect God with perfect love that casts out fear. There is no need to fear the future when you serve the One who is beyond time. He was just as He is just as He will be. With the knowledge that God will never disappoint, and that even through the trivial failures and disappointments of this world He is still the same, we can openly embrace our desire for a connection to Him. That desire planted deeply in each of us by His spirit that is calling us back to Him; calling us back home.

Hopefully I can muster the courage to openly embrace my desire to win again, no matter how many disappointing weeks come my way. There will be no video. I have been in a creative rut lately and found no inspiration when I went to create it.

Tuesday Morning Specials

Sorry Jay, like RSVPs & childhood names that end in "y"...somethings are just tradition. 

Surprise…once writer’s block has been lifted, there’s always an abundance to share. 

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The second quarter of the season (weeks 4-8) usually mark the slowest part of a fantasy season. The excitement of the New Year has worn off (there were 17 posts for September, for October - 7), we’re still too far away to take playoff pictures and the page is usually used solely for football purposes.

It’s not until after week 8, that a playoff picture develops and wins-losses begin to really matter, match-up schedules are closely observed and competition is reborn. With the importance of games rising, (as was my previous custom) let’s look a few that should be watched closely this week:

Dunwall Assassins vs. Bane

Last year Steve lost his first few, but once he got his first win, he was on a roll "Breaking .500" (I know because I played him the following week and lost). Owen has started hot this year, but a potential loss this weekend could create a wide, wide West.

Sesame Street Gang vs. Gotham Knights

This is quietly the biggest rival in the Elite at the moment and this year both teams have been great. Let’s be honest, there’s nothing better than crushing a team you already hopes sucks every year and especially if it’s for first place in the “Beast.”

Orange Crush vs. Heartbreak Kid

“Battle of the Founders” Ryan texted me this earlier this week and I thought it was great. It’s “Cain & Abel,” “#FF Wright Brothers,” either way, someone’s going down (sorry Abel and all plane crashes).

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All things considered, this has been a calm, cool and collected season in comparison to “other years.” Honestly, I've been fine with it…who needs drama in make believe game of football?

Nevertheless it’s the straw that stirs the drink that keeps everything from completely settling at the bottom. That straw was always Dan (dude was genius at being a straight up troll). Yet in 2014, who has served as the evil vs. the good? Or has the Elite league reached a state of Utopia? 

The antagonist title at first was Justin’s claim, but he really hasn't done much to defend that in recent years. Hery is another who hasn't declared himself an anti-hero, but he's definitely a nemesis on the message boards. Personally, I hate losing to any of you: I've lost 8 games in the past 3 years and I could tell you to who and why I loss in each one. Which made me think: is it possible everyone hates me? I’m taking this to the polls: who’s the villain in the Elite league?

I’m out like the Knicks’ chances of beating the Cavs in tonight’s opener…

HBK 

A JB Tale; The Lesser Fate of Two Brothers

The sheriff moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly October gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh dispersed the streets.

Trying doors as he went, twirling his six-shooter with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the midwestern thoroughfare, the marshall, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night saloon; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.

When about midway of a certain block the sheriff suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the sheriff walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.

"It's all right, marshall," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for my brother. It's an appointment made two years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, does it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands—'D'Leon's' Mexican restaurant."

"Until a year ago," said the sheriff. "It was torn down then."

The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a dark, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and what looked like a fresh scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.

"Two years ago tonight," said the man, "I dined here at 'D'Leon's' Mexican restaurant with Reece Valentine, the best brother I ever did have and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in Lincoln, just two brothers and a sister, together. I was eighteen and Reece was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the East to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Reece out of Lincoln; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly two years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in two years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be."

"It sounds pretty interesting," said the sheriff. "Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't you heard from your brother since you left?"

"Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But after a month or two we lost track of each other. You see, the East is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Reece will meet me here if he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door tonight, and it's worth it if my old partner turns up."

The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.

"Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door."

"Did pretty well out East, did you?" asked the sheriff.

"You bet! I hope Reece has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my fortune. A man gets in a groove in Lincoln. It takes the East to put a razor-edge on him."

The sheriff twirled his pistol and took a step or two.

"I'll be on my way. I hope your brother comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?"

"I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour at least. If Reece is alive on earth he'll be here by that time. So long, marshall."

"Good night, sir," said the sheriff, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.

There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain autumn puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the brother of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.

About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.

"Is that you, Maucus?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Is that you, Reece Valentine?" cried the man in the door.

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other's hands with his own. "It's Maucus, sure as fate. I was certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well!—two years is a long time. The old restaurant's gone, Maucus; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the East treated you, old man?"

"Heartbreak Kid; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've changed lots, Reece. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches. And what happened to your two front teeth; how’d such a gap happen to get there?"

"Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty. And constant work combined with fantasy football scraps caused my two front teeth to split. But don’t worry, I got out of those fighting games a while back."

"Doing well in Lincoln, Reece?"

"Moderately. I have a marketing position in one of the city departments. Come on, Maucus; we'll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times."

The two men started up the street, the one man’s arm around the shoulder of Maucus. The man from the East, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.

At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to look upon the other's face.

The man from the East stopped suddenly and dropped the other man’s arm from his shoulder.

"You're not Reece Valentine," he snapped. "Two years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from a thug to a Mexican pug."

"It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one," said the tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, ‘The Sith’ Maucus Valentine. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wired us that they want to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before I lock you up in a jail cell, would you mind if we stopped at the Saloon to play a little game of Pokemon Arena? Nah, I’m just kiddin. Seriously though, here's a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. It's from Sheriff Valentine."

The man from the East unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.

Maucus,

I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man on my wanted posters from Chicago. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to arrest you, so I went to get my deputy, a plain clothes math teacher named Dan, to do the job.

                                                                                 REECE.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Tuesday Morning Hangovers

Forgive me league, for I have sinned…I’m recovering from a severe 2 week case of writer’s block. #week8

JB's Pick 6; Week 7

Trader.

If we threw labels onto one another, I am sure I would earn this name hands down. Yet, I am sure everybody would agree that since draft day and the days leading up to it I have lacked my usual luster come trades. Well, let me take you behind the scenes. Five names: Murray, Forte, Foster, Lynch, & Bell. All five names sit a top the fantasy board as the top five in fantasy points. I have attempted to trade for all five of these players with their owning GMs. The problem with being labeled a trader is that it often comes with the assumption that I have a HUGE blockbuster deal that involves multiple managers; which, from what I have noticed, has been scaring people away. I can say for a fact that I would have Murray sporting the JB fantasy logo if it weren't for Adrian Peterson's legal follies. I'm pretty sure Justin would agree with me on this as well, considering the offer I had put on the table at the time. Another fact I must throw out is that each trade offer has been single, nothing attached. Yet again, trading comes with the amounting reputation that if you are great at blockbuster trading, you are great at manipulation and deception. One last fact; I have been transparent with every trade I have ever done, both incomplete and complete, this season. Do I type up this paragraph to attract GMs and ultimately show my desperation? Perhaps. But I will give one tip, even in my unsuccessful trading: text or call with a trade proposal before you make an official league trade proposal. For, no matter the trade history and the number of names some may have earned, the label of "sucka" doesn't exist in The Elite.

Traitor.

Take a moment and imagine if us ten GMs were all NFL team owners. First off, my wife would be utterly relieved because of all the financial security we would have. Second, back to the hypothetical. Honestly ask yourself, what would you do if you were an owner? In fact, I'll take it one step further. After all, we already deal in fantasy. Why not dream up a fantasy scenario? We are all owners and are all friends. Yet, what happens if one of us pulls a deceptive trade deal with another owner. I mean, isn't there this mutual respect between owners, GMs, & coaches that exists? This invisible respect that is always there between men that somehow gets disrespected at times by fools? And then, think back on some of the trades we've seen go down in our league that make us wary of other GMs. Would the same hold true for us as NFL team owners? All I know is that even with my label as "trader", I would hate to have the label, "traitor" as well. Because I am sure some real life NFL owners have actually earned that reputation. And for what? An NFL trophy? A fantasy football trophy? At what cost does the unreal become real? At what point does fantasy become reality when we think of each other's character?

Trainer.

Again, step with me into a twilight-type of zone where we all trained NFL players. Do you think our fantasy league would be even more elite? I mean, if each of us really had the inside look at which players injuries were really serious and which weren't from week to week, how much passion we knew certain players had...I'd like to think that each of us would have advantages over others. Then again, we'd probably all draft the players we trained. But training takes time and effort. And I would like to think that we all would absolutely LOVE our jobs. To be paid to interact with guys we may not always admire but respect and still be able to be a part of football and pay bills with that time spent...what a dream. But thus, I must bring this Pick 6 piece to a halt to say that none of us have any of these hypotheticals, even in our fantasy league. And hence, the whole reason why we are here: to get to know each other better as brothers in Christ whilst competing from our inner manhood God wired us with. Yes, so I did end this article on a cliche. So, what? You going to label me or somthin?

As for the games, some of you might have already been getting weekly emails with invitations to my NFL.com weekly pick'em. Half of you have responded and are a part of the group. The other half, take note:

http://weeklypickem.fantasy.nfl.com/group/93793

 Life is too busy to call Dan & ask for him to do the math on tallying up who has won what games each week. Besides, he'd give me the wrong total sums anyhow; seeing how ironic that is makes me laugh but such is life. Again, irony with labeling & stereotyping within this written piece just make it that much sweeter and that much more perfect and satisfying as I wrap this up. Sweet Moses, I love writing! And this is where I pass the Pick 6 torch to you. May you wear it well.

Tuesday Morning Hangovers

This week's post is more like Someday Morning Hangovers... #weeklate 

Jason Mrazy

I'm beginning to feel a little Jason Mrazy about my team this year.

For those of you who are newer to the league, 2 seasons ago I went 0-16. That being said, I never felt as disappointed in my team as I currently do. In times like these I've heard it said that you just need to encourage yourself. So here I am, desperately holding on to the fading glimmer of hope of a week 6 upset, the dim vision of cookies crumbled on the floor, the promise of the loneliest number replacing the 0 in my record.

#myukulelegentlyweeps

- The Bane