The Dynasty Confessional: Meet the Parents

Editor’s Note: With your lineup likely set for the week, we take the easy reading time of Saturdays to bring you the Dynasty Confessional featuring entertaining stories from your DLF brethren.  If you’d like to have your tale told, fill out the Dynasty Confessional Form and we may choose to interview you.

Todays story comes from Ronnie D. from Kalamazoo, Michigan

My wife, Dianne, and I first met on November 19, 2005, at a Michigan Wolverines home game. My alma mater lost to the Ohio State Buckeyes 21-25, but as a Maize and Blue fan, I couldn’t care less. I met the woman of my dreams that day; I just didn’t know it yet. She was from Ohio and went to a smaller college in the Columbus area. Her school didn’t have a college football team, and her father was an Ohio State alumni, so she attached her allegiances to the Ohio State program. She arrived early, with some friends from her hometown. As fate would have it, they parked right next to us, and we shared hamburgers, beers and rivalry stories. It wasn’t long after Oktoberfest, so my counterparts and I had coolers full of various tasteful brews. We impressed the girls with our infinite knowledge of our flavorful, Michigan ales.

It was almost a year until Dianne and I moved in together. The relationship was going great, but she insisted that we meet each others parents before we would share a home. Her parents (especially her father) are strict Irish Catholic, and certainly would not approve of us sharing a bed together without their knowing me.

Our first meeting was scheduled for the fourth of July in 2006. Her father was set to make barbeque, and later that night, we would enjoy the fireworks together. Unfortunately, I had a work emergency. My supervisor contacted me only days before our trip to Ohio, and informed me that I had to travel to Maine immediately. My then girlfriend played damage control with her parents, and we set another day to make our journey to Ohio. The second time we were scheduled to meet her parents, Dianne became ill with a stomach flu. Regrettably, we had to reschedule again.

My friends and I had been playing fantasy football for about four years, and the 2006 season would mark our first attempt at a true dynasty league. In the early part of the decade, we started an eight team league with team defenses. We later evolved to a twelve team league with a flex option and a league trophy. We all considered ourselves fantasy football experts, and we were ever searching for ways to be innovative with our league. We added individual defensive players in 2005, but our greatest claim to fame was our inevitable move to a dynasty format.

I wasn’t the commissioner, but there was a group of four, including myself, who helped form the league. I was relied upon for many rule changes, and in 2006 we didn’t fully know what to expect from our move to dynasty. My presence at the draft would be mandatory that year. In a cruel twist of events, Dianne had booked a flight to Ohio without my knowing. The flight would leave the day of our draft.

Prior to this incident, I hadn’t told my future wife about how important fantasy football was to me. I felt like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction when his girlfriend forgot his watch. Neither his girlfriend, nor mine, had any idea how sentimental those things were to us. I didn’t bother making Dianne feel responsible about her unintended gaffe. I simply explained to my leaguemates that I would have to phone in my draft picks. They were disappointed to say the least.

I was able to give a draft list to my friends that would exempt me from participating in the first few rounds. I was set on taking the best player available in the early rounds regardless of position anyway, so I should be able to get through our Sunday dinner unscathed.

We arrived on Sunday afternoon. Dianne’s father had a firm handshake and hard stare. He referred to me as “son,” and not in a good way. He asked about my political affiliations and proceeded to belittle me because of them. He mentioned more than once about how useless of a school Michigan was. Dianne’s mother was very nice, though. She kept making comments like “he’s just trying to scare you,” or “don’t mind him.”

Dinner with “Jack Byrnes” was going relatively well, as I tried to join his circle of trust. He didn’t talk much, and I kept my head low. We were at the main course when my phone started vibrating. I checked my watch, my leaguemates shouldn’t have been through the first two rounds already. I looked up to find Dianne’s fathers eyes on me. “Somewhere to be?” he asked. My phone would not stop vibrating, I excused myself and went to the restroom. The lavatory was no more than forty feet from the dinner table, which meant I had to whisper into the phone’s receiver. If I was too loud, I would earn more mistrust from my future father-in-law. If I wasn’t loud enough, I could’ve accidentally drafted Adam Vinatieri in the third round.

I later excused myself two more times during dinner. I raised concern from Dianne’s mother at this point. “Is everything OK?” she inquired. I responded, “It must have been the airport food.” On a brighter note, my team was taking the shape of a contender. I was awarded Clinton Portis and Randy Moss in the first two rounds and selected Tom Brady in the third.

Through six rounds, I had managed to keep peace within my league. Dianne’s father must have thought slightly less of me than I had hoped, though. My future mother-in-law and current girlfriend cleared the dishes and proceeded to the kitchen. I sat at the table in a silence that must have been minutes, but seemed to last hours. ‘Jack’ broke the silence. He leaned back in his chair, and with a toothpick in his mouth he asked, “Who were you calling during your bathroom visits?”

I panicked. My hands became damp, my tie became tight, my heart began to race. He heard me whispering in his bathroom. Of course he did, the guy isn’t old enough to have lost his hearing yet. He probably thought I was talking to another woman. He undeniably thought I was keeping secrets – which I was. I chose the response that seemed to be the worst possible option at the time. I told him the truth. “My fantasy football draft is tonight, sir. I didn’t want to disappoint you or your wife by cancelling our trip again. I didn’t want to disappoint my friends by cancelling on them either. I am sincerely sorry for interrupting dinner.” My lip probably quivered as I was talking. I was terrified of this man.

He looked at me and said “Son, grab two beers out of the refrigerator. Meet me on the patio.” I did as he asked, and when I arrived outside he asked “Who is your quarterback?” I replied “Tom Brady.” He smiled and asked “What is the difference between and intelligent Wolverine and a UFO?” I took a sip of my beer and raised my eyebrows in curiosity. He said “There have been sightings of UFO’s.”

He proceeded to help me with the rest of my draft that night. I put my leaguemates on speaker phone and introduced them to Dianne’s father. When we reached the ninth round, though, he made me draft Santonio Holmes. He said my team needed at least one player from a real school.

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