The Dynasty Confessional: The Hangover Draft

Karl Safchick

confessions

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 Karl may choose to interview you. All stories are from the memories of the interviewee, and written by Karl Safchick.

Todays story comes from Randy McIntosh from Albany, New York.

Randy was born on August 23, 1991 and almost 21 years later he was still an infant to the fantasy football world. His group of friends were a few years older than him, and most had been playing fantasy football for about six years. They had been trying to convince him to play for what seemed like an eternity. School and work had their say in keeping him busy, but as his friends said, he “finally grew a pair”.

His first fantasy football draft was not the only dramatic event coming up in Randy’s life. In just a few short days, he would be celebrating the twenty-first anniversary of his birth. Early in the week, though, Randy studied hard for his initial draft for what would later become a dynasty league. He looked for advice from ESPN and Yahoo!, as they were the leaders in fantasy advice in his mind. Randy was happy to see many of his favorite players ranked as highly as they were. His favorite team is the San Diego Chargers, and Phillip Rivers, Ryan Matthews, and Robert Meachum were all being ranked high on the websites he’d been using for research. He felt confident in his drafting abilities, but still needed to do some last minute preparation. He planned on waking up early on Sunday morning to travel to his aunts and print a hard copy cheat sheet. His aunt had a printer, and Randy’s family only possessed laptop computers.

His family held a proper celebration for Randy’s birthday; his dad even joined him in consuming a few beers. This would mark the first day they’d drink together. The father-son comradery was a great perk, as Randy was his fathers biggest fan, but in Randy’s mind, nothing would compare to the festivities that his friends had in store for him that coming weekend. Randy wasn’t aware of what his counterparts were planning, but he predicted it to be substantial.

The seventh annual “Hardcore Fantasy Football League” draft was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Randy’s twenty-first birthday celebration was the previous night.

Marcus, Randy’s best friend, rented a limousine and gathered all of the usual suspects. Much like Verbal Kint, Marcus hadn’t been completely honest. A mutual friend of theirs accompanied Randy earlier in the night to help him “pre-game” while they watched the Pittsburgh Steelers compete against the Buffalo Bills in week three of the preseason. Randy had been told to expect Marcus to pick them up in his car, a 2002 Mazda, not in a limousine. Randy also expected to go to the local watering hole, not the inner city club that charged to get in.

Randy was appropriately intoxicated by the time the limousine arrived at its destination. To his amazement, the establishment had security, a dress code, flashing multi color lights, and bikini dancers. Randy was in awe. His friends spared no expense for his birthday. The group found a place to sit for the moment, and Marcus quickly arrived with a tray full of colorful elixirs. Many of the guys explained to Randy, that for every shot they took, he must take two. Randy’s debate fell on deaf ears, as the group silently waited for him to finish his two drinks. This ritual repeated many times, and some of the guys brought young bikini dancers to where Randy was. They all congratulated him on making it through his first decade plus of existence. The last memory Randy had of that night was the DJ singing him happy birthday as the whole crowd sang along. Randy was the king for a night.

A bucket of water was poured on Randy’s head the next morning. It was Marcus and crew. The sun beamed in Randy’s bedroom window with a force that should require SPF40. His eyes were bloodshot and his bed sheets were covered in potato chip crumbs. His tongue felt like leather, he was fully clothed, drenched in sweat, and his friends were surrounding him laughing. This was their idea of a joke. Randy was suffering from what he had come to know as a hangover; something he’d never experienced at this magnitude. A hangover at a level, that he believed, no one else had ever endured. His mother was standing in his doorway with a concerned smile. She knew his friends well enough to know they’d have their fun with him, but he was in good enough hands. While his parents were strict on him growing up, they were very good sports when it came to his having fun.

Compared to Randy, his friends were professionals in the fantasy football world. They had spreadsheets, checklists, and bios of every player in the league. Randy never got a chance to go to his aunts house that morning. His excitement for the draft had diminished as well. He picked players off of the top of his head because his friends forbid him from even glancing at their checklists. They’d known all along that Randy’s body, and the amount of alcohol he’d consume, wouldn’t agree. They cracked jokes at him all day. They called him “rookie” more times than he could count. He was a rookie, though. A rookie, not only to the fantasy world, but to the world of legal drinking as well. This was their plan. A plan to make a fool of him. He smiled internally, though. His friends gave him the most memorable night a guy could ask for, and if the trade off was their ability to make fun of him, he’d make that trade everyday.

In a form of self-deprecation, he named his team “The Rookies”, and by midseason the name fit. Randy’s team was horrible. He had many of his beloved Chargers on his team, including Mathews, Rivers, and Antonio Gates. He drafted David Wilson higher than he should have. His team would definitely be among the worst.

When the playoffs approached, one of the leaguemates mentioned the pact they had made on the ride home the night of Randy’s birthday. Randy remembered no such pact. The rest of the guys remembered it crystal clear though, and in fact it was Randy’s idea. Whomever finished in last place that year, would have three bumper stickers made. One would read “I Suck At Fantasy Football”, while the other two would say “My Son Sucks At Fantasy Football”.

Randy finished in last place that in his inaugural season. He explained the situation to his parent’s, and they happily obliged.

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