The Draft

As far as I know, none of my friends have ever slept with any of my girlfriends. I suspect that such a thing would feel terrible, like the world had caved in, like there was no future, no up or down, no reason to continue on with my miserable existence. I imagine that little could console me, that I'd lie on my couch for upwards of three months, with little going for me besides Cosby reruns, Chinese takeout, cheap six packs of Yeungling, and weepy late night phone calls to my mother. In time, I might get better, though be unable to refer to this period of mourning as anything other than "The Dark Place."

This is sort of how I felt when Bill drafted David Ortiz with the 4th pick. My boy! The consensus MVP of last season's champion Vinnie's Pizzeria, the one man capable of making me hate Boston a little less. As Marty McFly might say, "David Ortiz is my density." The 4th pick!!! I thought I had him sewn up at number 6, thought Bill could be counted upon to blow his 1st pick on his own beloved, Chone Figgins. I reeled, blinking at the screen, realizing I had no Plan B. I was on the board. Not since the first time I had sex did 90 seconds fly by so quickly. I found myself confusedly, deliriously, frantically selecting Carl Crawford, then thinking to myself, "Carl Crawford??? Who's that?" Alas, there are no do-overs in fantasy baseball. And unfortunately, no time machines, either. By the way, I crammed for this draft like it was the goddamn bar exam.

The next morning I awoke to two things: a horrible looking fantasy lineup, and an email from Jim consisting of a single succinct sentence: "That's a pretty sweet OBP you've got there." Oh, the humanity. Of course, I did take some consolation from the fact that Jim has apparently named his team after his favorite male porn star (Michael Long), but this only made me feel slightly better.