Fantasy Friday

November 23rd, 2013 § Leave a Comment

Don’t Get Cute

Okay, okay … I got it. Yes, enough. “Uncle!” No mas. What? You want me to say it? Okay, here, I’ll say it: It is a Quarterback driven league. I’ve learned my lesson. Next year, I’m not getting cute; I’m taking a QB early.

This is my sixth season of fantasy football. In each draft other than the first which was autoed, I eschewed the elite QB in favor of bargain hunting in the middle rounds. There is a reasonable argument for such strategy, but I no longer have the stomach for it. Last year, I rode the ups and mostly downs of Michael Vick and his woeful offensive line. This year, the “Couple Eli with Carson strategy” had me starting Locker and Jason Campbell in must win games. Their line in those games? 10, -3, and 7. Loss, loss, and yes, a loss.

Now, I must win the last two and get some help to get into the playoffs. And upon whom have I pinned my fantasy playoff fate, you ask? Scott Tolzien. Um, yeah, uh, that’s “Scott” with an “S” Tolzien. T O L Z as in zoo I E N.

And why am I going through all this? Because RBs are so valuable? The guy who’s leading our league in scoring is starting Lamar Miller and DeAngelo Williams. After our draft I was laughing at him and his Peyton Manning and Calvin Johnson. Haha …ha … huh?

Next September, if you hear me getting other ideas. Tell me, “Don’t get cute man. Remember Tolzien?”

The Hand You’re Dealt

November 20th, 2013 § 2 Comments

The last thing my Father taught me was this: “You gotta play the hand your dealt.” Neither one of us knew he was teaching me this valuable lesson. But as I’m going through a bit of a mid-life crisis, I harken back to my Father’s last, great life experience – his death.

Somewhere back there in post war South Korea, my Father contracted hepatitis. He probably didn’t know he had it. At forty-six years of age, he collapsed on a golf course. The initial diagnosis was kidney stones. I still remember the light-hearted, pre-surgery visit at the Queen of Angels hospital. The next day with him half conscious, writhing in pain, the surgeon delivered the news. Liver cancer. After two years of a mostly uphill fight, my Father succumbed to the disease. He was forty-eight years old.

He wasn’t planning on dying. My parents had just bought their first home in America. And coupled it with a brand new, brown Cadillac Sedan de Ville. Business was booming in the little sandwich shop they’d purchased in a subterranean shopping center in Downtown LA. Straight off a plane to the American dream in five short years. And then the sky caved in … nothing could be done about it. It was the hand that was dealt.

As much as we’d like to believe that we can affect the Dealer’s turn of the card, we can’t. Once the hand is dealt, within the confines of the cards dealt, we play. But before we can play that hand well, we have to accept it. Throwing it in in disgust isn’t going to help. Wishing ain’t helping either. No, we must accept. I’m not talking resignation. Not saying, “Fold ’em.” I’m saying without accepting, we’ll not know how to go about playing our hand.

It’s a tough, seldom mastered lesson. As I grope for it, a comforting thought is that I don’t really know what the best hand is … I think I know, but I don’t really. It’s what makes me chase the elusive flush when if played well, I could take the pot with a pair of Jacks.

Where Am I?

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