Fantasy sports are like my baby

If there's one thing that has held me back from writing the Great Canadian Novel it's my stupid, happy, fulfilled, non-tortured, nourished life that has kept me from grasping the loneliness and isolation needed to make Quill and Quire quiver.

If there's another thing it is fantasy sports.

As I write this I am toggling back and forth every minute or so to a Stattracker webpage and secretly cheering against my favourite baseball team — the Jays, natch — because I own a relief pitcher for their opponent and he is currently in line to record a save.

I've had a fantasy flurry lately, drafting two baseball teams and a playoff hockey squad while also completing stretch runs in basketball and hockey. I know what you're thinking: "Wow Sports Andy, that's a lot of fake teams. You're the coolest person in the world."

Even so, as a husband and now father I sometimes wonder if fantasy sports takes up too much of my time. And now that my friends are rich enough to drink artisanal beers rather than mass-produced swill, they've decided to bump up the league entry fees from zero to something.

I'm not in any $150,000 leagues — yet — but it still does feel kind of odd coughing up 20 or 25 bucks several times a year for fake sports when I have a baby I could be buying books or salmon or replica basketball jerseys for. On the plus side, more often than not I tend to finish in the money in these things so I have actually made more than I've spent. If I were to hazard a guess as to what kind of return I'm getting for my time spent managing my teams, I'd say I make about $0.0000000000001 per week.

I'm very happy to report, however, that I've never left my baby alone in the crib or bathtub or whatever to go and tend to my teams. I wasn't sure this would be the case. Now that I'm on parental leave and home all day I find that I actually have a lot less time to compulsively scan the Internet looking for info on players and matchups and what the weather is like in Baltimore and such. When I was at work with a computer right in front of me it was much easier to sneak a quick peek for one or two hours a day. (Haha, my boss reads this blog — I'm only kidding of course. It was more like one or two minutes a day. Haha. Moving on.)

The one thing I say about fantasy sports to keep myself from feeling like a maladjusted, obsessed addict is that it does help me stay up-to-date on all of the Big Four sports. As someone who writes about sports for a living I feel like this is a good thing.

If not for my playoff hockey pool I'd have no idea who Teddy Purcell is. If you asked me last week who Teddy Purcell is I probably would have guessed that he's a recovering alcoholic lounge singer who briefly made a name for himself in 1997 with a recording of hilariously crooned 2 Live Crew songs. Now I know that Teddy Purcell, one of those guys whose name always should be said in full, plays hockey in the NHL for the Tampa Bay Lightning. I know that this year was his first as a full-time big leaguer and he did quite well, scoring 51 points in 81 games. I know that he went undrafted and hails from St. John's, NL. Important stuff.

I also know that Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher Ted Lilly gives up a lot of dingers but always has a pretty good WHIP, Cleveland Cavaliers guard Ramon Sessions played a lot better at home than on the road this year and Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice still does not get all of his team's goal line touches. Scandalous, I know.

How does this help me cover the local sports scene for my job with a community newspaper? I'll get to that later. (Note: by later I mean never.)

Those little details that I learn playing fantasy sports remind me a little bit about having a baby and the little things that I notice now that I never did before.

Walking with a stroller is one activity that introduces you to a whole other world known only to parents and perhaps people riding Segways. Recently while taking Sports Baby on his first ride on Vancouver's Skytrain we joined the little parade of strollers heading for the elevator. I'd never noticed it before but it's an adorable little line that gets tucked away from the dead eyes of the rest of the commuters. At the Marine Drive stop we took one slow elevator up one floor before transferring to another slow elevator to get to the platform. Kind of fun if you have the time to enjoy the view of the Fraser River out of the windows of the elevator. Not so fun if you're rushing downtown for an important sit down with the head of the Vancouver Police Department's anti-gang unit. (We weren't. Why would we take a baby to a business meeting?)

The baby-less have also probably not noticed the swarm of strollers that converge on community centres and libraries like little cup holder-equipped sharks whenever a free class is offered. Thankfully I haven't yet witnessed any stroller rage incidents.

The same little stroller jams can form at malls as parents search out the one washroom equipped with a change table. God forbid there could ever be a nice place that doesn't smell like broccoli farts where I wouldn't have to wait forever and then feel rushed while I changed my baby's diaper.

Wow, my fantasies really are changing.

Photo Justin K. Aller/Getty Images

Follow me on Twitter @Sports_Andy

NFL owners are like my baby

You may have heard that babies put everything into their mouths, but unless you have a kid, you won't quite grasp the scope of that statement.

Imagine I'm a sassy teenage mother wagging my finger back and forth to emphasize the statement: "Guurrrrrl, you don't even know. My baby eat EV-ERR-EEE-THANG."

Here are some things that have gone into Sports Baby's mouth: my glasses; his own diaper, unused; broccoli; his own shoe, still on his foot; our kitchen table; my nose.

He has a heavy plastic cookie jar toy that sings songs. Oh yes, he tries to eat the fake cookies, but he'll also grab the whole damn jar, pick it up with his super baby strength and then drop it on his face as he tries to eat it too.

Our family doctor, a nice fellow with a motorcycle calendar in each one of his patient rooms, advised us to avoid giving our baby fruit for awhile because, the theory goes, if he tastes that sweet goodness he'll never want anything else.

We've disproven this. He's eaten bananas, he's tasted apple and yet everything else in the world still looks appealing enough to go into his mouth, including yams and, get this, broccoli (sorry, did I mention broccoli already? It's just that I think broccoli tastes like a tree fart.)

The theory was put to the ultimate test this weekend when a friend brought over some pineapple and we gave the little guy a piece to chew. I don't know if crackhead is too strong a description, but he lost it like he was the Cookie Monster getting his first taste of triple chocolate macaroon.

But even after that he still put a nasty-looking chick-peas-and-greens combo into his mouth and swallowed it down.

Whether it's food or furniture, pants or poison, anything that is within a baby's reach is headed straight for the mouth.

Tweak that sentence just a little and you get a great description of NFL owners: Whether it belongs to players or fans, employees or taxpayer, any money that is within an owner's reach is headed straight for their pocket.

If you haven't yet picked a side in the NFL labour dispute and you wish to do so, pick the players. If you've already picked the owners, change your mind. If you don't care, please continue to not care.

But if you enjoy getting your football fix on NFL Sundays or, more likely, getting your fantasy football fix on NFL Sundays, the blame should land squarely on the lint-free shoulders of the owners if the season is delayed or cancelled this fall.

On Friday the union decertified and several players sued the league for violating anti-trust laws. Soon after that the owners locked out the players.

It might appear that the players walked away first but the fault lies with the owners.

The NFL is thriving, crushing the other North American pro sports and becoming the most popular form of entertainment in the United States. Everyone is making money, but the owners just want more of it. And they want their profits guaranteed.

Their demands during this labour dispute are such things as "We want even more money!" and "we know you're all getting brutally injured out there, but why don't you play even more games for us. More money!" A judge has already ruled that the owners and league acted in bad faith when they negotiated new television contracts that included stipulations that the league and owners would get paid by the networks even if a labour dispute forced the cancellation of games. They even took less money per season to get this included in the deal.

Describing his findings about the NFL's attitude towards TV contracts, U.S. District Judge David Doty said that the league "consistently characterized gaining control over labor as a short-term objective and maximizing revenue as a long-term objective . . . advancing its negotiating position at the expense of using best efforts to maximize total revenues for the joint benefit of the NFL and the Players."

The players, on the other hand, are asking for things like more money for those retired players who have not yet died tragic early deaths; no added regular season games; some health and safety measures and no additional free money for the owners.

You can argue the old millionaires vs. billionaires if you like, but with all the information coming out about the injuries the millionaires sustain, the nasty lives they lead after football and the short amount of time most of them actually spend in the NFL, it's clear who is sacrificing the most for the league.

Meanwhile the owners blah blah silver spoon blah blah old money blah blah corporate jets blah blah never visit their parents in the nursing home blah blah greedy.

If you still need convincing, the arguments against the owners have been stated nicely in several places, including poetically by The Washington Post's Sally Jenkins, hypothetically by ESPN's Bill Simmons, politically by author/blogger Dave Zirin and, um, profanely by Deadspin's Drew Magary.

One of my concerns with my baby now that he is rolling around more is that his movement range is expanding and we have to be more careful of where we put things. I always envision him rolling across the room and happening upon something like a pile of change left on a shelf we didn't think he could get to. If that happened it wouldn't take long for him to gobble up more than enough coin to buy a Slurpee. I'd pick him up and give him a shake and he'd sound just like a piggy bank. 

Funny — that's how the NFL owners sound too.

Follow me on Twitter @Sports_Andy

Ben Roethlisberger is NOT like my baby

                                           Obviously not Roethlisberger. The new champ, Aaron Rodgers.

Any parent can tell you about a not fun game we all play called "Is my baby breathing?"

It starts the moment the baby pops out as you wait for the lungs to fill with air and that first cry that lets you know the little guy gets the whole breathing thing. Hours later as exhaustion kicks in on that first night, most parents still have trouble falling asleep, fearing that if they take their eyes off that newborn for just one second he may forget about the whole breathing thing.

As far as I can tell, the fear never really stops. (Sorry this post is such a bummer so far. I blame Ben Roethlisberger.)

One of my favourite times to worry about choking out my baby is when I'm out walking with him strapped to my chest in our baby carrier. On Super Bowl Sunday I took him out for a pregame stroll. My baby usually likes to take in all of the scenery on these walks, only falling asleep after I cover his head with a hood like a falconer putting away his peregrine.

Feeling my baby warm against my chest is one of my favourite things in the world. I always ruin it, however, by imagining that I've put him in wrong or the straps are too tight and I'm slowly choking him out. Is he breathing? Is that him or me that's moving? Should I poke him? What if I fall and smush him? What if a wolf attacks? What if I cut off a nerve and his legs fall off. Oh my God I'm hyperventilating! Brown bag, breathe in, breathe out. For the love of God, somebody get me a beer!

Sorry again, I got carried away. That's what it's like to have a baby.

Eventually the kid shifts around in the carrier, sighs, or just wakes up and tells me to stop being such a puss.

Anyway, on to Ben Roethlisberger.

I thought of following my normal convention with the title of this post but if I actually finished the sentence "Ben Roethlisberger is like my . . . " I would either be immediately put in jail for child abuse or my son would grow up, read it and then come hunt me down and thrash me like a Boy Named Sue.

This all because of Big Ben's well-documented penchant for getting accused of sexual assault and other acts of general dirt-baggery. His misdeeds earned him a four-game suspension to start this season but he returned with a vengeance (for football opponents, not college girls), leading the Pittsburgh Steelers all the way to Sunday's Super Bowl. And as the Onion Sports Network pointed out, his team's success coupled with his string of no sexual assault charges for almost one year seemed to place him just one Super Bowl win away from earning a complete pardon for all of his sins.

But alas, Green Bay's defenders locked Big Ben in the proverbial gridiron bathroom and had their way with him while their buddies stood guard to keep Ben's friends from saving him. Ick — this post really is getting gross. Thanks a lot, Ben.

Anyway, Roethlisberger did get his comeuppance, throwing two interceptions — including one that was returned for a touchdown — and missing an easy touchdown pass before failing to finish off a late comeback attempt. With two Super Bowls already to his credit, Roethlisberger had the chance to cement his status as one of the best big-game quarterbacks ever and to further rebuild his image. Instead he opened the door to questions about whether it was his play that led Pittsburgh to their recent titles or whether he was just a good player blessed with a great team. In other words, he choked.

Let's sum up.

Big Ben: Former dirt bag who is either a reformed dirt bag or still a dirt bag but pretending not to be one; cost his team the Super Bowl; eye-opener; choker.

My baby: respects women; never lost a Super Bowl; can chew on own toes; not a choker. 

Photo Perry Knotts/NFL 

Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby

Super Bowl parties are like my baby

The Super Bowl is this weekend and so I thought I'd post a column I wrote a couple of years ago for the North Shore News about the different levels of parties there are surrounding the big game.

Sorry to those of you who read this blog solely to keep tabs on the wee Sports Baby himself (Hi Nana!), there's no baby info in the column. But here's a quick update: Sports Baby likes to party too. All day. Thankfully he doesn't rock and roll all night.

No, our little guy bangs out nighttime sleeps like a coal miner after 14 hours of hammer and 13 shots of Jack. But in the daytime he fights sleep like Captain Kirk (slowly) fights boulder throwing green hissing monsters.

We've tried everything to get him to nap: baby hypnotism, baby-strength valium, Matchbox 20 music (note to social services: we haven't actually tried any of those things. We're not monsters).

He just seems to be so darn curious with the world that he never gets tired of looking at stuff. Any suggestions in the comment section would be greatly appreciated (ridiculous ones only please — I don't want to hear any of that "start a routine and stick to it" crap).

Enjoy the game!

Some of the references in this article are a bit dated but I've chosen to leave them as is for the sake of posterity and to open old wounds for my friend Bone.

Don't be a super jerk at super party

North Shore News

Sunday, Feb. 1 2009

Andy Prest

Last year my friend Bone threw a Super Bowl party that was heavy on the party and light on the bowl.

For some odd reason Bone is a New England Patriots fan and so for the entire game he was glued to the TV trying to focus on the field while more and more revelers kibitzed, canoodled and keg-tapped just inches away from him. A miracle play by quarterback Eli Manning and receiver David Tyree gave the New York Giants the Super Bowl and, to the joy of everyone not named Bone, ruined New England's perfect season.

Bone's problem, aside from being a Patriots fan, was that he was on a different game-watching level than the people around him who were eating his cheesy poofs and spilling on his carpet. My recollection is hazy but Bone may have punched someone in the spleen.

With today being Super Sunday -- and with other big-ticket events like the Stanley Cup playoffs on the horizon -- it's time to review the different game-watching levels. If you're throwing a party, make sure everyone knows what level they should be on. If you're going to a party, try to gauge the level before you arrive -- nobody wants to be the only guy in full body paint.

Level 1: There's a game on?

This is the type of party where half the guests don't know or don't care that two teams are playing their hearts out for the chance to pour expensive champagne on a reporter. At some point in the evening the game could be pre-empted as two drunk girls the host has never met stumble through Willie Nelson's On the Road Again on Guitar Hero. If you are a die-hard fan, or a die-hard gambler with a C-note on the game, DO NOT go to this party -- it's 50/50 that you will stab someone in the neck with an especially pointy nacho. How do you like those odds?

Level 2: Family fun time

At this type of party lots of people are enjoying the game in a festive atmosphere with lots of food and root beer. Mom is in and out with trays of brownies, there are kids flying around and screaming and probably at least one dog eating candy corn off the floor and then barfing behind a plant. Dad is really into the game before he falls asleep with his head tilted back and mouth open.

Attend this party if you're into the game but don't mind missing some plays and not hearing the play-by-play all the time. The only time it will be completely quiet is at halftime when grandma makes everyone shut up so she can watch that dreamy Neil Diamond sing Forever in Blue Jeans.

Level 3: Down in front

When the game is on at this party, everybody is watching.

Don't go to this party if you can't go 15 minutes without blabbing about some crap like how convincing Clint Eastwood is as a racist bastard, how the new Greek place down the street tastes like every other Greek place, or how your third marriage is crumbling.

Conversation is not encouraged but if it occurs it is to talk about the game, make fun of John Madden, or to tease Bone about cheering for a team of big cheaters.

Level 4: Official apparel dress code strictly enforced

At this game there is no talking, only screaming, fist-shaking, wall-punching or, hopefully, high-fiving. In Vancouver you'll most likely find a party like this for a Canucks game. If you are not a die-hard fan these parties suck because the die-hards will scream at you if you block their view and are likely to kick a table, spilling vodka and coke all over your cat.

Plus, if the favoured team loses everyone will be bummed and the party dies a horrible death. If it's a Canucks party during an important game this is guaranteed to happen.

Those, sports fans, are the party levels. As the gamblers say, know your limit, stay within it. And for God's sake wake dad up, it's the fourth quarter and time to shine for Eli Manning.


Photo Getty
Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby

The Seattle Seahawks are like my baby

This post is about the Seattle Seahawks so you know it’s got to have something to do with poop.

Here’s a scenario that is both a little bit funny and a lot aggravating that I’m sure every parent has experienced. You change your baby, applauding the big poop you find, and then put on a fresh new diaper. Within minutes, sometimes even as you are lifting your baby off the change table, he lets go another monster dump to fill up his sparkling clean fresh diaper. I’ve christened this sequence the “double doodie.”

The Seattle Seahawks dropped a huge double doodie on the NFL this season.

When I moved to Vancouver I realized to my horror that the Seahawks are the “local team” because Seattle is a lovely three- to 11-hour drive away, depending on border wait times. The Seahawks are one of the most boring franchises in the NFL despite experiencing some success in recent years. My real introduction to the team came in 2007, my first year playing fantasy football. I drafted Seattle's Shaun Alexander, one year removed from an 1,880-yard, 27-touchdown MVP season, with the fourth overall pick. He then perfected his patented play, running one or two yards before turning his back and squatting down on the field the moment a defender came into contact with him. He eventually lost his starting job to the immortal Maurice Morris and finished the season with 716 yards and five touchdowns, crapping all over my fantasy season and fouling me on the Seahawks for good.

Since then the Seahawks have continued to emanate stinkiness, their only redeeming quality being an amazing home crowd that lifts them to wins over teams they have no business beating.

This season was worse than ever. The Seahawks crapped up and down the field all year, filling their proverbial diaper with nuggets such as a 17-point loss to St. Louis, the Rams’ first win following a 10-game losing streak; a 30-point loss to Oakland and a 34-point home loss to the Giants. They bumbled to a 7-9 record but somehow won the putrid NFC West division, becoming what many people believed was the worst team to ever make the NFL playoffs.

But oh, those playoffs — a fresh diaper, a chance to wipe the bum clean and perhaps make it all the way to the big bowl. For the Seahawks, however, the playoffs were just another chance to make a mess of things.

To be fair, what Seattle did in the playoffs was not a true double doodie. They pulled off an upset in the opening round, riding their crowd and an unseasonably good performance from quarterback Matt Hasselbeck to a win, eliminating the banged-up New Orleans Saints and their beloved quarterback Drew Brees, a caring father, charity participant and bully-hater.   

Seattle waited until game 2 to drop a bum rumbler on the playoffs, getting blown out by iffy No. 2-seed Chicago — a team that suffered some bad defeats of their own this year, including a home loss to the foul Seattle Seahawks. The Bears, 21^st in the league during the regular season with a 20.9 point-per-game average, scored 21 points in the first 20 minutes against Seattle, eventually extending their lead to 28-0. And just to smear their playoff doodie in their fans’ faces, Seattle mounted a pointless comeback after the game was long out of reach, scoring 21 points in the final 12 minutes to make the final 35-24. That’s just mean.

At least when my baby does double doodie it puts a great big grin on his face.

Photo Todd Rosenberg/NFL. 

Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby 

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