Being the fantasy football coach of the Shiloh Hogs is agonizing. Only gluttons for punishment willingly choose the role, and even then they come to realize that fantasy coaching is more an addiction than friendly competition among friends.
The fantasy football sites promise to make you feel like a real coach, but they’re just blowing smoke. You can’t chew out your fantasy wide receiver that drops a certain touchdown pass without a defensive corner in sight. You can’t celebrate with your starting tailback when he hits the A-gap in high gear and doesn’t stop until he reaches the end zone, seventy-five yards later. That’s because one of his linemen got caught holding. There are no high fives to dole out when your quarterback reaches twenty-five fantasy points for an afternoon’s work. Some other coach on TV is hogging up the credit. There’s nobody to blame except the man in the bathroom mirror when your kicker sends his 20-yard field goal attempt wide right, when three lousy points would have given you a win. If life isn’t fair, then fantasy football coaching is the poster child for all of life’s inequities.
In fantasy football, there are no team owners offering seven-figure coaching contracts. Fifty-three man rosters are pipe dreams. Game time decisions involve choosing between two rookie cast-offs and a guy who may or may not have recovered from a pulled hamstring. Players who break-out are always sitting on your bench. You can’t throw a challenge flag and the refs ignore your pleas for a time-out, no matter how loud you scream at your TV. Inevitably, your star player suffers a concussion four minutes before game time, when the chance for substituting has expired. Nine out of twelve opponents in your league will have their best performance playing your team. The tenth opponent beats you with only Peyton Manning in her line-up. She drafted Peyton because she thought he was cute. Nobody feels your pain. In fact, your best friends revel in it.
Every fantasy football coach has a hard luck story. I’ve got two. In 2012, I thought I made the playoff after the last game of the season, only to have some NFL scorer change the stats two days later and send me packing. Last year, despite my team’s mediocre 7-6 record, I found my way to the league Super Bowl. At the end of Sunday’s games in Week 16, my opponent led 118-117 with no players remaining. San Francisco played on Monday night and Vernon Davis, fourth among tight ends in 2013, was my starting tight end. I was pumped. I was psyched, and then Vernon laid a goose egg that Monday night and I cried myself to sleep on the living room couch. I vowed right then and there that I was done with fantasy football. That was January.
This is August. I’m an addict, and Antonio Gates is the Shiloh Hog’s new tight end!
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A TRIBUTE TO PETER FRANKLIN
[My son-in-law, Peter C. Franklin lost his battle with cancer on August 8th, 2014. This is the longer version of remarks I gave at his memorial service]
I did not wear a suit to this evening’s memorial in solidarity with Peter. I believe in the hereafter, and in my version Peter is wearing a Batman tee-shirt and a pair of shorts, the latter because he no longer has to be embarrassed about wearing compression socks. I wanted to wear a Batman tee-shirt tonight, but it was impossible to find one in my extra-large size. There were a smattering of mediums, but the majority of shirts were small. I think there’s a lesson to be learned from my search: superheroes like Peter only come in small sizes!
Don’t let all the talk about superheroes fool you. Peter Franklin was also a world-class intellectual, but the thing that set Peter apart in my mind was the fact that he was one of the humblest individuals I’ve ever met. Brilliance and humility don’t frequently go hand in hand. With Peter, they did. The guy didn’t have a single conceited bone in his body. The world has lost a true gem.
Peter became my son the first time I met him, not because my daughter, Abby had already told me how crazy about him she was, but because I saw something in the way he looked at her that set my mind at ease. It wasn’t a starry-eyed gaze, a fawning facade or the fake expression of somebody trying to make a good impression. In fact, I’m quite certain he didn’t realize I was watching. What I observed was a young man interested in what my daughter had to say, curious about what she thought, unafraid to challenge her opinions or argue for his own, but not overbearing or disrespectful. Peter exuded a humble confidence that the world is in such short supply of these days, and I could tell by the way Peter and Abby spoke that they valued one another in a way that good people should. Sometimes, you just know that two people are right for each other. I know I did, and I gained a son because of it. Now, he’s gone, and I have to admit there’s a big hole in my heart.
It’s a testament to Peter’s diverse interests there are so many things in my daily life that remind me of Peter. Whenever I see somebody wearing a superhero tee-shirt, I think of Peter. If I hear about Toronto’s crazy mayor or the Comic-Con Convention, I think about Peter. Whenever I pass the classics section in a bookstore, Peter’s face comes to mind. I even think about him in the supermarket. There’s a case in the vegetarian section where black bean vegetarian burgers are kept. Peter once assured me that those burgers were very tasty, and I assured him that there was not enough ketchup in the world for me to eat one!
A few days ago, I was writing at the desk in my den when my gaze fell upon the bronze paperweight that Abby and Peter gave out at their wedding last year. The paperweight bears an inscription from a line written by the poet, E. E. Cummings – “Love is the voice under all silences.” As I pondered that inscription, it occurred to me that while Peter’s physical voice has been silenced, the voice behind his love has never been louder. If you allow yourself, you can hear that voice, you can feel it, you can be warmed by it, and it will comfort you for as long as you live!
I did not wear a suit to this evening’s memorial in solidarity with Peter. I believe in the hereafter, and in my version Peter is wearing a Batman tee-shirt and a pair of shorts, the latter because he no longer has to be embarrassed about wearing compression socks. I wanted to wear a Batman tee-shirt tonight, but it was impossible to find one in my extra-large size. There were a smattering of mediums, but the majority of shirts were small. I think there’s a lesson to be learned from my search: superheroes like Peter only come in small sizes!
Don’t let all the talk about superheroes fool you. Peter Franklin was also a world-class intellectual, but the thing that set Peter apart in my mind was the fact that he was one of the humblest individuals I’ve ever met. Brilliance and humility don’t frequently go hand in hand. With Peter, they did. The guy didn’t have a single conceited bone in his body. The world has lost a true gem.
Peter became my son the first time I met him, not because my daughter, Abby had already told me how crazy about him she was, but because I saw something in the way he looked at her that set my mind at ease. It wasn’t a starry-eyed gaze, a fawning facade or the fake expression of somebody trying to make a good impression. In fact, I’m quite certain he didn’t realize I was watching. What I observed was a young man interested in what my daughter had to say, curious about what she thought, unafraid to challenge her opinions or argue for his own, but not overbearing or disrespectful. Peter exuded a humble confidence that the world is in such short supply of these days, and I could tell by the way Peter and Abby spoke that they valued one another in a way that good people should. Sometimes, you just know that two people are right for each other. I know I did, and I gained a son because of it. Now, he’s gone, and I have to admit there’s a big hole in my heart.
It’s a testament to Peter’s diverse interests there are so many things in my daily life that remind me of Peter. Whenever I see somebody wearing a superhero tee-shirt, I think of Peter. If I hear about Toronto’s crazy mayor or the Comic-Con Convention, I think about Peter. Whenever I pass the classics section in a bookstore, Peter’s face comes to mind. I even think about him in the supermarket. There’s a case in the vegetarian section where black bean vegetarian burgers are kept. Peter once assured me that those burgers were very tasty, and I assured him that there was not enough ketchup in the world for me to eat one!
A few days ago, I was writing at the desk in my den when my gaze fell upon the bronze paperweight that Abby and Peter gave out at their wedding last year. The paperweight bears an inscription from a line written by the poet, E. E. Cummings – “Love is the voice under all silences.” As I pondered that inscription, it occurred to me that while Peter’s physical voice has been silenced, the voice behind his love has never been louder. If you allow yourself, you can hear that voice, you can feel it, you can be warmed by it, and it will comfort you for as long as you live!
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