Fantasy and Drafting in Austin: Strange Rumblings in Austinland

The stage is set and the experts are ready to roll, ready to show how they make their bones. Ladd Biro is in charge and he sets the parameters: Seventeen rounds; one QB, two RBs, three WRs, one TE, one K, one DEF; it’ll be a points per reception (PPR) league.

Keep your eyes on your cheat sheets, fellas.

Now, it’s time to come out swinging and they’re off, scanning their cheat sheets and rankings. But Biro has put a twist in it by making the scoring PPR. The importance of WRs, TEs and the third down and change-of-pace RBs that are adept at catching balls out of the backfield have all now gone up. Players that under standard vanilla scoring would have little-to-no fantasy value suddenly become relevant as back-ups. Some back-ups now become serviceable starters. Way to play the wild card, Biro. That’s the spirit. Rattle the cages a bit. See who’s on top of their game and who’s incapable of adjusting their draft orders on the fly. See if you can befuddle some poor Joe into letting a choice player fall to you because of a miscalculation.

Sigmund Bloom, drafting out of the seventh position takes the first WR, Randy Moss, and starts a mini-run on wideouts, with the next two selectors snatching Larry Fitzgerald and Andre Johnson in response. Five WRs go in the second, four in the third, and three in the fourth round before Bloom’s compadre, Marc Faletti tabs Jason Witten as the first TE off the board with the forty-third overall pick. But distractions abound. Each round is announced by a bikini-clad hottie carrying  a laminated card, like the ring girl at a boxing match. It noticeably shakes some of the guys up as the draft goes on. Experts picking players that somebody else has already picked because they were focusing on the bronzed, perfectly sculpted forms of feminine pulchritude swaying in front of them; watching these nubile young goddesses with the same sort of frenzied longing in their eyes that someone in the midst of an asthma attack has for their metered-dose inhaler dangling just out of reach. Here are the complete draft listings. I’ll let you judge the effects on higher cognitive functioning and judgment the bikini girls had.

About half of the panel picked a player that was already gone. Faletti was the worst offender. I counted two miscues, but he was far from alone. Some were accusing Sigmund Bloom of being distracted for picking six players with injury histories: Brian Westbrook, Reggie Bush, Antonio Bryant, Matt Schaub, Kellen Winslow and Kevin Curtis. He defended his selections as having high production when healthy and his usual M.O. is to constantly work the waiver wire for available players with a hot hand to get his team through the injury down times. That’s a rational proposition. But I think he was focusing on the hotties, and justifiably so. Without his glasses, Bloom kind of looks like the 1-800-Free Credit Report.com guy. If there’s one thing that can impress your typical toned, tanned swimwear model, it’s meeting a TV commercial celebrity. I think that’s what killed Billy Mays. He was only two years older than me. We both experienced the crazy disco 70′s firsthand. When I heard the famed pitchman died with cocaine residue in his system, I did the math: Fame, bigger-than-life-personality, a little Peruvian marching powder. You don’t need a calculator to solve for x. The whole tragic mess reeked of partying with swimwear models. May he rest in peace. But Bloom is a young guy, in the prime of life. His ticker can handle the jet-set party-all-night lifestyle that those brazen chicas live. If I was his age, I’d be playing my cards the same way. “Hey, I’m the guy from TV. You know I’m not really married to some deadbeat and living in her parents’ basement. Yeah, that was all scripted. And I don’t really drive a used subcompact. Any of you beautiful young ladies want to help me get ready for my next commercial? It’s for Victoria’s Secret.” If you can’t abuse your body with non-stop hedonism and debauchery when you’re young, when can you? The hottest nightspots with the pulsing music and DJs spinning mad tunes never heard of an AARP discount. Carpe diem, boys, carpe diem; That’s all I’m saying.

As the draft winds down, the bikini girls go on strike. The draft has dragged on a little long and they’re getting ready for a swimwear modeling competition. One of the male members of the festival staff stands in for them carrying the laminated card. The speed of player selection picks up dramatically. A.J. Hoffman, a local sports radio personality picks Mr. Irrelevant: Neil Rackers, kicker, Arizona.

The panel gets up and starts making their way out in a noticeable hurry. They’ve been up there for a little over two hours, drinking water, no bathroom break. It makes me want to ask my doctor for a Flomax prescription, just thinking about it. I head for the main entrance to the hall, looking around for the little Diet Coke kid. I don’t see him. But I do see what looks like a foamy, tacky residue on the floor by the motorcycle customization booth. I never heard a commotion like an EMS team entering the hall. No news is good news, I guess.

Installment One

Installment Two

Appendix

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