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Like most human men between the ages of 14 and 60, I play fantasy football. Year to year, my dedication fluctuates, depending on the competitiveness of my roster. My emotional investment skyrocketed this season, though, when I realized I had a real contender. Unfortunately, the dream of winning my first title, along with the majority of my self-worth, plummeted from the sky in heartbreaking fashion.
Our league, which is fucking huge, held this year’s draft at a cabin on a lake. Bomb-ass little spot where we spent Labor Day weekend combining a few of my favorite things: alcohol, bodies of water, jet skis, grilled meat, and football. It was glorious. The draft came at the end of the weekend to allow everyone to get all the binge drinking out of their system, which made it possible for everyone to sit through a four-hour, 14 (FOURTEEN) team draft without compulsively blacking out.
But this year, something different happened. One of the guys in the league brought a THC-pen, and things went downhill for yours truly very quickly. Now, I don’t really fuck with drugs — always been more of a “drink myself into oblivion” kind of guy. Furthermore, I’ve always thought of vape pens and all that shit as stuff for chubby dudes who wear fedoras to bars on Tuesdays and talk about the differences in taste between six-dollar wines. It was free, though, so of course I took a few obligatory puffs.
I woke up at four in the morning on a couch outside in the cold with very hazy memories of what had happened over the past eight hours. I remembered drafting DeMarco Murray in the first round (shit) and Randall Cobb in the second (shit x2), but that was about it. Whatever was in that pen had taken me to the moon and back. I was told later I tried to draft “Brady comma Tom” in like the 13th round. So, needless to say, I figured I was due for a season in the cellar.
But the fantasy gods are a funny bunch. In the middle of this marijuana-induced haze, I drafted a knight in shining armor. A knight named Cam Newton.
If you live anywhere other than under a rock, you know Cam has been an absolute monster this season. Week after week, game after game, ol’ Scameron anally berated whatever hapless defense stood in his way, and I reaped the bountiful benefits. It was incredible. My team was completely and totally saved by a gorgeous man with perfect teeth, a howitzer on his right shoulder, and the legs of an ostrich. I didn’t even remember drafting the man, and he had me in the playoffs. I owed my life to Cam Newton.
After getting out of the first round of the playoffs, Cam and I were on our way to the semifinals. That week Cam was, of course, glorious. He had 41 fantasy points in Week 15. 41 fucking points. The rest of my limpdick squad did nothing, as usual, and it all came down to a fateful Monday night decision. Down by one single point, I had to decide between playing DeMarco Murray or Ryan Mathews.
Now, putting yourself in the fate of a Chip Kelly offense is like leaving your kid home alone for a week: there’s just absolutely no telling what’s going to happen. Trusting in my top overall pick, I rolled the dice with DeMarco. He rewarded me with 0.3 points. Ryan Mathews, on the other hand, had 4.1. I ended up losing by 0.5 points.
Oh, and what did Cam do over those next two weeks? 435 passing yards, almost 100 yards rushing, and four total touchdowns.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shove a test tube of grain alcohol up my asshole and jump out of moving bus..