That was my first thought when I woke up this morning and found out that my fantasy football franchise — better known to all of you as The Compton Honkies — had had undeniable defeat snatched from the waiting jaws of all-but-certain victory while I was sleeping.
I awoke to a text from my arch-nemesis, one Peter Lawrence, who was the esteemed benefactor of my loss. His words shook me from a dream in which I was undoubtedly on the verge of making love to something. It was then that I knew. I f**kin’ knew. Because from the moment I had gone to sleep just a few hours prior, I was afraid something like this might happen. And as soon as I heard my phone give me the text beep, I knew it was over. Only one person texts me that early in the morning. And sadly, that person is the fellow you see to your right.
Before we get to exactly what happened, we need to go back in time to Sunday evening, when all was right with the world and The Compton Honkies were winners. Here’s how it all went down…
It was a chilly evening. Blustery, even. There was snow in the forecast and the air was brisk, like a nice Lipton Iced Tea.
In my finest Sunday evening attire, I gazed at the laptop screen in front of me. “Ha Ha Ha!” I laughed. My team was winning. The score was 91-89 and we were on the verge of defeating the evil Peter Lawrence. It was a glorious day indeed, for The Compton Honkies were my pride and joy, the product of years of strategy and determination.
Brimming with exuberance, I consoled my fallen foe through the medium of Facebook. “Good show, old chap,” I intimated. “Bully performance, really. Top-notch!” The evil Peter Lawrence responded with hatred and venom as he glowered across the virtual expanse. I could sense his anger and feared for all the kittens that would likely receive the brunt of the villain’s frustration. Children, as well. And puppies.
Flush with my own good fortune, I removed my robe made of velvet and silk, extinguished my pipe, let down my monocle, then massaged my aching muscles — made sore by all the weights I had been lifting throughout the day as I worked towards my goal of being strong enough to rescue all the joeys orphaned by their kangaroo mothers the world around — before snuggling into bed and falling asleep.
These dreams would be sweet, I thought to myself. Little did I know…
Most of that synopsis is fairly accurate.
Anyways, I woke up to Pete’s text, grabbed my phone, and opened the message:
Raiders DEF = Epic overnight fail
I put the phone down. I readied myself for the day, which generally involves lying there for a few minutes, rehashing how crazy my dreams were, then rising before stumbling into the bathroom.
My team had lost. I didn’t know how they lost, but I knew they had lost. It was regrettable. I sighed, then sneered at myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s always good to let yourself know you’re both alive and awake with a few faces in the mirror each morning.
I turned on the shower as curiosity started to overwhelm me. What the hell had happened that had caused my team to lose? And what did the Raiders usually-stout defense have to do with it? (That last sentence sounds like a joke. It is not. The Raiders D has been solid this year.)
I doused myself in warm water and pondered the potential epic fails that could have besieged the Raiders’ defense. Was it possible to lose points for an ejection, I thought. If so, maybe Richard Seymour’s early departure for punching Ben Roethlisberger in the face had led to my demise. If that was it, I figured I could deal with the loss. Watching Ben get clocked was a victory for all humankind.
I turned off the faucet and toweled off. I made a move for the laptop before I was even dry. The moment was now. I needed my questions answered.
I pulled up our league home page (the Pearce Fantasy League home page, in fact). I opened the box score. I scanned the page. I had lost by five points.
Five points? What? WHAT?! How did I go from winning by two to losing by five? How is that even possible? A seven-point swing? A seven-f**king-point swing?!
Who’s doing the math over there at ESPN, huh? Monkeys? How do you miss by seven points? That’s like sexting everyone in your cell phone by accident. It just doesn’t happen.
I was at a loss. The defeat I could handle. The means of my defeat were much harder to accept. ESPN had failed like no one else had ever failed before. If you’ve never partaken in fantasy football (and you really should, if you haven’t) you simply cannot comprehend the madness of a seven-point scoring error. And if you’re a fantasy football aficianado like I am, you know this is bad. Like watching Rex and Rob Ryan walk in unannounced on a holiday smorgasbord that you happen to be hosting.
Epic fail, ESPN. Epic, epic fail.
Never have I been so epic fail traumatized as I was this morning. I was epic fail bitch-slapped. It was an epic fail pillaging.
The unprecedented seven-point swing. Like a full-on sack-groping at the hands of TSA, I never saw this coming.