Fantasy football is anything but.
Worrying is about as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The things to worry about in life will blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. A great philosopher said that. Actually it was the guy from that “Wear sunscreen” song. He has never played fantasy football.
It was an idle Saturday. Soccer Saturday happily buzzed on the telly. Jeff and the lads were getting down to business. The relaxed air of the first couple of hours had wound down. Mission control was ready for launch. Paul Merson had dispensed his perils of wisdom (“It’s important not to sit on your laurels”), Matt Le Tissier was sticking up for Edin Dzeko, Phil Thompson was saying “sort of” before every sentence and Charlie Nicholas was manfully battling a cold.
The teams were coming in. Jeff was giving them out like a military roll-call. Then it happened. Laurent Koscielny had to pull out of Arsenal’s game at home to Aston Villa after suffering a knee-injury in the warm-up. It barely even qualified as news given Arsenal’s new strategy of defending and the fact they were playing a team in Aston Villa that must surely rank as the most pointless in the Premier League.
But it threw a week’s worth of calculations out. Laurent was down as a lock for a clean sheet for the Ringers. His defensive partner Thomas Vermaelen was signed during the week based on the same clean sheet reasoning and the fact he may be good for a goal. Antonio Valencia’s return to form for Manchester United coupled with his cheap price meant he had to be signed and because two signings meant a docking of four points, Koscielny’s clean sheet would pay for it.
Things were heating up in my work league. My seemingly unassailable lead had vanished in the last couple of weeks and King Kenny FC had taken the lead. Worse still, Bayer Neverlusen had taken second place from me. Once I was smug king of the workplace, now I was endlessly ribbed as Ringers slumped. It like I’d been offered the England job.
The ramifications of the Koscielny injury were calculated before Jeff said something about the Aston Villa side; they were playing with eleven men or something. Then I realised perhaps fantasy football was ruining my enjoyment of the real thing. What the hell should I care that Koscielny was out? Why should I subject myself to watching Newcastle play West Brom and wince every time the Baggies come near Newcastle’s goal for fear that Danny Simpson might concede a goal.
Ah Danny, the perennial back-up. The eager kid on the bench who wants to do well, I imagine myself sometimes in the middle of my chosen fifteen. I say nothing to Hilario who knows he’s there to fulfil the quota of goalkeepers. Danny is bubbly, jumping around saying pick me, but he knows Assou-Ekotto will get the call because he is good for an assist. I put an arm around Danny and assure him he will get a game soon. “You’re home to Villa soon Danny son; I’m relying on you then”
Tony Hibbert stares vacantly at me as he’s shunned to the bench again. I try to explain that going away to Swansea is tough, the chances of a clean-sheet or even Moyes picking him is slim. He gets picked and Everton win 2-0 of course. Six points in the bag, he shuffles up one seat on the bench as Danny goes in and flickers a menacing smile as Laurent lays stretched out on his former seat.
Royston Drenthe is the wildcard. I picked him up a couple of weeks ago as Everton had a double week and I felt he was coming into form. He bounces from the starting eleven to every seat on the bench; he’s either a red card or a thirty yard screamer, nothing in between.
Robin Van Persie is the star. The captain. I daren’t take the armband away from him. The one week I did, he got so pissed he scored a hat-trick at Stamford Bridge. If Arsenal are away to Mordor, Robin is captain.
I worry about him though and my other studs. I see little exclamation marks emerge over the head of David Silva from time to time. I sit him down and ask him what’s up. “I’m doubtful” is all he says, I can’t decide if this is a physical or mental problem and Roberto Mancini can’t either. If he keeps subbing Silva after seventy minutes than I may have to have another conversation with him. You’re doubtful alright David.
We are entering “Weaky bum time” as Ya-Ya Toure said during the week. I signed Ya-Ya after the African Cup of Nations. A good price for a good player, but it didn’t work out, this is a numbers game and he wasn’t giving me any. He hit a thirty yard screamer on Saturday and yes, a little part of me wondered was he pointing at me when he celebrated. Drenthe was up clapping when it went in. Hibbert just flashed that serial killer grin he must have learned from Moyes. I’d get rid of him if I wasn’t so scared of him.
Eight games left, I have dropped to third in a league I was winning for four months. As you can see I am walking that thin line between reality and fantasy and worried about how it will all end up. Worrying is about as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. Fergie chews a lot of gum.
I’ve given up on reality; I’ll meet it again in eight weeks. I have to go now, Laurent has just limped past with a red exclamation point over his head and there’s been a goal in the Newcastle game.
Come on, Danny lad.
