A Different (And Bizarre) Kind of Fantasy Baseball

That's why I get it in 'til the sun rise
Doin' 90 in a 65
Windows rolled down screamin' "Ah!"
Hey-ey-ey, I'm so paid.

- Akon

A few weeks ago, I was approached by a pair of partners at a high-powered New York law firm to draft their fantasy baseball team for them. They had heard of my fantasy prowess from a mutual friend and had scheduling conflicts with the draft date and wondered if I might be available to run their team on draft day. Ordinarily, it doesn't take much arm-twisting to get me to draft a fantasy baseball team; I am a three-time champion and three-time runner-up in my six year-old 12-team rotisserie league, after all. But, this draft is different. This league is different. We're talking about a 17-team auction draft. We're talking about a draft that could take twelve hours. On a Saturday. In an office.

Lumbergh's gonna have me come in on Saturday, I just know it.

Originally, this plan was pitched to me as a networking opportunity, being as I am, in fact, looking for a high-paying full-time job. Networking is nice, yes, but 12 hours! And unfamiliar rules in a format I've never played before? That's gonna come at a price. I'm no fly-by-night fantasy ride. I put serious work into this. Let's try this again.

"You won't have to pay in to the $550 league fee, and it'll be fun!" Uh huh.

"We'll give you 10% of the pot. Last year's winner won $3800." Keep talking.

"All right, what's it worth to you?" Well, I might have to take a day off of work (at the time, not a lie). How about you pay me a flat fee for the draft prep and the draft day work, plus the 10%.

Boom. $200 in my pocket.

The next step was meeting one of the co-owners and the person who founded the league to explain how everything will go down. We met this past Monday for lunch at a Midtown tavern. Me, two lawyers who make more taking a leak than I make all week, and serious fantasy baseball. In retrospect, I'm just a cheap $200 whore. Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.

In any case, it was immediately clear that the bossman (we'll call him Lumbergh, after the aforementioned "Office Space" character) knew absolutely nothing about fantasy baseball. Very nice guy, late 50's, Mets fan, but fantasy baseball savant he is not. That's okay, that's why he hired me. The founder of the league (we'll call him The Thin Man, because, well, he's thin) has been doing rotisserie baseball in an auction format for 25 years. He won last year. He knows what he's doing, but he approaches fantasy baseball with all of the joy of a doctor cupping a pair of testicles and asking for a cough. Out come the charts and the graphs and the droll, soul-sucking description of how exhilarating it's all going to be. Thanks, Thin Man. Let's get together for a discussion of the ancient Roman tax code next week!

After the meeting, Lumbergh walks me to an ATM and handed me a wad of bills I didn't even bother to count. All I know is it's four days later I haven't had to go to my own ATM. He then took me up to the offices of the firm, which occupy several floors of a very tall building. He showed me the conference room where the draft will go down on March 28th. Food and beverage will be provided. Oh, one more thing! There are no breaks. The Thin Man advises me that most teams have two representatives on draft day so that one or the other can use a restroom instead of the diaper I will apparently be using. Fortunately, my good brother Adam has volunteered to assist me on draft day, and at least let me relieve myself like an able-bodied human being.

Like any good office meeting, we adjourned by establishing when our next meeting will be: March 23rd. For lunch, of course.