Not long ago, when catching up with an old friend, I had an epiphany. We had known each other since third grade, and, me being a Patriots fan, I had always tried ever so hard to indoctrinate him with the New England Gospel: Belichick is infallible, Brady is untouchable. But he never caught on. Until recently, apparently.
As we chatted, trying to think of old memories and fill in the gaps between then and now, he brought up his new interest in football. And in the Patriots, no less. I was delighted, knowing that now we could have something legitimate to talk about, instead of standard clichéd questions. And so we talked about last year’s Super Bowl, about Deflategate, about New England’s quick start to the season, about Brady’s dominance and on and on. But soon dread crept into my delight—my friend’s football was not my football. My friend’s football was fantasy.
I realized quickly that he had been wooed in by the sweet-sounding sirens of fantasy football. And it was not, I will point out, the websites like DraftKings and FanDuel that have come under scrutiny for doling out cash prizes. This was the simple fantasy football that I grew up with, the innocent and well-intentioned fun that gave my Sundays so much more meaning. But recently I was lucky enough to escape its grasp and never look back.
This is my problem with fantasy football: it has sucked out the game and the competition and replaced it with a reservoir of numbers. For years under fantasy football’s spell, I couldn’t get enough of football because nearly every game had some connection to my fantasy team. And it was my team; I took ownership of it. It was something that in a way proved my football knowledge. On Sundays, from 1 p.m. until 11:30 p.m., there was always some player somewhere whose catch or touchdown or interception or fumble had value to me. Plays in the game became a kind of currency. I remember following games online to focus only on one player, and any time his name popped up as making a play, my heart would flutter. Four points for me. Any time a play was made without him, I didn’t care.
For as long as I can remember, I have watched Patriots games with only the mindset of winning. The intensity with which I followed each game has been driven by that sole purpose. But for some years, I lost my way. The sirens called me closer. Soon Randy Moss’s catches meant not a secured victory for New England, but rather more points for my fantasy squad. If Tom Brady threw an interception, my first thought was not, “How can New England’s defense make sure this doesn’t hurt them?” It was, “Adrian Peterson better have a good game to make up for these points I just lost.”
That is a problem. When we look at football as a bunch of random players connected only through their value to ourselves, we lose what football really is. It should not be a game of players. It should be a game of teams. And those teams compete. The teams are not here to provide us with a place to get more fantasy points. They are here to show us the true meaning of competition, the struggle and agony and hustle and joy that makes winning so euphoric and losing so unbearable. Football is not a game of numbers. It is a game of passion.
Okay, you may say, forget that schmaltzy pontificating about higher morals and seeing the game as an art. We are beyond that. Fantasy football is part of the game. We can still see the competition, but we have just something added to it. It makes watching on Sundays more fun.
I do not disagree. I am not holier than thou. I think fantasy football is a lot of fun. And I think it is one of the top reasons (if not the top reason) why the NFL is king. But to let you know why I no longer play it, let me turn back to my friend.
Our talk about football truly had nothing to do with football. It was about individuals. It was about numbers. It was about predictions. We discussed at length (while I tried to mask my scowl) whom we would take with the first pick in our fantasy drafts. Which player would be the biggest wild card. Which would be the biggest disappointment. How best we would configure our rosters to get the most out of it. And the entire time, I was thinking, “Who cares?”
Fantasy football is ephemeral. It is nothing. No matter which players I pick or how well my team does, I can create a brand new team next year and start all over again. And no matter how well my team does, I lose connection to the game. My fantasy team may be the Boston Broncos (that has never been my team name, but you get my point), but it is not a team. It is a list. A random group of players tied together by nothing but my own decisions.
Growing up surrounded by New York Giants fans, I needed the Patriots. They mattered to me. They were an insular group that defined me. My loyalty to them created an almost tribal identity—their losses were my losses, their victories my victories. I shared a common bond with the team, and all of New England, that ran so deep that I could not comprehend, couldn’t even imagine, breaking it. And the dichotomy between the Patriots and the Giants strengthened that bond. It provided more passion, more will to win, than any isolated fantasy team could. That passion generated by competition and supreme loyalty is the essence of football.
For my friend, he could have no such deeply-rooted identity to his fantasy team. Yes, he put it together, and yes, its success reflected his knowledge of football (although that could also be debated), but his wins and losses were based on a scattered group of individuals. When there is no nucleus to pull him in, no bond to cling to through all the joy and defeat, he watches without heart. He watches an empty skeleton of football that carries weightless value. His wins turn to dust; his losses leave no scars.
Fantasy football is like fast food. It is good, it is cheap and it fulfills a quick need. But it is also empty. It is also a waste. It ruins the mastery of real football, and it leaves the fan passionless and still starving. The actual game is what makes football great. And so I have escaped the sirens of fantasy football. I am now back to where I have always belonged, in the heart wrenching throes of the game.
