I am, quite possibly, the laziest blogger in Buffalo. Today, I sat down with the intent to freshen up my site for the first time in four months. I haven’t had anything to write, haven’t had the motivation. I was going to put down a few thousand words about the Phillies and my conflicting feelings about them being buyers or sellers over the next week, stuff none of you would have given two shits about. As always when I go to post anything new, though, I started with the roster page that hadn’t been altered since the first week of January.
While going through to remove the dozens of players no longer with us and adding dozens more, it made me think. Now, any of you that have been to training camp at St. John Fisher know that it’s often a complete pain in the ass when you’re out watching drills and haven’t the slightest clue who’s out there making plays in this jersey or that. For this purpose, most people snag a program for two bucks on the way in that is about twice the size of a newspaper and more cumbersome than anything you could imagine. There’s a lot of decent info in these, mostly providing something for the kids to get signed at the end of practice, but on one page there is a column of just the roster card and that’s what a lot of folks grab these for.
The problem with it, again, is that it flies all over the place, doesn’t fit in your pocket and oftentimes isn’t even accurate. They print these things just prior to camp and don’t make new ones until the next summer, so if any signings, number changes, or cuts occur, you’re in the dark. That’s why I started putting a roster page on my site – not for you cretins, for my personal use.
That same roster card that I was updating this morning will be pulled up on my phone for the next few weeks while I watch #35 take the ball up the middle, sidestep a tackle from #49, and scoot past #30 for the hustle ‘score’ even after the whistle blows. So, looking at it this morning, it got me thinking about those moments at training camp. Parking at a highschool and riding a dirty, overcrowded school bus (I don’t know why they ever cut ties with the RTS service) for what feels like forever to get off at Fisher in sweltering heat.
Having to walk through the air-conditioned promotion building and the team store before being allowed back onto the boiling pavement, then walking towards the heavily overpriced concessions to find out that it’s all ridiculous and you’ll be just fine. Heading over to the bleachers, which are stuffed, then the next set, which are packed, and the last, which have a seat or two way up in the corner next to some screaming kids right under the sun. Sure, you sit there for two minutes, then the drills change to the other end of the field. You’ll walk the length of the field to the next practice area, stand against the fence, and take it in for a bit. You’ll take it in, ask your friends “did you see that!?” and “who the hell’s wearing twenty..one? 24? no, 21” and then the drill’s done. Still an hour left of camp, though, and you can’t breathe. Time to lose your stubbornness and go drop four dollars on a Gatorade that you’ll murder before you even make it back to the fence.
Training camp’s just a part of it. The thoughts of all that had me look back at photos from the past few years of tailgate parties, shots from the stands, and man-cave gatherings. There are photos of a bunch of grown men wearing the costumes of their favorite players, standing around in the sun and snow alike. There are photos of conga lines and hugs while on a bleacher bench in the Rockpile. Of beers and arguments in a basement filled with TVs and fantasy talk. FANTASY. Jesus, people that don’t know really don’t know. Fantasy football is a beast unlike any other. I’ve run a league for eight years and all any of us in it do when we’re around eachother is talk about it. We talk trades, pickups, and stats. We debate the rules. We talk shit. That league, starting this year, has a championship belt. A championship belt! I mean, come on, you can’t get much better than that. I used to date a girl who loved to tell me that “Sundays are for football. The rest of the week is mine.”
There’s a reason that I used to date a girl.
You see, friends, Sunday is a holiday. One of great splendor and, like all other American holidays, one with a week-long hangover. Football is an every day affair. You can watch live games five days of any given week and spend the remaining pointless time adjusting your lineups, reading locker room comments, watching highlights, and discussing it all at the office, with the family, or on the almighty Twittermachine.
The lull has come and thankfully, nearly passed. We’re only a few days away from six-plus months of daily football coverage. Are you ready? I think you can tell, I sure as hell am.
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