The Bowling League

Sunday, August 31, 2008

Fenway!


Saturday, August 02, 2008

The Heart of Fantasy Darkness


Maud Achiever had been captaining the steam boat up the Congo River (or a PBR boat up the Nung River if you prefer the movie) for the last three weeks. Treehorn had been remarkably successful with his fantasy team and had won respect and revere from the natives. The station captain (or Army general if, again, you prefer the movie), however, assured Maud that he had reached his breaking point, that his methods had become unsound.
"When you find Treehorn, infiltrate his team by whatever means available and terminate Treehorn's command. He's out there managing without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable fantasy baseball conduct. And he is still in the dugout commanding players."
"Terminate Treehorn?"
"Terminate with extreme prejudice."

From the river she could see his office where the computer was housed. Around the office were posts with bulbous objects atop. Human heads? No. Autographed baseballs. He has gone mad!

A lanky European named Marvin was waiting on the beach and jumped aboard as the boat reached shore.
“You’re here for him, aren’t you?”
“I need to talk to Treehorn.”
“Hey man, you don’t talk to Treehorn, you listen to him!”

That first night Maud crept up the stairs to Treehorn’s office. Through the crack in his door she could see the glow of Stattracker and heard the tapping of keys on the computer. As she approached, she saw that he had just traded Chad Billingsley for Mark Teixeira. But he had a huge lead in HRs and RBI, while vulnerable in quality starts and Ks per nine. He had a chance to catch the leader in Ks, the leader who he had just traded Billingsley to. Mad. He was mad (or at least insanely over confident in his recent spot starting success).

“Are you a fantasy baseball owner?”
“I’m a baseball fan.”
“You’re neither. You're an errand girl, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill. I've seen horrors, er, I mean homers…homers that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a fanatic. You have a right to stop me. You have a right to do that...but you have no right to judge me. I’ve seen C.C. Sabathia crawl along the edge of a strait razor…and survive! I’ve seen Josh Hamilton jog his way around the bases. And I thought: My God... the genius of that. The genius. The ability to do that. Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. We must beat them. We must incinerate them. Night after night. Team after team. Owner after owner. League after league.”

The next night Maud slipped out from the bedroom to the kitchen, grabbed the butcher knife, and creped back up the stairs to his office. The scent of decaying pizza and stale beer was overwhelming. Terrifying chants of baseball announcers hummed in the background. He was sick, but she couldn’t wait for him to self-destruct. She lunged at the computer with her knife. Sparks flew, beer flowed over the keyboard, and the screen flickered, then died.
When the computer putter out, so too did Treehorn who lay motionless on the rug clutching his mouse. With his last breath he whispered, “The horror…the horror.”