I am a weather nerd. As a kid, I pretended I was covering severe weather from my bedroom (and sometimes the front yard in the middle of a monsoon). I learned about latitude and longitude tracking hurricanes, copying coordinates from The Weather Channel onto a photocopied map. In elementary school, I visited not one, but two of the local television meteorologists.
Storms frightened me and yet I was drawn to them. I swear I was destined to be a weatherman until I discovered how many calculus courses they have to take (College Algebra put a strain on this brain).
The 2005 Atlantic hurricane season remains the most active on record, with 28 tropical storms – so many that the list of names was exhausted, leading to six storms named for Greek letters, including one forming in December and another in January of 2006 – the latest on record. There were 15 hurricanes, 7 major hurricanes (Category Three or greater), and 4 Category Five hurricanes… all records. The strongest hurricane that season was also the strongest ever recorded in the Atlantic (and, no, it’s not the one you are thinking).
The first forecast models for Katrina predicted a weak hurricane brushing the Florida coast and turning off into the Atlantic. Instead, Katrina went through the peninsula and into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. And when it finally did make its northern turn, it was toward the Gulf Coast.
I hate Christmas shopping. Not because I’m bitterly opposed to the commercialization of the holidays. Not because I can’t fight for a bargain (one infamous Black Friday, I bobbed and weaved through a crowd at a now-defunct electronics store to physically lie atop a row of desktop computer boxes my dad needed for his office). In fact, I love surprising my loved ones with gifts that I know they’ll enjoy.
It’s just that sometimes those gifts are awful hard to find. Maybe I’m just not creative enough. Maybe I don’t have the gift of gifting. My aunt can find everyone in the family the perfect gift every single time, despite only talking to us a handful of times each year. Meanwhile, I’ve never known what to get her. A candle that smells like the ocean? Socks with jingle bells? A toaster?
When you don’t know what to get, hunting for gifts is painstaking, and usually fruitless. It was even worse for me when I lived in Arkansas and the nearest shopping destinations were over an hour away. So, one Christmas, I dug into the family traditions and revived something a fellow displaced relative began some seasons ago. In lieu of the perfect gift, I made a charitable donation in honor of that family member.
For the second straight year, my fantasy baseball team sprays fake champagne and lights up faux cigars in celebration of a fictitious trophy. It was a dominating year, until injuries threatened our championship hopes. But thanks to deft roster management, forsaking real friends and real responsibilities, we are again victorious.
And let us not forget Craig Gentry. You’ll likely never be relevant again, but in fantasy land, you were the perfect pickup for the final day of the season. Thanks for the stolen bases.
A special thank you to the real-life Twins and the Astros. Your horrendous lineups made stars of even my worst pitchers (when’s the last time Scott Kazmir won anybody anything?).
I’d like to thank my loving girlfriend, who has stood reluctantly beside me since before my first fantasy nerd blog post two years ago today (the blog post, I like to think, spurred my current winning streak). Without the use of her iPhone, my team might have never escaped the semifinal round. I still hope to enter my waiver claim one day, and have her join me in rotisserie bliss. She, meanwhile, tries to get me to play some Harry Potter game on the Internet. I tell her that I don’t have time for that fake stuff, at least not while I’m proposing trades to my nearest rivals, “The Flying Pancakes” and “Mr. Balls.”
Finally, as athletes are inclined to thanking the true God of the universe for their actual sporting victories, I express my deepest appreciation for the blessing of the Flying Spaghetti Monster – a fake deity fit for a pretend game.
The offseason begins tomorrow. Five-plus months to build meaningful relationships*, advance professionally**, and improve upon my draft strategy to ensure a 3-peat in 2014.
* – Thus gaining access to more smartphones for emergency roster updates (as I still reside in the dark ages with no data plan) ** – Earning more time away from work during the baseball months
It was early Sunday morning. I grabbed some raisin bread and a banana and sat down in front of the television. Nothing prepares me for church like listening to people bicker about politics. But instead of meeting the press, I stumbled upon a piece on CBS that sent me down memory lane to old warehouses and hotel conference rooms, digging through dingy cardboard boxes, looking for loot to add to the oversized green plastic box I stored my treasures in until I grew old enough to realize how silly it looked to carry with me.
Some were colorful and metallic, others clean and crisp. Some were cut with the precision of a laser, others embossed, others glossed. There were the Diamond Kings and the diamonds in the rough, but it took mining the entire field to find all of the gems. And if you were lucky, you’d find the one that came with a stick of chewing gum.