The Futility Infielder

In the baseball website racket, keeping a fantasy team is as much obligation as hobby. Gotta have a side to wear the corporate colors, after all, and some poor middle infielder to jettison after a losing streak. And lest you get the idea that you're the smartest guy on the block, a sorry-assed roster full of slow first basemen with bad hammies, sore-armed third starters, and disgraced former closers will remind you otherwise in a big hurry. When all else fails you can spend a column bitching about it. Not that I've had to, of course. With a first-place and a second-place finish in the past two years, I am clearly MENSA material.

Or else the only one paying attention. I spent my recent years in the Homer Bush League (ESPN) competing against near-total strangers in almost deafening silence -- my Mendoza Line Drivers last completed a trade in 2000. So for some human interaction this season, I accepted an invite to join a league with the writers of several other sites (including At Home Plate, @theballpark, Elephants in Oakland, Historical Baseball, Jim and Bob's Palatial Baseball Site, and The Southpaw). For ballast, we've got a couple of my long-lost college pals along as much for their trash-talking skills as for their ball-talking. Since they're both functionally illiterate moral degenerates, I can freely slander them in this space. But I'll hand it to those boys for bringing two of the league's better names into the fold: Rick Burleson's Army and Morgan's Porno Stash (the owner has it on good authority that Joe is a big fan of skin mags).

Before this year, I'd never done a live draft, and this is also the first time I've played with a full-MLB player pool (or with a full deck, for that matter). I'm well-versed in ranking all of the players at a single position in a single league until the Cal Pickerings come home, but ask me to estimate the value of a good closer relative to a good slugging third baseman and you might need a mirror to tell if I'm still breathing. I spent the weekend leading up to the draft arming myself with data, and I ignored most of it except when it supported my gut instincts. Forty-five mintues before the first pick, I was outside playing catch. Suffice it to say I didn't overthink the situation; it was like telling Shawon Dunston not to worry about the strike zone. I was hacktastic.

It didn't help that I drew the 12th draft spot, meaning I had two picks in a row (last of one round and first in the next). When you draft like that and then have to wait 23 picks until your next shot, you spend more time indulging in witty banter than serious research. How many snappy comebacks does a guy need for drafting C.C. Sabathia in the 13th round? And why should it burn a Sox fan's red ass (that would be Rooster Boy) if I pick Jose Contreras in the 19th? Jeff Kent -- now there's a porno 'stache.

When the smoke cleared late Monday, this was my roster:

C Jorge Posada
1B Jason Giambi (1st pick at #12)
2B Roberto Alomar (a relatively late pick)
3B Eric Chavez
SS Jose Hernandez (Cooooooooooors)
OF Gary Sheffield (hate the player, love his game)
OF Ken Griffey Jr. (another sleeper I couldn't bypass)
OF Jermaine Dye
CI Robin Ventura
MI Jerry Hairston Jr. (hate him, but I have the need for speed)
Util/Bench: Jose Cruz Jr., Bobby Kielty, Aubrey Huff, Kevin Mench

SP Roy Oswalt, Roy Halladay, Javier Vasquez, Tomo Okha, C.C. Sabathia, Andy Pettitte, Jose Contreras (Like Steinbrenner, I couldn't resist a 7-man rotation when I saw Contreras still available)
RP Troy Percival, Franklyn German

I'm short a second catcher, wagering on German to win the Detroit closer job, heavy on corner infielders, outfielders and Yankees, and light on speed. I've got a few big OLD question marks, particularly Alomar and Griffey, and Oswalt makes me more nervous than a #1 starter should (hence the stockpiling). But I feel good about my squad. I know they'd run through a wall for me just to kick some Rooster Ass. As the Futilitarians say: bring it on!