But bodies ache and games grow hard to come by. Instead, the competion turns to numbers and everything tangible about an intangible devotion. In fantasy sports, success on the field brings success to the fan. In many ways, it's the fully realized version of a fan connected to his team. So the fan watches, pulling both for team and player, finding happiness in all walks of sport.
And still, the same old feelings apply in this fantasy world ... acceptance, frustration, envy, greed. Ever fan knows that feeling, the one that secretly yearns for the top spot, the ESPN Sportscenter Showcase, the most attention. Then and only then, the whole nation is let in on your little secret. Your love is legitimized.
Over the past few years, with the St. Louis Cardinals in contention every year, I played this little game with the Sportscenter and Baseball Tonight producers. Would the Cardinals' thrashing of the lowly Royals even get a highlight? Would the world bear witness to Pujols power or Edmonds acrobatics? Would liking the Cardinals for 21 years, six months and 24 days pay off in the tiniest of ways?
With Darryl Kile as a pitching probable, ESPN was forced into showing at least one highlight. He was the Vlad Guerrero of pitchers, guaranteed to dazzle with an awkward brilliance. Vile Kile. Just as the best Expo can take a Little League hack and blast a ball 400 feet, Kile could make even the best hitters buckle at the knees. His was love at first sight of pitches ... you're just left stammering and hoping she didn't notice you break that Louisville Slugger over your knee.
When I squinted through the morning sun on June 23, after seeing my first roommate marry his high school sweetheart the night before, my journalistic eyes oogled the local paper. Above the fold, the headline and mug shot dragged my heart through the mud just like it had all Cardinal fans the day before. You can't explain such feelings, connections with no functional ties other than replica jerseys peppering our daily clothing. But we know, as we eat, sleep and drink baseball through this most glorious of inventions known as fantasy baseball, that explaining such things proves embarrassing.
As luck would have it, my mom bought tickets for the Sunday game. My first Cubs/Cardinals game, and no one knew if they would play it. We walked up the ramp during the National Anthem, into a ballpark barely containing the most fans I'd ever seen at a game. We sat and, amidst all the fans that make me hate the Cubs so thoroughly, I smiled a delayed smile at a lady outside the stadium who, seeing my Cardinal red in full display, said just moments before, "Sorry about your pitcher, hon."
As thoughts turn to pennant implications and the fantasy world returns to normal, it doesn't really matter to me that the Cardinals lost. They played without spark, with a lethargy all too real. They were lost, scratching lines in the dirt. I was lost, sent careening by a guy I never met. On that morning I found out, my knees buckled from Kile's last curveball. The connection between fantasy and reality was made one last time. Somewhere on the Sportscenter Showcase in heaven, they made the call.
"That's just VILE!"