Fantasy football only waters down Couch Slouch’s diet soda

Editor’s note: Every two years, we are required to publish a Couch Slouch rant about fantasy football. We don’t like it any more than you do, but it is our contractual obligation. The Spokesman-Review regrets the inconvenience.

Life is short, and then it’s over. In the meantime, each autumn’s 17 regular-season NFL Sundays – in which I go to the home of a friend, who has eight televisions and eight DirecTV receivers in one Rozellian Utopia of a den – provide a spiritual peace that hopefully can sustain me until I meet my maker (who, given my luck, will be Ed Hochuli).

We sit there, bloated capitalists buried in video abundance, delighting in the very decadence that drives fundamentalists to denounce us.

(Frankly, if Shannon Sharpe doesn’t get al Queda all riled up, I don’t know what does.)

Alas, work sometimes forces me out of town and out of sorts. I lose my private nirvana and am thrown into the general population (which – how to say? – is not fit for general consumption.)

So there I was, on Week 1, in an uptown Manhattan sports bar surrounded by New York’s finest collection of fantasy fanatics.

To be sure, some of the patrons were rooting for their favorite team and others had office-pool interests or a bet or two down. But far too many had on their general managers’ hats, their beer-soaked eyes trained solely on touchdowns, interceptions and sacks.

Fantasy football is a reality train wreck.

The Redskins beat the Dolphins in overtime, 16-13, but the loudest bar cheer of the game came when Washington’s Shawn Springs recovered a fumble with 9:58 left in the first half.

The Steelers routed the Browns, 34-7, but long after the game was decided, three Einsteins to my right were high-fiving an Ike Taylor interception with 2:44 remaining.

To my left was a thirtysomething fella in a Bears jersey and a Cubs cap. He had a yellow legal pad, a bunch of printouts and a cell phone with bad reception, which he used to frequently update a buddy – not on the scores of games but on various players’ fantasy feats.

I was worn out by halftime and I hadn’t even heard a single Kevin Harlan “THE-SKY-IS- FALLING-WATCH-OUT -DOWN-BELOW” call of an 18-yard pass play.

(College interlude: The sublime Colt Brennan, the Heisman winner-in-waiting, completed 43 of 61 passes for 548 yards and four touchdowns against a fired up, physical Louisiana Tech defense as Hawaii won in overtime, 45-44. He’s completed 77 of 101 passes this season. Brennan’s more accurate than Doppler radar.)

For those who indulge in it – and the numbers are mind-boggling, almost fantastical, if you will – fantasy football is the most perverse of sporting pleasures. You no longer root for or against teams, you care not who wins or loses. The final score is incidental; all that matters is statistical debris, signifying nothing.

For the NFL’s money, fantasy football is the greatest invention since, well, real football.

The confluence of the NFL, television and gambling created the most powerful force in U.S. sports history. And now, fantasy football is, effectively, the betting line squared.

With the betting line, people keep watching games even after the outcome is decided to see which team beats the point spread. With fantasy football, people keep watching even after the point spread is decided because every touchdown, turnover and tackle for a loss counts.

It’s still gambling, thinly veiled, disguised as a parlor game. It works wildly, and as I sat there glumly Sunday with a watery Diet Coke in hand, I realized there was nothing I could do about it.

I mean, for all I know, the guy with the clipboard and the Cutty Sark shouting at the TV screen in front of him could be running the Lions someday.

Anyway, they say, “If you can’t beat them, join them.” I can’t beat ‘em, but as Hank Stram in heaven knows, I can’t join ‘em, either. I’d rather be chained to the bedpost in a Days Inn watching an MLS game on a 13-inch black-and- white TV.

Ask The Slouch

Q. Doesn’t Peyton Manning just get on your last nerve with all his pre-snap antics? (Donald Nash; Seattle)

A. I saw him in IHOP last week changing his order before the waitress had even finished writing down his first one.

Q. Any concerns about having chosen Wife III in the same time frame while selecting PBR as beer-for-life and the Arizona Cardinals as Team of Destiny? (John Stewart; Manassas, Va.)

A. What, that’s not a hatful of winners? I stand by my team, my beer and my dame.

Q. I’ve got Major League Baseball’s first “green” policy: Share needles. (David Just; Champaign, Ill.)

A. I hate to go Alex Trebek on you, but you need to resubmit your otherwise fine entry in the form of a question.

Q. How good is Roger Federer? (Christa Romano; Baytown, Texas)

A. If he made ice cream, he could beat Ben and Jerry.