Columnist Tim Graham: Former roto hater takes the plunge

Tim Graham

Thursday, April 1, 1999 | 10:13 a.m.

Tim Graham's column appears Thursday. Hisis media notebook appears Wednesday. Reach him at tim@lasvegassun.com or 259-4078.

I have become one of the things I despise most in life.

No, I have not joined the Ku Klux Klan. I have not entered the Nation of Islam.

I have not taken up the fine art of disseminating soft-core pornography handbills on the Strip.

What I have done, some might say, is even more reprehensible.

I have become a full-fledged roto geek.

That's right. I am a pathetic, numbers-crunching rotisserie baseball savant.

Four thousand three hundred twenty-seven minutes to Opening Day. Five minutes to Wapner.

For those not attuned with such frivolity, rotisserie baseball -- more commonly called fantasy baseball -- is a useless endeavor in which a group of us with way too much time on our hands get together and, usually after paying an entry fee, draft a roster of major leaguers. We then compete against one another based on our statistical outputs.

The attraction, which I never grasped before, is the thrill of competition. I get to pretend I'm the manager of my own little all-star team. We might be playing for money, but managerial bragging rights are the grandest of prizes.

Sounds pretty juvenile, doesn't it?

In other words, even worse than those overbearing Little League coaches, I get my kicks living through the performances of a bunch of ballplayers I don't even know.

Yeah. Definitely Ken Griffey Jr.

I don't really have a favorite team anymore. I have favorite players -- my players. I check the box scores and the injury list before I even think about looking at the standings.

Sportscaster: "The Cleveland Indians shut out the New York Yankees today for their 57th straight victory."

Me: "How many hits did Jorge Posada have?"

Rotisserie baseball can be pretty dangerous. It's like the marijuana of fantasy sports. It's the starter drug that gets you hooked into more serious stuff. I know because I've experienced the rapid descent into the depths of vicarious athletics.

It all started three years ago with the innocent, intra-office home run derby. "What could it hurt?" I thought to myself. "This isn't anything I can't handle." Well, I've had to stop writing this column three times to get draft updates on this year's derby.

But my big mistake was experimenting with Internet leagues. Oh, how that ESPN.com site tempts me with its dozens of choices. Now I'm in seven leagues of various sorts.

It's gotten so bad I recently joined the NASCAR Challenge for a fix of something I hadn't had yet. I drafted Jeff Gordon with my first pick.

He's an excellent driver.

Even though I've fallen prey to fantasy sports I have not become blind to their evils. I still see how they can ruin a man.

I'm totally convinced one of my fellow Sun sportswriters, far more addicted than I, will die of a rotisserie-induced ulcer. He talks about obscure stats like WHIP (walks and hits per innings pitched) nonstop. At times I want to reach across the desk and slap him around.

But then I remind myself I'm in just as deep.

And I start to bang my forehead with the palm of my hand.