My name is Cameron, and I have a problem. I am addicted to fantasy sports.
I don’t care what it is… rugby league, rugby union, cricket or AFL. And I know nothing about AFL. But the temptation is just too great.
Each year is the same. The ads start popping up on my phone. Websites hit me with a barrage of invitations to sign up. Juicy prizes, the chance to challenge my mates, all just a few clicks away.
I tell myself to look away, to ignore their siren calls. You’ve made this mistake before, I say in my head, don’t do it to yourself. I know it is bad for me. I know the effect it has on my life, my family, my ability to get a decent night’s sleep. But still I hear the call. And go to it I must.
Foolishly, I still think I can control it. I’ll only log on once a week, I promise myself. I’ll check the scores, make my trades, and get on with my life. But who am I kidding? Good intentions are consistently outmuscled by my competitive instincts. I shakily enter my details, choose my team name, and there it is before my very eyes, the greatest sight a fantasy sports addict has ever seen – the blank team sheet!
A beautiful field of dreams. At this time of year the possibilities are endless. This team could be anything. I scour the list of players for my perfect combination. A few big stars. A handful of honest toilers. And a smattering of young kids I am willing to take a punt on.
My salary cap is invariably blown far too early. Some superstars have to give up their spots, but this only creates more angst. Can I have Corey Parker and Paul Gallen in the same backrow? Corey gets the chop, and this hurts my Bronco heart. But there is no room for sympathy in this game. Too many good backrowers in Brisbane, Corey’s game time could get hurt, Gal gets the nod. And a little piece of this Queenslander dies.
Finally, I settle on my 22. It looks stunning. There is no way anyone can compete with this team. The prize is mine. More importantly, though, bragging rights for the year are what I’m after. Or more specifically, to avoid hearing the bragging of others. I will fight for this title. It will be mine. The final decision is to bestow upon one player the honour of captaining my championship winning team, at least for Round 1. And then I am done.
Newspapers begin to fill with articles about must-have team inclusions. I try to flick past them, but my eyes are drawn. The list includes players I have passed over, others I haven’t considered, and all of a sudden I am back to the drawing board, determined to squeeze Shaun Fensom in there somewhere. But it’s no use, I can’t balance the books. Objects near the computer that aren’t tied down are thrown at walls in frustration. I make myself log off before things get really ugly. And the season hasn’t even started yet.
I know I won’t be a nice person to be around for the next seven months. But there’s nothing I can do. It has a hold on me. Once meaningless games will now be matters of life and death. Quality time with family and friends will be sacrificed for one more look at my reserves bench.
I could apologise in advance, but it won’t make it any better. I’m an addict… and I don’t want to be cured. Now, how much to get Greg Inglis into fullback?
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