I hate fantasy sports. There I said it. Drives me crazy. Why? Cause every now and then I sit down to watch a Mets game and hope that John Maine pitches seven solid innings but allows three hits to my fantasy shortstop. I think this is a great example. I love the Mets. They’re my hometown team, my family loyalty. I don’t want that shortstop making contact, let alone getting me a good night’s worth of fantasy points. But heavy is the head that wears the crown. A situation like that is a serious dilemma—rooting for someone on another team is like cheating on my girlfriend. She may never find out—much as I doubt anyone would tell Willie Randolph that I’m playing Jorge Posada at catcher, but it would just make me feel dirty. God forbid it gets to my spot in the draft and the only good infielder I can get is Derek Jeter or Jimmy Rollins. I can’t stomach that kind of betrayal. Makes me nauseous.
