A cool autumn air brings us back to that time. That time of innocence. You’ve got your bright blue and yellow 90’s style puffy winter jacket on already. The sun is out yet the sky is still gray and cloudy. More of a full overcast type of sky, but you think back and it just feels like the sky was blue even though it wasn’t. You’re in the back of a tractor trailer going on a haunted hay ride. Apple Cider from Patterson’s Fruit Farm, bobbing for apples, and corn maizes. Then you get a threatening text about checking your mail if certain players perform well in fantasy football and you snap back to reality. Sometimes FF brings out the worst in us. It abuses us and yet we can’t get away. Kind of like Stockholm Syndrome: We’re captive to this league and yet we all want to see it thrive and us thrive along side it. It drives us to send threatening texts, sue one another, and even shoves eternal optimists into the pits of despair. We’re haunted by this league, yet we are obsessed with it. Regardless of the harm that it may cause, we still look forward to the challenge that it poses like a challenge that comes every 27 years… Let’s dive in.
Oh, Beverly.. Oh, sweet, sweet, Beverly. You’re still daddy’s little girl, aren’t you? I want you all to meet my “Beverly”, Hurts Donuts. I’ll sit your pretty little ass in that chair, douse you in your dead mothers perfume, tell you it was your fault, and then bring you in for a warm embrace. I hate you. I love you. I am everything wrong, but you still need me, and that makes it right. Forged by the flames of rivalry. Iron sharpens iron. A massive win this week propels you into the final playoff spot, a spot that is likely safe given the protection that the trade deadline gives you… But it’s Halloween, and like the scripture written in stone, the so aptly placed trade deadline falls on our dark princes birthday week, you cannot avoid what is to come. You can’t kill the clown…
You’re mother. You’re insufferable mother. Everyone made fun of you because you were spellbound to her every word. Now look at you… All out of Goon. One little phone call set you off and now all of your friends are getting together for a reunion while you slit your wrists in the tub. The Gooners once atop the leagues standings have fallen into a 2 game skid and losers of 3 of their last 4. Safely in position for the playoffs, they know they are on full tilt and unable to make any last gasp moves. Not a good look getting blown out by a team that was just 1 game back of you. Don’t worry though, you have AR5. Nobody is afraid any more.
Haunted by the memory of what happened to your brother, you carry the weight of your laziness and indecision for years. For whatever reason, your charisma and leadership has everyone gathering around you. You’re thrusted into a position of leadership because of an emotional cocktail containing sympathy and admirability. You were down, but not out. Gordon’s Last Joint pulled off an astounding win over the ebony slayer. Puka might save your season and you might be the one to be no longer be afraid. At the end of the day, the boogeyman is just a scared clown with a scared and small beating heart.
Your parents died in a fire and nobody really liked you because, well, you didn’t look the same as everyone else. You were saved when a group of kids nearly stabbed you to death behind your grandparents store, but you never returned the favor and saved them. You called them and invited them back home to help you fight your own battles and it got some of them killed. You were too late to pay the fiddler and your season has imploded, you freak. Toxic Trades is dead. Slain and laid to rest. In the ground next to your fried parents.
We weren’t going to talk about it? Well, let’s talk about it. Every group needs a Henry Bowers. You love taking fat people, pinning them against a rail, and carving your initials into their abdomen. You’re also a fan of tough love. The tough love your father gave you. The very same tough love you give #1 draft picks when you golf with them. You’re insane, demented, and have psychopathic tendencies that eventually consume you. Because you’re so clinically insane, nothing ever really phases you, even when you go stabbed in the bathroom and jumped out the window. You don’t feel anything. You take your bumps and bruises and are spared any emotional or physical pain. You win again this week to keep your playoff hopes alive, but you NEED to find consistency. You’ve been exchanging wins for losses every week since week 3.
Last, but not least. Once hailed the king. I finally got to take my shot, and I did not miss, and I won’t miss here either.. Oh, Benny boy. All those sit-ups, all that money, all that success, you’re still just a fatty, fat, great big, fat boy!!! She chooses Bill you hopeless romantic. Even when you found yourself drowning in a pit of sand, and she saves you, you still couldn’t land the kiss when you fall on top of her and you let Richie die. Everything you thought you knew has come into question. The very fabric of your team was tested, and failed. Dubbed the eternal optimist, the voice of reason, you look in the mirror and a wave of fear brushes over you like a strong gust of wind. You take two, no, three, stumbles backwards until you run into the bathroom door and are stopped. Mouth agape, your hands start to tremble. You can’t take your eyes off the reflection looking back at you in the mirror. You can’t even muster the words to call for help. Lee Ann calls your name but there’s no answer. She nervously rushes up the stairs and open the bathroom door. You’re still. Seemingly frozen in time. She looks up ahead into the mirror to bear witness to the same image that you see. A blood curdling shriek fills your homes hallow walls as she faints and falls to the ground. You’re unfazed. Your eyes have not moved and you can’t blink. The shaky breath that leaves your mouth begins to subside as you realize… You are the clown….