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NOTES FROM A KEEPER
 THE UNEDIFYING UPS AND DAMNABLE DOWNS OF A FANTASY KEEPER LEAGUER
by Michael E Lawrence
13/7/2007
It’s draft day, and it doesn’t get any bigger.
Today, after weeks of preparation, I’ll be picking up 7 new players to add to my 8-strong squad. In the first round alone the Prophets are picking third and seventh overall, thanks to some natty trades by yours truly.
Romo is antsy again:
“We’re set at one position – right Coach?” he says, fumbling a beaker of water to the floor. Today of all days I don’t need him turning all Woody Allen on me. Anyway, he’s right, we are set at quarterback.
We’ve got Leinart.
It’s the running backs that need to start worrying. The three of them have been flailing about like the Three Stooges all off-season.
Kevin’s in a walking boot. Ronnie’s in the doghouse. Lendale’s in a food court somewhere. Only roster limitations keep me from signing up Abbot and Costello.
But, as Yoda once said to Coach Obi Wan: “There is another.”
Welcome to Holybourne, Marshawn Lynch.
Calvin Johnson and Adrian Peterson will go one and two today, but at three, the magic number, Lynch – gold teeth, dreads and starting gig in a one back offense – will add zing and timing to an otherwise slapstick backfield.
Romo is pleased to hear it:
“G-g-g-good idea boss,” he stutters, elbowing a lamp off my desk. I tell him to get the dust-pan and brush for God’s sake: I’m thinking.
With Lynch at three, we could turn the other three first round picks we’ve got the next two years into a veteran runner who scores as often as Keith Richards. At that rate Lendale could be free to sort the sandwiches and put the bunting up. He likes bunting. And sandwiches.
Imagine the sons et lumieres! Leinart handing off to Lynch and, say, Brian Westbrook, whoosh! Or launching downfield to Lee Evans and little Stevie Wonder Smith, bang!
“But coach – the restraining order, the bad back, Anthony Thomas…” offers Romo, searching the broom cupboard, waxing on Lynch, trying to sully the moment.
“Pish posh!” says I, lost in the reverie, holding the trophy, accepting the accolades, thanking my agent. “Pish posh!”
***************
In all honesty, even Leinart’s been worrying me a bit.
Since moving up into the top of round three to draft him a year ago, his greatest achievements have been a perfectly executed 56 yard bomb to Bryant Johnson in week 14, and dating frisky it girls Paris Hilton and Britney Spears. He knows that, for a football player, this kind of thing is unacceptable.
You just don’t throw 56 yard bombs to Johnson when Larry Fitzgerald is wide open.
There’s no doubt he’s got an air about him: when Leinart enters the room, wilting flowers straighten and songbirds land on the window ledges. When he releases the ball, it sighs through the air, leaving a Bisto trail of heady cologne in its wake. Sure, he’s got a noodle for an arm, but with Anquan Boldin’s RAC ability, nobody’s complaining.
But it’s those Broadway Joe-esque cheek bones that bother me. He’s a little too cocksure. Whenever he’s in the office, he stands like Reiker off Star Trek, elbow leaning suavely on the leg he invariably hoiks up onto the upholstery of the nearest chair.
Knowing this, I play it chummy like Picard occasionally does.
“Matt, this needs to be the year you step up – you’ve got to get focused,” I say.
In credit to him, he looks out the window, considering my admonition deeply.
That or he’s checking out his own reflection in the glass.
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