Making the Nut in New York City: American Dispatch Number 3
“Excuse me sir but are you Elvis Costello?”
Well, hot damn honey, not the last time I checked my passport. And that is a strange and somewhat perverted question to receive on a warm New York night at a place called the Village Pourhouse, somewhere around West 10th. Wearing a fresh white fedora, snakeskin boots and the Henry Kissinger horn-rimmed specials, the woman who claimed to be “from Philadelphia on business” could make a case. But it was a tenuous one at best and would not have stood up to a lot of scrutiny.
Having mumbled something along the lines of no ma’am, she seemed undeterred.
“Well, let me just ask you this. Are you a gambling man? Because I myself quite enjoy a wager. I also enjoy the musical stylings of Elvis Costello, particularly the Attractions days, but that is neither here nor there. The point is this: I have had what we from Philly call a small interest on whether or not you are indeed Elvis Costello and being a gambler, I’d like to collect. Would you mind at all posing for a photograph and perhaps signing this here napkin, under the guise of Elvis Costello, of course”.
That was reasonably tough to digest. It is not easy for one to prepare for such random accusations and requests, particularly when Robbie, the bartender from Georgia, had been preparing the finest frozen margaritas this side of the Rio Grande. Heavy conversations on Georgia Bulldogs football and the Southern Mentality don’t prepare you for accusations of being some form of talented musical type and then, upon humbly admitting you are nothing more than an Australian wordsmith in pursuit of the American sports dream, being asked to pose to settle some heavy wagering, which is supposedly a fairly popular sport out Philadelphia way.
But this has happened before. Despite being thrown off kilter by this open handed whack to the earhole, the old instincts kicked in. Hell, my run as Mick Molloy had served me well. It is rare you get the kind of adulation a well renowned comedian gets in the sports writing game and knocking back free beverages would certainly be high on my list of what some call hobbies and others call addictions. And I would sure hate to have let down a fellow traveler, a gambler trying to make a quid. Particularly a gambler from Philadelphia, a town whose wretched sporting teams would surely have had her flirting with wild ideas to pay off large bookmaking debts at some point or another.
The photo was taken, the Costello cool on display. A few words were penned, punctuated with an unreadable scribble. Ye Gods, who knows where the night would have ended had enduring professionalism not been one of my few redeeming qualities. There were some doubts as to whether she actually believed I wasn’t Elvis Costello. But I was keen to get back to discussions of the SEC and the shots of tequila being lined up from one end of the Pourhouse front bar to the other. The ever accommodating Robbie sure knew how to put on a party.
Somewhere around daylight it was back to the Hotel Metro for some bagels, whiskey and early morning television. The violent hangover was still a few hours away and though the vomiting would be bad, it was still being held at bay. The cheers were loud when Arliss was found. They were even louder when the main theme turned out to be fantasy baseball.
For those unfamiliar with the fine program, Arliss is the story of a sports agent. In this particular episode, watched through a somewhat hazy blur of jet lag and Mexican alcohol, Arliss and his sidekick whose name escapes me had a National League only fantasy league. Running second, the sidekick traded their ace pitcher for a hitter to the two-time defending champion, much to the disgust of Arliss. The pitcher happened to be a real life client of Arliss. Arliss proceeded to trade the ace hurler to the American League in real life- “if you are traded to the American League you are as good as good as dead in this league”- and thus, took the trophy.
It then dawned on me, a revelation of truth. Shining through the smoggy Manhattan air, the epiphany hit. I had found the core of the American dream. The nut had been made on a wiry Tuesday morning after too much tequila and what many consider a bad American sitcom.
Fantasy. Reshaping reality. Make it understandable, pleasurable. Exclude the negatives. Give yourself control. In a world that is becoming more complex and confusing by the minute, a fantasy world can be a welcomed sanctuary. There are rules and boundaries and everything is all very clear. In an era when sporting fans are becoming increasingly detached from their teams and the athletes who represent them, an inevitable reaction to Big Money in sports, they are deriving their enjoyment from sports in a different way. In an era of technology, interactivity is key. Whereas previous generations got their kicks from supporting their local teams, these days the gig is controlling your own team.
And that is it. Fantasy sports. There are as many ads on American television advertising fantasy leagues as there are local teams. Fantasy heroes like Maurice Jones-Drew and Mike Alsott have their own adulatory commercials. Nearly every sporting publication has put out a fantasy football preview for the upcoming season. Keith Olbermann recently relayed a story of trying to push through a fantasy baseball trade during a commercial of Sportscenter back in the late nineties. The catch: Olbermann was hosting the show. Punters are more inclined to check their fantasy stats before checking the actual league standings. Running yards, three point percentage and WHIP average are all of a sudden just as important to the masses as the final game scores.
Which suits your traveling wordsmith just fine. He handles fantasy sports better than most. I have a sharp eye for talent and a keen ability to decipher the true meaning of numbers. And when I truly understand a particular sport, well, only a run of wretched luck or a dose of bad karma would see me beaten. I certainly don’t get outsmarted or outworked. That is an arrogant statement that is sure to have some ramifications but so what? Hell, back in the day I would have taken Jarrod Anderson and been mocked but I would have been right. He would have been value and only those who get it would know that.
This winter has bought nothing but success to the stable of Tedeschi fantasy sports. The mighty Geurie Greens are into the grand final and await an opponent. Led by the incomparable Steven Price, loathed in reality but revered for his ability to compile an impressive array of statistics and the winner of the 2007 Friend Medal for the most dominant player in the competition, the Greens have peaked at the right time. Ando may have quit the Roosters but he continues on as a Green and in the hearts and minds of all true rugby league fans. Geurie hammered the courageous and very now Silverton Shrews in the Major Preliminary Final before causing severe internal bleeding to the loathed Yenda Yuans in the Major Semi Final. A score of over 700 was recorded- a number those in the fantasy game revere as rather large– and a Grand Final berth was at hand. The Greens marched through like Giants, stomping the doubters and violently teaching lessons to those with a loose tongue and no balls. One more victory and the cash and eternal glory will reside where it was destined to.
The FAFL is going along just as swimmingly. This, of course, is the premier fantasy AFL league in Australia. AFL isn’t my game and the slight nuances of the sport are not my strength. But so what? I understand fantasy sports and that was enough to see my Glenrowan Green Goats finish third after the regular season. That caused some angst from teams below who figured they knew a lot more and certainly had care on their side- which is probably true but hardly important because they failed to account for the sixth sense and thirst for research us gamblers have. That is why they are generally regarded as bums. Never underestimate a champion.
The gambling instincts really kick in when you throw down and you soon realise fantasy sports are nothing more than sanctified wagering, more acceptable than betting the totals for some perverted reason that I am sure some whore to high-minded morals will be able to explain in great clarity. Work hard, get the edge, and fleece the marks.
We have just traveled a long and winding road and there is the very real possibility that the point has not only been lost but that some weird words were written and those with a low tolerance for weird may be tripping out worse than an acid head on Splash Mountain. So here it is, one line that sums up three pages: we are in the throes of changing times…sports viewing will never be the same…technology and detachment are two words that will long mark the era…interactivity now rules the world…and so do us gamblers…fantasy sports are the dream and the future…are you ready for it?
And that is, with little doubt, that. It was more than one line but my nerves are frazzled and my ability to edit was left somewhere in the Windy Streets of Chicago.