Mark St. Amant

Fantasy Man-Crush Index

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It's So Hard To Say Goodbye

Tuesday, July 28, 2009


Hi. We have to talk. I . . . I don't know how to say this -- this is harder for me than it is for you -- so I'll just say it:

(Long, dramatic sigh)

We need to take a break. I just need to be alone for a while. I need some space. Things are moving a little too fast. You gave me gonorrhea. Okay, I lied about that last one. (I don't care how clever a hacker you are, it's damn near impossible to send someone an STD via email.) But, still, I'm breaking up with you. Because, sadly -- for me, anyway (you might disagree) -- this is my last MCI column of the season.

I never planned to bail on you before October. Honestly. But sometimes, life throws you a Beckett-esque power curveball and, to quote Gunny Highway, you have to adapt, improvise, overcome. And while my exit strategy from Rotoworld might be worse than Vietnam, Iraq and Caruso-leaving-NYPD Blue combined, right now, adapting means moving my family to lovely Boulder, Colorado and starting a great new job. Meaning, unfortunately, I'll have to ditch some of the things that, believe it or not, take up ungodly amounts of time that I no longer have . . . like this column, fun though it is.

Hey, come on, now -- don't cry. And put that tiny, razor sharp lobster fork and male genitalia-sized shell cracker thing down. I don't like that crazy look in your eye, the same one Left Eye had when she burned Andre Rison's house down, and Erin Andrews has every morning when she boots up her laptop and sees the latest "Here's another site we missed. Oops!" email from her attorneys. (I know, big whoop, Erin Andrews naked – call me when they have John Clayton spycam hotel room footage! See? We still think alike. Practically finish each other's sentences. That's what I love about us. But this still has to end.)

This doesn't mean I don't love you. I do love you . . . but I'm just not in love with you. I don't want to get too serious and jeopardize our friendship. It's not you, it's me.

Okay, well, it is kinda you, now that I think of it. You have been a little needier lately than when I first met you four months ago. So many players you need to know about every single week. AL. NL. Mixed. 5x5. 7x7. Head-to-head. Rotisserie. Keepers. Salary dumps. Minor league prospects. I mean, did you seriously demand -- on July 12th no less, before the 2009 season was even half finished – that I list ten thorough and distinct reasons why Washington's 2009 5th round pick (#142 overall) Miguel Pena will or won't make it to the Majors by 2013? And remember when you got all angry after I decided that this email wasn't on the "rush to answer" list, and you emailed again and again, calling me filthy names because I hadn't yet addressed your selfish, personal needs, even though I'd answered literally hundreds of other more time-sensitive emails? (True story.) That was fun.

And by fun I mean DeNiro-in-"The Fan"-ish. But I will treasure the sepia tone, Old West-style novelty photo we got at the carnival that one time. You looked so funny in that Wyatt Earp outfit!

More importantly, I'm leaving you because you're a savvy bunch of fantasy sports readers who (A) deserve weekly articles that are thorough, well-researched and well–written, and (B) can sniff out when someone's mailing it in. Which I've never done, mind you. (Well, except for that one time I was too busy on my job search and paid a local homeless guy $10 to answer some emails – sorry to all the people who, based on his replies, may have outright dropped Jose Reyes, sent UNICEF envelopes filled with spare change, or been offended by his incoherent, white supremacist ranting.) But, due to recent circumstances, I can no longer give you the attention you need and deserve.

You're too good for me right now. You deserve better.

(Crickets)

(Crickets)

(Crickets)



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For two seasons, Mark St. Amant was the fantasy football writer for the New York Times.com. He is also the author of Committed: Confessions of a Fantasy Football Junkie and Just Kick It: Tales of an Underdog, Over-Age, Out-of-Place Semi-Pro Football Player, and has written for New York Times, Boston Globe Magazine and Salon.com.
Email :Mark St. Amant



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