Welcome To Mr. Rourke's Fantasy Diamond

His name is Henderson Alvarez. Not familiar with him? Ha, you're an amateur. Although, to tell you the truth, I was unaware of Henderson Alvarez's existence 48 hours ago, but since then we've bonded quite tightly, Henderson and I, and let me tell you, the pleasure has been all mine. Henderson Alvarez happens to be a baseball player, a professional, Major League baseball player, a starting pitcher for the Toronto Blue Jays (yes, folks, Toronto has a major league franchise, since 1977), and while Henderson might not end up being a Cy Young hurler any day, or even a piece of meat the New York Yankees ever covet, he is mine, and in the future I might just look back and call him a tipping point in my life--whether he ends up tipping me to glory or to a 12-Step Group remains to be seen. But what a ride it's gonna be!

Back in late March I wrote about a momentous decision I had to make: dog sit for friends for a few days, or join my first ever fantasy baseball league. Although seemingly unrelated, the two choices were for me an either/or proposition. I chose fantasy baseball, a diversion whose temptation I had resisted for more than twenty years, mainly because I don't trust my obsessive tendencies. Well, six weeks into the baseball season (it wasn't until the third week that I finally figured out how the points system works in fantasy baseball), I believe I am now officially obsessed, and the realization came last night when, after three minutes of intense research on ESPN's website led to my putting a guy named Danny Espinoza (a fine young man, I'm sure) on waivers and claiming the esteemed but obscure Henderson Alvarez off the scrap heap that is the free agent pool, for ten minutes I sweated and palpitated over each one of Alvarez's third inning pitches against the Minnesota Twins brought to me via ESPN's wonderful Gamecast service. I'm mad, I thought, loco, as Henderson might say, round the bend, straitjacket-eligible, Kurtz-up-the-river, whatever--but Praise Bill Veeck, it felt wonderful. Wonderful even moreso when my boy Henderson got out of the third with minimal damage and went on to hurl seven solid innings and pick up the win. His WHIP could have been better, and I would have liked another coupla K's, but Espinoza for Alvarez is looking pretty AOK right now. I'm hooked, happier than Charlie the Tuna could ever be in similar circumstances.

I named my team the Cellar Dwellers, insurance, I thought, in case the obsession never happened and I allowed my team to founder in the Big Sky League with scant concern. I like the name even more, now that I'm committed (vs. I've been committed, which might be the case by the All-Star Break) and watching my team steadily climb the standings--a solid fourth place out of ten teams; six measly points out of first, 25.5 above last place--and thinking about all those other teams below me cursing, we're getting beat by a team named the Cellar Dwellers? Yes I hope and expect to win it all come October, but internally I've made my goal more to the point--beat the Oklahoma Dirtbags at all costs. Nothing against the guy who "owns" the Dirtbags, I just love the name and have some sentimental (i.e. musical) attachment to Oklahoma and Tulsa in particular. It's the irrelevant ambitions that prod me most crazily.

So, now I'm sending nightly offerings to the baseball gods that Rafael Soriano settles in as a capable replacement for the legendary Mariano Riveria as the Yankees's closer, that Joey Votto lives up to his ridiculous new contract, and that the perpetually damned Jhonny Peralta hits a few dingers and gets off his ass and actually steals a base or two. Box scores have long been my kind of beach reading pleasure; now they're my Ulysses-like crack-the-code-and-reach-nirvana obsession. Mr. Rourke, in a tell-tale muddied white suit, still searching for a little guy gofer though he might be, is pleased, fantastically/fanatically pleased.