The Etiquette of Fantasy Football Leagues: A Commissioner’s Manifesto

If you couldn’t tell by my recently published material, I am somewhat of a fantasy football enjoyer. I don’t just play — I commission. Multiple leagues. This job can either be a light pour or a heavy double, depending on how many funky rules you cook up, how smooth the draft runs, and how many players in your league are actual functioning adults versus feral toddlers with smartphones.

I don’t complain much. Usually, it’s fun. But every now and then you get a guy. You know the guy. I do, too. Let’s call him “Matt.” Because that’s his name.

I’ve known Matt for 20 years. Solid guy, drinks too much but who am I to judge. His main flaw as a human? Prefers phone calls over text. Which makes me want to swan-dive into traffic. Beyond that, fine dude. Until he joined one of my leagues.

We’ve got some custom rules, but nothing a newborn giraffe couldn’t grasp. And yet, this morning, the text chain looked like this:

• Matt: Who are the rookie keepers?

• Me: It’s in the Facebook group. Source of truth. Check there.

• Matt: Can’t you just list it here?

• Me: I could, if I wasn’t busy raising children and working a job.

• Matt: Why do we even use Facebook? Nobody likes it.

• Me: Because it saves me from having this exact conversation twelve times.

Fast forward. “Can I still trade?” No, the app locked it last week. “When’s the draft?” It’s literally in the app. “Is that 10 a.m. Pacific Time?” Yes, Matt. It says “PT.” That’s what PT means.

By noon, I’m ignoring his messages for my own sanity. By 8 p.m., I’m pouring myself a martini and considering witness protection.

Some Simple Rules (For the Love of God)

I don’t commission leagues to be a jerk. I do it for fun. But on behalf of commissioners everywhere, allow me to spell this out. Print it. Tattoo it. Cross-stitch it above your mantle. Just stop making us crazy. Steer clear of the following fantasy faux pas or suffer the consequences.

1. If you can Google it, don’t ask your commish.

“Did Terry McLaurin sign?” “Is Stafford hurt?” “Why is my app broken?”
Buddy, do I look like tech support? This isn’t Geek Squad. Buzz off.

You get one roster question a season. That’s it. A second, and I’m bumping your waiver priority to last. Any more than that, I’m adding you a group chat with my mother and forcing you to provide tech support for all of her Jitterbug questions. See how you like it.

2. Don’t move the goalposts on the draft date.

You said you were good for Saturday at 10 a.m. You had months. Now it’s a week out and suddenly you’re “not sure?” Too bad. I’m not reorganizing 11 other lives because your buddy’s having a brunch.

Things happen in life. This is the world we live in. But you know what? It doesn’t revolve around you. Set your draft order for autopick or get your ass into the draft you’ve had no issues with until days before it’s scheduled to happen? Want to complain about it? Fine, your first pick is now Mason Rudolph. Wanna complain again?

3. Don’t ask me to pause the draft.

“Oh, I’m running late, can you stop it for five minutes?” No. You can literally draft from the toilet on your phone. Roll out of bed, tap “Log in,” and make your pick. Don’t be a dingus. “But bro! It’s just five minutes!!!”

Ok, your first pick is now the Cincy defense. Didn’t think it could get worse than Mason Rudolph? Least he won’t get you negative points from the bench.

4. Stop whining about getting sniped.

“That’s the fifth time someone stole my guy right before me!” No, it isn’t. And even if it was, grow up. Savvy drafters plan contingencies. A single “curse you!!!” is fine. A 12-round meltdown is pathetic.

You get one warning. Bitch about someone beating you to the punch after that, your next pick is getting traded at random to someone else for someone they picked exactly three rounds later. We’re here to get drunk and have a good time, not listen to you lament how good your team could have been “if only.”

5. Pay your damn dues.

“I’ll Venmo you next week.” Why are you like this? You’ve had months to scrape together $30. You’re already texting me from the same phone with Venmo on it. Don’t make me send Guido “The Pinky.”

Here’s an idea for you. Dues are required to be paid in full by the time games kick off for real. Anyone who is late at that point gets fined $1 for each day they continue to be late, to be paid directly into the communal beer fund for the following year’s draft.

Magical Boulders

Many years ago, I went on vacation with my parents to one of those all-inclusive resorts, complete with activities and what have you. On this trip, I met a fella named John from New York. The drinking age at these places was a loose 18, but I didn’t pass for it. John was somewhere between 19 and 40. It was hard to tell. Anyway, a group of us were hanging out and drinking beer, telling stories about anything and nothing at the same time, and I made a Dungeons and Dragons reference that I was fairly certain nobody would get. Well, John did. And his reaction was priceless. He went on about how he used to love D & D and particularly enjoyed being Dungeon Master, what with the storytelling and creativity. Then he appeared momentarily melancholy and said something to the effect of nobody wanting to play in his games anymore.

Oh? Why is that, John?

“I don’t have enough patience. People screw around too much so I kill ‘em off. F’ around, find out, ya know?”

Geez.

“Yeah. Like someone keeps interruptin’ or whatever. Ok then. You’re walking down the dusty path as the sun reaches its highest point. Suddenly, a breeze catches your hair from above and you look up. A magical boulder falls from the sky and hits you in the head. You’re dead. Ok, now for the rest of yous…”

I gotta say, I respect it. I am not killing off my players but there are a lot of parallels between Dungeon Masters and Commissioners. We don’t ask for much. Respect our time, respect the league, and remember: the goal is fun. Push too far, and you’re not just annoying your commish — you’re slowly becoming Asshole Dad at a Little League game. And nobody wants to be that guy.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to silence my phone, pour another martini, and pray that Matt doesn’t call. Again.

Torsten / 120 Proof Ball

Proof that the internet was a mistake.