Fiction Submission to Elysian Fields Quarterly Fantasyland Jeff Yurcan 580 Union Street, Apt 4 R Brooklyn, NY, 11215

317.341.3707 Yurcan@gmail.com

How ya doing Skip? I try to drown out the words and not listen. I focus on the keys on my computer and the spreadsheet in front of me. I focus on the task at hand, the daily numbers need to be reported by 5 or Im stuck working late. Skip you there? Damn. It keeps happening. I look up from my desk and survey the office. Water cooler, copy machine, Bill from accounts receivable, Jenny, potted plant, everything looks normal, then I turn to my left and there's a 6 foot 3 Dominican man wearing a Cleveland Indians uniform. Skip we gotta talk man, are you startin me tonight or what? Finally I turn to him: Later Fausto, I say in a hushed tone. But coach he replies, Im ready and

Later, I snap Or youre benched for sure. With that he goes away and I can return to my numbers. Its always hard to concentrate though when its August. The off season is when most of my work gets done, I can concentrate a little bit in April, maybe early May, but this is August this is the homestretch. The numbers on the spreadsheet only make my mind wander further. Sales numbers and third quarter projections creep into ERA, OPS and WAR. Work cant end fast enough. When it does I hustle to my car and turn on my satellite radio, they broadcast the worlds only 24-hour fantasy sports radio station. The analysis is pedestrian, for the amateurs. The research I do on a daily basis far exceeds anything I will ever hear on here, but I listen anyway. Its efficient, theres little else I can do that can help my team during my commute so I tune to Sirius 210 and hope for a nugget of wisdom. It takes me 22 minutes to get home, which is also Xavier Nadys uniform number. I walk inside, not bothering to check for mail. I drop my bag and coat and walk into the war room. In most houses this would be a dining room but I have transformed it into a much more useful domain. It consists of a table, a macbook pro and stacks of books: Bill James, Sporting News almanacs, news stand fantasy magazines, MLB media guide and of course, the bible: Ron Shandlers Baseball Forecaster, one of the few men I will openly admit knows more about the game than I do. And in the corner, my crowning achievement-The Board. A 12-foot white board that takes up nearly all of the rear wall. Just like the ones any pro GM has in his office. The Board contains hundreds of magnetized labels listing each of the twelve teams, its players and the assorted available

players grouped into ranked tiers of my own creation, complete with meticulous and ever changing dry erase notes and zigzagging arrows, representing every trade scenario and potential signings I might make. The board was new this year. I had tried everything else, dry erase boards, excel spreadsheets, corkboard with hundreds of index cards but nothing was good enough. I had to have what the real GMs had, the board had cost me 899 dollars plus tax and shipping and the customized magnets cost 1,518.86. It was expensive but ball clubs that want to compete spend money. The Yankees spend money and they were rewarded victory and glory, I want to be Brian Cashman not Neal Huntington. The board was not the only change I made this year, I made another important decision, the press was all over me but I felt it was the right move. I decided to only manage one team. In past years I managed as many as 6 teams. Looking back I laugh at my youthful naivet, I dont have enough time to manage one team this year, how could I have thought I was doing a good job with six? There were some good times though. In 2006 I placed 1st in three out of the four leagues I played that year, it felt euphoric. I rode that high all through the winter, looking at my banners (which cost 18 dollars a piece) on my wall whenever I needed a reminder of my dominance. But that was then and this is now and now the task was greater than ever. This is the year I am going to beat Bill. Bill, the name is like my poison on my tongue when I speak it, Bill the dark specter who has haunted me for years, Bill, my Moriarty, Bill my white whale, Bill who snatched the 1999 quarterfinals spot from me with a

bullshit 11th inning RBI from Benny Agybani, Bill, who would pay, pay for his arrogance, Bill ever the thorn in my side. Bill was my brother-in-law's friend from Skokie IL He had been in the league since the first year and had remained through the current and 12th season. In 2008 he had speculated on the e-mail chain that he might not play this year, he was getting busy with work and he and his wife were thinking about having a baby. That son a of a bitch, if he left this league before I got the chance to beat him I would never, ever get over it, thankfully he played that year, he finished 4th, I didnt even make the play offs, I will never ever figure Tom Glavine for 2007. This was my year. I had dropped the other leagues and focused solely on the original and the quest for the victory that had eluded me all year. I gazed back at the board, mulling over my current bullpen and pondering whether or not I might make a move. Skip you got a minute? The voice was familiar and I turn to greet it. Its Mike Stanton, the twenty one year old outfielder for the Florida Marlins. I like it when the players called me Skip, all managers liked being called Skip. Whats on your mind Mike? I use my fatherly tone, hes a young guy, you gotta treat them right or they burn out. I just wanna say Im sorry about last night. Mike looked down, took his cap off and put his hands in his pockets. I know you were behind on RBIs and I let you down.

RBI, Mike, RBIs is redundant, I said, correcting him. Sorry Skip, Mike said meekly. I hope you're still putting me in tonight, I know Justin has been hot lately but were playing the Nationals, you gotta consider the match ups Skip, Justin is playing Milwaukee and Greinkes going. I know Mike, dont I always do whats best? I put my hand on his shoulder. I blink and Stanton is gone. Good player, he is going to go far.

I can imagine him now. Bill is sitting in his own war room in Skokie, plotting against me. He always maintains that juvenile veneer of nonchalance. Whenever we see each other he barely even mentions the league, as if its some small part of his life. I know its an act, I am the only one who can see it. Behind that J Crew sweater beats a black heart. He cares, he cares more than I do. And every year he celebrates his victory over me. Finally the tables will be turned and this year I can do it in person. I have the date circled on my calendar, Sep 25. In dark red ink, the day my cousin Stan gets married in Chicago, and much much more importantly, the last day of the fantasy playoffs. The day when at roughly 11 PM or whenever the Royals - Mariners game ends, I will be able to celebrate my triumph. In person, with the league present and Bill watching, as the last out is recorded, the final points are applied and my victory is won. I hope he weeps openly.

Before I know it the games have begun. I turn on my tvs (I have 4) and set up my second laptop to track the other games. Before I know it I am in a trance. I have three laptops in front of me at all times. One shows scores of games Im not watching, one keeps a real time update of my fantasy teams scoring and one is for my ongoing research. I keep the room totally dark except the buzzing lights of the screens. I keep the air conditioner on max cool at all times, I like to be cold. I never feel comfortable until I get home at night and sit in my cold dark, room. Its like heaven. The lights flicker in my eyes and sometimes I lose track of where I am. One minute Im in my war room, trying to calculate the ultimate zone rating for Ike Davis in the month of July, the next minute I am in the dugout in Comerica Park watching Victor Martinez blast a three run homerun. I needed that, I needed that bad. I am trying to build a buffer in RBIs and those help, as he rounds the bases, he looks at the dugout and points at me, he did it for me, for the skipper. I shudder and shake and I am back in the war room and I have been typing the whole time, my calculations are complete and before I can consider the implications I am caught in a trance, I gaze off at the tvs, looking at them but not seeing anything, they are blurry and then bright, too bright too see and when I look down and rub my eyes I realize they werent tvs at all, they were the lights of Camden Yards and Im standing on the mound. Im talking to Zach Britton, hes shaken and nervous. He cant keep his fastball down and his slider is in the dirt. I try to calm him. I dont have any technical advice to offer. I dont know pitches are thrown, just what strikeouts are worth. I tell him to slow down and take it easy, but he is still sweating, I dont think I helped.

Before I know it, its 10 oclock. The west coast games are starting and Im exhausted. I want to go to sleep but I steel myself against the fatigue and soldier on. Half a world away in his dark kingdom of Skokie, Bill is awake. He is probably pacing back and forth in front of his own computers, cursing the Giants reliever that blew his save and raised his WHIP over 1. If Bill is awake, then I am awake. Sleep is for 10th place.

The next few weeks were brutal. Placido Polanco went down with an ankle injury and was placed on the 15 day disabled list. I was not prepared for this. I dont keep any offensive bench players, preferring to spend all my available spots on pitchers. Its a risky style of play but one that often paid off for me. As long as you dont get injuries, this is a great strategy, I had been lucky in the past with healthy teams but now I was out of luck. This threw me into a tailspin. I spent that day at work desperately trying to find a suitable replacement. It was difficult without my books and notes and the added burden of having to occasionally work. I had given up by 10 AM, compliance standards and weekly report metrics were like ten ton weights around my neck. Just when I cleared my work load another fat file folder would hit my desk. I decided to just let them pile up and focus on the task at hand. In some professional development training the company had sent me to they told us you should always clear away major projects first and all of the little ones afterwards, replacing Polanco was my major project. I decided to take the next day off. I would have just taken vacation until the end of the season but I had already burned my days going to Ron Shandlers First Pitch three day

fantasy baseball conference in Arizona. So I called in the next morning, I called early so I would get my supervisor's voicemail and told him I wasnt coming in because I had food poisoning, everybody believes food poisoning, I tried to sound queasy. It was 6:25 AM, I had dozed off to sleep at 4:27 AM but I wasnt tired, I had work to do. I stood in front of the board for an hour, switching magnets around and checking stats in my baseball prospectus and baseballreference.com. I began to fly around the room, manically opening books and flipping to different pages, hoping to find something. I was convinced that somewhere out there was a Rosetta Stone, a magic formula that would tell me exactly who to pick. Some previously unforeseen stat that would perfectly predict the optimal replacement third baseman. I tried to close my eyes and pretend I was Billy Beane. I tried to picture a board room overlooking the San Francisco bay where I would look out into the distance and see my answer among the breakers. It didnt work, I felt stupid. After eight hours and twenty seven minutes I picked up Wilson Valdez. He was the back up the Phillies had for Polanco in real life and I decided that would give him some advantages over other choices. I made the move, clicked the golden set lineup button and collapsed exhausted into my easy chair. I slept for eight minutes then woke up to watch the 7:10 Games.

The weekend of the wedding came and I boarded my flight to OHare. I had booked it eight months ago and paid 112.00 dollars, it was a great deal. I scoured the internet for

three days until I found it, I bet Bill was paying full fare. I sat in my seat and tried to read but my mind kept wandering. I was off to a final series that would make or break me. It reminded me of other team flights that I had taken in past years. Walking up and down the aisle on the way to Florida for the 1999 playoffs, stopping to chat with Randy Johnson about fate and destiny and what lay ahead. Today felt the same. In the final weekend of the league I wasnt going to win first place. That honor belonged to Phil, who worked in my brother in laws office. He wasnt even mad, Phil got lucky, it happens. It didnt even matter, what mattered was Bill, in the final weekend we were in a dead tie for second place. I looked around the plane and surveyed my players. David Wright sat chatting with my ace pitcher, Justin Verlander. Behind them was Neil Walker, the young Pirate looked at me and I gave him a nod, as if to say three more games, Neil, almost there then we could all rest. Rick Ankiel came and sat next to me. You nervous Skip? Always nervous, Ricky, a good manager sees all the angles and thats nerve wracking. I understand Coach, the mind of yours never stops, I just wanted to say thanks. For what? I asked. Keeping me on the team, seeing what you saw in me, I really appreciate the chance you gave me.

I nodded. I saw potential in Rick when others didnt, that was my gift in life, I could always see the deeper potential in people No problem Ricky, you can thank me by keeping up the good work this weekend. I will skip, I wont let you down, youve done to much for me. With that, Rick began to rise from his seat, the plane shook mildly with turbulence and he turned back to me. Try not to worry too much, Skip, after all, its just a game. Rick began to fade into smoke then looked scrambled like an old tv with bad reception, when he started to fade back he was a stewardess holding my diet coke. Thanks I said.

It was a Sunday wedding. I didnt even sleep the night before. I had stayed up late and watched the west coast games where Ryan Braun went 4 for 4 with six RBI and Trevor Cahill pitched a complete game, shut out. Second place was mine. Barring a miracle performance from Bill on Sunday, nothing could be done to rob me of my precious victory. I saw Bill for the first time that day at the church service. Sitting smugly in a back pew with his wretched wife and insufferably adorable daughter. We locked eyes for a moment and he smiled and gave me a hey good buddy head nod. I just glared at him, prick.

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Afterwards at the reception we shook hands and exchanged small talk. My heart was beating fast and my head was swimming with rage. I politely nodded while he told me about his golf game, knowing that deep down, he was seething too. Knowing he was beat and not daring to mention the league for fear of admitting he was impotent to my baseball prowess. I kept it in as well. Ill play your game you sniveling bastard. Ill tell you about my job and my trip to Spain and we will both pretend that I havent bested you. Two arch enemies, talking as if we were friends but deep down subtly cutting each other. Every word a mocking code, every joke secretly a jab in the gut, a reminder of our constant battles. Finally I couldnt take it any longer and excused myself. At 10:58 I sat in the bar and watched the last play of the last game. I had won. When the final out was called, I closed my eyes and savored the moment. The whole world swirled around me in magnificent colors and everything was perfect and beautiful, I grew to a hundred feet tall. I saw myself standing astride a great mountain peak. Garbed in a toga with a champions laurel in my hair. Rhapsody in Blue played loudly in the background as I spread my arms wide and looked down upon my kingdom. I saw ballparks as small as ants as a chorus of sportswriters and broadcasters sung my praises while I laughed deeply and breathed in the sweet mountain air. From atop my Olympus I throw lightning bolts down at Bill and the others who stood in my way. Next I am the subject of a Roman Triumph, Standing on a great chariot as Joe Torre and Casey Stengel and Davey Johnson worship as peasants beneath me. Instead of a slave whispering, all glory is fleeting its Joe Buck and he says you are smarter than

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everyone else, no one knows more about baseball than you, how did you do it Skip? I turn to face my crowd and give my address but instead I open my eyes and see Bill. He is standing in front of me, sipping a Heineken, his tie knot loosened. He slaps me on the back and says: You see the games today, I got killed he was smiling what place you gonna finish? second, I reply, stone faced. Im not sure where I ended up, he said. Youre in third, I said casually, withholding my glee and rage beneath the surface. Nice, he said congrats bud, he sipped his beer again. Thanks.

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