This past weekend I had my first experience with a fantasy football league draft. It was …interesting. It amazes me the amount of research, energy and concentration that goes into an event that starts with "Fantasy." Like my Twitter said the other day, if that amount of research and energy was applied elsewhere, we'd have world peace and the cure to all cancers. It was funny to watch. Everyone had out magazines, and draft sheets, and schedules, and rosters, and various other odds and ends that they studied intently. If not for the huge draft sheet hung up on the wall (adorned with idiot-proof brightly colored player stickers) you'd think it was a group of older college kids studying for their final exams. There was the paper work, the heads bent in concentration, the occasional exclaim of frustration, and the not so occasional wisecracks being tossed back and forth.

I like football. It's fun to watch, and gives me something to cheer for when baseball is over. But I don't understand the attraction to the fantasy leagues. The girls from the Playboy calendar could have paraded through there in all their naked glory, and no one would have noticed. (To be fair, the men from the Chippendale's calendar could have paraded through as well, but I sure would have noticed and alerted every female within a 5 mile radius.) I'm not knocking the activity, I just don't get it. But I promised to pay attention to Donald's team this season (even if he did let my boy Peyton get picked up by another guy's team) and see if I can finally understand what all the fuss is about.

I won't be holding my breath.