Being Frank

Everyone has certain signs they look for to signal the fall. Many Alaskans point to the fireweed. "Look, it's bloomed almost all the way to the top. Fall's almost here." Others watch the mountains. They say the light changes on the mountains as the summer season draws near an end, and that you can see the colors begin to change there first. There's also the social signal -- the state fair is usually a good indicator that summer's almost gone. Of course, the calendar can also be a useful tool if you're not so in tune with the Cosmos.

As for me, the rise of a particular form of fanaticism is a good indicator that the seasons are about to change. Summer to fall … baseball to football. Same thing, really. As August moves into its first week, the first faint whiffs of fantasy football, and the WAFFLE (Wasilla Alaska Fantasy Football League) can be traced over the Internet. By the way, don't ask me what the 'E' stands for. I didn't name the league I just show up when they tell me to.

Those first few e-mails are usually wistful and without much weight. "Is everybody getting excited about the upcoming season?" one might ask. "Does anybody have any ideas about some new people we can bring on board?"

By the second week, things start getting a little more intense. I work with a couple of the other team owners, so the office environment gets a little more … shall we say, lockerroomesque? Now, we're all law-abiding citizens, so I'm not sure where my nickname, "Easy Money" came from, but the guys do take their fantasy football serious.

Even the younger guys are too old, and too loose, to play real football. I'm so old and loose, I can't even watch an entire game on TV anymore. I'm reduced to checking the stats on the Internet. I watched the Raiders/49ers preseason game the other night, and I'm still nursing a bad hammy. I popped it sprinting to the kitchen for a beer during a time-out. I still got the beer. You have to play through the pain in this league.

Anyway, we're reduced to defining our manliness by drafting pretend football teams and pitting them against one another each week. Part of an owner's prowess is determined by how his or her team actually performs. More than half of your position in the pecking order is determined by your ability to trash talk via e-mail, however. Of course, there is a connection. The amount of mojo your trash talk carries is directly proportionate to your team's performance. The owner of an omnipotent team can fire off smack with confidence and a certain swagger. The owner of a consistent cellar dweller sounds more like a whiny smart-aleck when he tries to trash talk. It's why I spent much of last season sworn to vows of virtual silence.

It doesn't matter that Jeremiah Bartz and Casey Ressler tricked me into drafting worthless players and also into starting the worst of the worst each week. In the end, I have to be a stand-up guy. I have to be responsible for the ultimate performance of my team. Sure, I'm older and somewhat vulnerable, and they should never have taken advantage of those weaknesses. I have to give them credit. They duped me with full knowledge that I hold the power over the hours they work, the vacation days they get and the paychecks they collect. I admire that they ignored all that and placed their standing in the WAFFLE above job security. And I really mean that. It's not a feeble attempt to intimidate them before the draft. An owner in this league doesn't operate that way.

At any rate, I plan to fire off some potent smack this year. Sure, I'm a little older, but I'm wiser, too. Last year I spent the draft peaking at JB's draft chart. I knew he'd done his homework. I didn't know he'd filled out his chart in code. When he wrote John Kitna on his draft chart, it meant Michael Vick. When he wrote Tim Biakabatuka, it meant Priest Holmes. I didn't realize I'd been had until the fifth round. By then I'd stocked my team up with the likes of Rick Mirer, Ladell Betts and some guy named Otto Gluumennen -- and he wasn't even a kicker. By then it was too late. All the good guys had been snatched up, and I had to spend the rest of the draft watching Jason McCourt shake his head and say, "Idiot," over and over.

This year I've done my own homework. I've filled out my own bloody draft chart, and it's filled with names like Shaun King, DeShaun Foster and Flip Marquartz (not a kicker -- wink, wink).

It's a new season in the WAFFLE, and we're going to take one game at a time. We're going to do the things we do best, and not let the other guys dictate our game to us. As for talking, however, we won't be doing that on the field. We'll be doing that on the Internet, as sloppy, old dreamers are most apt to.

Frank Ameduri is the future king of smack.