Let me begin by saying that I am seemingly relentlessly pushed toward the middle of any draft board on which I feature. If I'm a late-comer to a fantasy league the two teams with picks six and seven will part like the Cardinals' infield defense with Aaron Miles at short (topical!) and let me through with pick six-and-a-half. I am that NBA team who tanks an entire season only to find themselves with the last pick of the lottery, trying to decide between Curtis Borchardt and a shooting guard who's never been outside of Estonia before.â†µ
For a long time this meant that most of the Rams' fantasy options were off-limits to me. With the team at its best Kurt Warner and Marshall Faulk were top-tier picks at their respective positions, and with the team at its worst Steven Jackson, the only player worth hanging onto in a small, informal league, was drafted early under the oft-misguided Somebody's Got To Score A Touchdown On That Team, I Mean Really principle. This never bothered me; I'm wary of situations where I am dependent on my favorite team's success to win at fantasy sports, which are so far removed from the successes and failures of real sports.â†µ
But this year things fell warily into place for my team, Mr. Santanagrabber. I had a spot near the end of the first round and I went quarterback, choosing Drew Brees, thinking I would take some running backs that people are on the fence about. And I failed to realize that no fence is more crowded than the one around Steven Jackson's normally unimpeachable fantasy credentials, thanks to his bad back and the Rams offense he has sitting on it.â†µ
Things swung back to me and I realized that Steven Jackson was in the crowd of second round running backs I found myself staring at. And I pulled the trigger. I feel like I should have taken Sam Bradford to, for my backup, so that I don't get too run-heavy in my exhortations to the team's offense. But that's for a post about being That Guy on the waiver wire.