"Sweeney you asshole! Go...go...go...Sweeney you asshole!!"

Those are the words that eventually led to the formation of our fantasy football league. It was the fall of 1988 and my friends and I loved to bet on Sunday games. We mostly lost. And not really having any discretionary income didn't stop us.

On Sunday, November 13th 1988, my friend George called me at around 7:30PM, "I fucked up man, I really fucked up." There was an aloof tremble in his voice. "I bet on every game."

"Every game? Every game?"

We usually watched football at his house and would place wagers with Eddie the Bookie on the games that were going to be shown on TV plus maybe one or two others, maybe four or five during the Sunday football marathon. On this day however, something compelled him to bet
on every single game: 14 in total.

"Where have you been? Every game? How did you do?"

"I was out on a boat with some friends. Before I left I called Eddie and something happened. I just- I kept going. I went through the whole schedule and picked a team in every game this afternoon. I figured you can't lose every one right?"

"How did you do?"

"I lost every game."

"Shit."

"What am I going to do? I don't have the money. How could I lose every game!"

"That sucks."

"I'm going to have to ask my dad for the money, he'll kill me. Man I'm fucked. Hey if I bet as much as I owe on the Sunday Night game and win I'm in the clear. Dallas is playing Minnesota. (to himself) Where's the paper?"

"What if you lose?"

"If I lose? I have to ask my dad for the money as it is now, fuck it, if I lose I'll just ask for twice as much. I'm dead either way, right? Let me go, I have to call Eddie."

"Hey, I'm coming over. I want to see this."

"Allright, see you."


When I got there I witnessed three hours of the most intense football watching you'll ever see. Al Pacino couldn't have done better. George bet on Minnesota and the over, a parlay. He wound up risking less ca$h exposure for a two and a half to one payout. It seemed like a good bet to me, probably what I would have done in his shoes.

Minnesota kicked the Cowboys all over the field that night, so the team bet was never in doubt. The over though, that was another story. It was 44 points. The score was 40-3 Vikings and with less than two minutes to play, the Cowboys were deep in Viking territory, driving for a meaningless score. George was very close to breathing easy. Normally we'd be lounging back on the sofa. Right then, he was sitting upright, a bundle of potential energy awaiting release as soon as Dallas scored. The celebratory scream seemingly inevitable.

A young quarterback named Kevin Sweeney had been put into the game by Tom Landry. He moved the team down to the 10-yard line, leading them with the fervor of a veteran QB in overtime of the Super Bowl. He was playing his heart out and had a new, big fan in my friend George.

Sweeney led the Cowboys out of the huddle. George tilted forward toward to TV. Sweeney came to the line and shouted signals. George rubbed his hands together, anticipating victory, "Come on Sweeny, come on Sweeney." Sweeney took the snap and dropped back. George took a deep breath and heaved up. Sweeney saw his target in the flat. George lifted his hands to his head. Not the flat, not the flat. Sweeney released. The ball headed for its target, the running back out of the backfield, with nothing between him and the endzone. George made a squeaky, gutteral sound, every muscle in his body tensing up simultaneously. The ball fluttered, hovering forever in the air, suspending every physical law. Time stopped.


A flicker of something purple flashed across the screen. The ball was no longer there.


"Sweeney you asshole!" All was lost.

The young quarterback's pass was intercepted. The defender was streaking towards the other goal line. George, distraught, was already thinking of what words to use when he was going to speak to his- WAIT! George realized any score would put the game over and win the bet. He catapaulted from the sofa, "Go....go.....go!"

The QB's determination and winning spirit launched him in chase of the purple mariah who had stolen his ball. Down the field they ran. What's this? The quarterback was catching up to the defender? How could this be? How could you lose every bet? The Viking remained stalwart, cruising on, fifty, forty, thirty....

"Go, go, go!!"

...twenty, ten. Sweeney dove. He tagged the purple man's foot in mid-air. The foot swung sideways and got tangled with the other foot. The purple man fell in a heap. He fell at the one yard line. No score.

"Sweeney you asshole!"

George fell back on the sofa, his hands grabbing his head, "What the fuck just happened."


There were no words to say. Nothing left. The potential energy had been spent, but not in the way for which it was intended. We sat in silence and watched the rest of the game. We watched as the clock ticked away. We watched, mouths agape, when, for reasons that may never be known, Minnesota sent their kicker in for a field goal leading 40-3 with seconds left to play. It was good. 43-3. Minnesota and the over. George did it.





After that day, we needed a new way to watch football, some way where we wouldn't be asking ourselves, "How could you lose every bet?"

"Hey, George, you ever about that fantasy stuff?"