XI’s is a imaginative childhood pastime where you arrange players in make believe teams based on a shared identity. Foreign XI was a favourite in the early Premier League days (Schmeichel, Albert, Radebe, Bilic, Kinkladze, Gudni Bergsson, Bergkamp, Regi Blinker, Zola, Juninho, Masinga) although I could never justify being in that team myself. I did get to play inspirational captain for players whose name begins with S XI (Steve Stone and me in midfield) and aspirational captain for Puma King XI, despite most frequently taking to the field in entry-level Quasar boots like Matt le Tissier. I also featured prominently for Ginger XI, which likely helped me confront deep-seated identity issues that were woven into the fabric of Middlesbrough in the early 90’s.
Fast forward a decade and a bit, and I catch my mind wandering during a Chelsea game bereft of excitement. I think I hate John Terry. Somewhere between his brattish verbal assault towards referees, his unnervingly gaunt face and his complete disregard for social parking norms, I start to build a Hate XI with JT our captain. He anchors a solid back three alongside Real Madrid stalwarts and perennial moaners, Pepe and Sergio Ramos. A defence truly void of integrity. A close-up of that repugnant fluorescent yellow Chelsea shirt appears on-screen and the focus of my hate shifts.
“Final selection of round 3: Walter Whitecaps”.
You’ll understand my conundrum as manager of Walter Whitecaps, as we reach round three of the 2014 Woodwork Fantasy Football Draft. I’m in need of a premium defender, having secured a stellar forward line (Giroud and Bony) in the first 2 rounds. Ivanovic, Baines and Koscielny have gone and my Walter Whitecaps franchise is next to pick, with John Terry looking irresistible. I think of Wayne Bridge’s girlfriend.
For context, Woodwork Fantasy Football isn’t like the regular Premier League fantasy football, although we do use their stats. A decade ago I’d build my squad on the Premier League website, spending the majority of the 100M GBP on Henry and Lampard, knowing that the rest of the managers in the league would do the same. For the first month of a season I’d be an active manager, selecting an appropriate captain for double points and transferring out that big money flop before anyone noticed I’d spent 9M on him. At some point in late September I’d log back in, curse my misfortune, add the overachieving 4M full-back that every other team had added a couple of weeks prior, and then fail to adjust the team for the remainder of the season. It wasn’t fun.
What did seem fun, in comparison, was these unashamedly American fantasy basketball leagues that some mates of mine compete in. They included a draft, player trades and endless opportunities to waste time pouring over stats. It sounded exciting and pointless, but considering my first round draft pick may still be Stephon Marbury, it is in everyone’s best interest that I steer clear. For a month though, I gallantly scoured the web hoping to uncover a football equivalent. Alas, nothing appeared to tick the appropriate boxes, so I double-clicked the spreadsheet option in Google Drive, and proceeded to delve into Excel formulas from my high school memory bank.
It was rudimentary, but fantastic. Recruiting 13 soulless friends, we established the a set of rules built on transparency and underwritten by the power of a collective. Taking inspiration from Google, our rules were whittled down to D.B.A.D. (or don’t be a dick). We devised a head-to-head fixture schedule, a snake-draft schedule and an orderly approach to cutting ineffective players in each squad on a weekly basis. Team names were nominated, a Facebook group established and Robin Van Persie was selected first. A season came and went, with Camel Toe Poke taking the inaugural Woodwork Fantasy Football title, spearheaded by a Suarez-Giroud one-two.
A beautiful thing about football is that as soon as one season finishes another new and improved version approaches, filled to the brim with optimism. Unperturbed by personal attacks, victimisation and an anticlimactic end to the premier season, the majority of the inaugural runners and riders got back on the Fantasy horse for the 2014/15 season. The day before the real Premier League kicked off, managers assembled at Bondi Beach for the first live draft. Some opted for costume. Those unable to attend (because London, Melbourne, Groningen) provided detailed spreadsheets 250 players deep. Others used Hangout and Twitter so they could experience the excitement in pixels.
Incredibly, Wayne Rooney was selected first. Old favourites Yaya Toure, Eden Hazard, Juan Mata and Sergio Aguero joined the first round party, supported by the likes of Sturridge, Giroud, Nasri and new boys Diego Costa and Alexis Sanchez. Silva, Lukaku, Ramsey and Van Persie wrapped up the first round.
I imagine from the outside you’d be able to observe it as the beautiful social experiment that it is. The establishment a micro-economy based on a finite pool of resources that vary in value from day to day, week to week. All the assets are tradable, and you can barter with other market players based on each asset’s perceived value. There’s no money. There’s a transparent and democratic rule of law, and nominated consequences. Communication pathways are sometimes opaque, sometimes public, and mostly selective. Social interactions are conducted online and in-person, with cohorts naturally evolving within the whole group. There is an element of social standing, mostly based on geography or whether you’re an old-hand or rookie.
The manager of People’s Front, who doubles as a PhD candidate contributing to the field of education and linguistics, noted that we’ve developed our own language that outsiders may not understand, using words and characters to create exchanges.
Like any functional society, the characters play a role according to their strengths. Easy Kompany is well-connected, and sourced a developer to write some formulas and a lawyer to word the contract. Our resident teacher (South Beach FC) manages administrative duties during his regular school holidays. The football journalist (Omnishambles FC) uses inside information to build his team around newly arrived players who show potential. He’s consistently in the bottom three. Camel Toe Poke uses his creative design skills to brand the competition, and create morale boosting memes during those long EPL winter nights.
And so, to my Terry-shaped conundrum. Despite spending the week ranking defenders, I indulge myself in quick cost-benefit analysis during the 30 seconds allotted decision-making time. I imagine the real-life bitterness of a Chelsea clean sheet could be sweetened by between 6 and 9 points towards a weekly Walter Whitecaps’ fantasy total. I could use his penchant for a headed goal. And I may even experience the elation of a Chelsea victory, assured that he contributed to 3 vital points for my team against a mid-table outfit I should be beating comfortably.
Any remotely intelligent sports fan knows that investing your emotional well-being in a sports team is trouble. That trouble is accentuated when your emotions are invested in 11 individual players who play on teams that ignite feelings inside you ranging from apathy to hatred. Worse still, most of these players are likely opposing each other during a weekend of football played on the other side of the world in the middle of the night.
It’s draining going to sleep needing a 4–3 Newcastle win over Hull City win with Elmohamady getting a hatrick, Colback and Gouffran scoring 2 each, Wiliamson getting a yellow card, Krul saving a penalty taken by Michael Dawson and N’Doye getting sent off. “It’s not impossible” you tell yourself. And then you tell your wife, because she cares, right?
I floated the idea of relinquishing my team and opting out of the league I created. I justified this by suggesting I had “other stuff” to do. Like, anything. Skydiving. Collecting tattoos. Squid fishing. I’d miss the sleepless nights and pretending not to care, but I’m adamant my emotional stability should not be determined by real football, never mind an imaginative childhood pastime where one arranges players in make believe teams.
I am the captain of my soul. And if I’m not, John Terry isn’t going to be. At least not when this season wraps.
