Fantasy Island Football

There was a time when men talking about fantasies didn't involve football. Maybe that's the reason I have yet to participate in a fantasy football season.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a football junkie. I watch the college games every Saturday and the pros all day Sunday and Monday night. I used to play in high school at Bismarck (N.D.) St. Mary's. I was a sportswriter for 8 years, and my favorite beat was football.

My current mental state does not allow me to hook up the word "fantasy" with "football," unless some of the Minnesota Vikings Cheerleaders, pom-poms, and a hot tub are involved. Then I could probably deal a little better. I just can't shake the potential sexuality of the word.

Several guys I know have a spirited discussion about who was going to make their fantasy list every August. This year, the hot names on the list included Peyton Manning, LaDamian Tomlinson, Priest Holmes, Daunte Culpepper and Marvin Harrison. Meanwhile, my fantasy list consisted of my wife, Sela Ward, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Teri Hatcher and Tanya Memme, thus totally shutting me out of the conversation.

I've got to do something about this tunnel vision problem I have with the word "fantasy." It's fine that someone's fantasy is watching Edgerrin James rush for 175 yards and three touchdowns, ensuring that he will have enough points to beat fantasy league opponent Earl that week. Whatever gets you off. But that doesn't do it for me yet.

That's why I would suck at fantasy football. When the word "fantasy" comes into play, my mind would wander off the grid-iron in a heartbeat. I'd be thinking too much about silky smooth skin and not enough about pigskin, and would get my ass handed to me on a silver platter every week.

"Hey, Rocky, who's your top fantasy pick this year?" some 20-year-old kid frantically asked me at work Saturday night, on the brink of orgasm that a full slate of NFL games would be kicking off just 12 hours later, starting his fantasy season in full swing.

"Mr. Rourke without a doubt," I replied. "He's a stud. By far the best player on my board."

"Rourke?" the kid asked. "Who the fuck is that? Never heard of him. What position does he play?"

"I'm not sure of his position, but that guy can just take over the whole damn show," I said. "He'll make any fantasy wish come true. I think he even beat Satan once."

"He wasn't even picked in our entire draft," the kid said, wringing his hands over potentially missing a hot fantasy prospect. "I wonder if I could still claim him."

"As long as you're at it, you should also look into drafting that darkhorse Tattoo," I said. "He's really short, but that little fucker sure can run! He can do a 4.4 40-yard dash up a bell tower when he sees de plane coming in!"

My attempts at humor were totally lost on this kid, who obviously was too young to remember Fantasy Island, a Saturday night TV staple from 1978-1984 (Who didn't get stuck watching it right after The Love Boat?).

I was just a young pup when the show was on, but Fantasy Island was still a bit confusing for me. I wondered why more of the guys ponying up $50,000 to Rourke for their fantasy didn't just ask for a date with their dream woman. A few of them did, but most wanted to do something else for the weekend, like be a millionaire, a spy, or a famous baseball player. Even at the luau party thrown in the island guests' honor, my mind would have been focused on trying to get laid rather than leied by one of Rourke's hula chicks.

Back then, I would have told Rourke my fantasy was to lose my virginity during a roll in the hay with Jaclyn Smith.

Rourke would have shoved a jumbo margarita in my hand, then toasted me with his famous words "Smiles, everyone! Smiles! I'm Mr. Rourke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island." Minutes later, fantasy would become reality, and I'd be the boss of a trio of female private investigators, barking the following orders over a speaker phone: "Jaclyn, this is Rocky. Bring Farrah and Kate. I have some privates for you to investigate."

Rourke would probably put an evil twist on my fantasy to teach me some sort of lesson for being so horny. Maybe he'd have that psycho bitch Farrah tell me she was pregnant five minutes after doing it.

Then again, maybe he'd double my trouble and send over the rest of the Angels (Cheryl Ladd, Shelley Hack and Tanya Roberts), but insist the only way to make the magnificient 7 fantasy happen would be to let Bosley get in on the action, too, and make it a crazy 8 (which would be like telling me the only way I'd get in Mrs. King's pants was to include Scarecrow in a threesome).

Then 45 minutes later, I'd be boarding the Fantasy Island float plane, smoking a cigarette with my brains fucked out, waving goodbye while Rourke fed that little perv Tattoo all the dirty details.

Just for the record, watching Tattoo race up the bell tower staircase and yell "De plane, de plane!" at the start of every episode of Fantasy Island was not a fantasy - I'm not that into little dudes. However, it was a recurring comedic dream come true.

Now, 20 years later, my taste in fantasies isn't so over the top, yet it's even better. Tops on the list would be to have my wife dress up like Wonder Woman. Sure, she's only 5-foot-3 and would need some really high red platform boots to reach Amazon status, but I'm sure she could score a costume, bitchin' bracelets and a golden lasso. She's every bit the beauty Lynda Carter was in the day, and would get me totally hot talking sexy about receiving contact lenses by mail.