The Backfield of Our Discontent

When I was seven years old, I burned my finger on the cigarette lighter in my parents' car. I didn't mean to do it; I just had no idea what it was. After my mom turned to me in disgust and blew a steady, thick stream of smoke at me through her nostrils, I made a resolution never to touch the lighter again.

I'm ashamed to say that my ability as a child to learn from my mistakes has not accompanied me into adulthood. For the third straight year, I've stuck my finger on the red hot lighter that is the Denver Running Back Situation, this time with Selvin "Slim at the Waist" Young. And I've been burned. Lord have I been burned.

See, back in 2006, I drafted a little-known player named Mike Bell in the 8th round of the RGFL draft, elated that I'd been able to snap up a feature back so late.

By Week 8, I'd placed Bell on waivers.

In 2007, the DRBS seemed to be reverting to the norm. Shanahan had finally brought in a "real" RB, Travis "Tarvaris" Henry, who put up some impressive performances early in the season but who went to the bench as rumors swirled that Henry would soon be suspended for putting the high in "Mile High." Here, I saw an opportunity: Henry had submitted a hair sample, and I figured that no true fan of the ganj could ever be stupid enough to do something like that. In possibly my worst roster move as a fantasy GM, I decided to trade none other than Adrian Peterson and Laveranues Coles for Henry, Selvin Young, and Donald Driver one week before AD set the single-game rushing record. Oh, and did I mention that I traded him to Torry Hallelujah, whom I was playing that week?

Final score: Torry Hallelujah 173, Marble Ryan 84.

Still, I wasn't able to learn my lesson and somehow found myself starting none other than Selvin Young at the flex last week. Before the draft, I'd read all the preseason warnings that Andre Hall would steal carries and Michael Pittman might see some goal line duty, but I ignored every word. I salivated over visions of wide-open running lanes, visiting defenses parting like the red sea with snow falling gently at Mile High, and long, majestic touchdown runs from my slim savior week after week. I was convinced that I'd been wrong for so long that eventually—no, not eventually, this year—I'd have to be right.

In Week 1, Selvin Young had seven carries for 36 yards.

As Clay Davis would say, Sheeeeeeit.

It's like I'm seven years old again, only this time, instead of lightly touching the lighter to my fingertip, I pressed it on my balls as hard as I could. I've considered seeking therapy, but there are some things in life you have to find a way to get through on your own. As for you, Mike Shanahan, I can only hope that the smell of my singed pubic hair causes you at least some vague discomfort. I fucking hate you, you swarthy Irishman.