Perhaps most importantly, the league brought together a group of friends and one uninvited guest, living across 4 different time zones, in one place again. And while it might not be the same behind a glossy computer screen, it was great to know that no matter how much time might have passed since our days rocking the hallowed institution of higher education together, we were all pretty much still petulant little children trapped inside the bodies of mostly grown-ass men.
This is the story of The Post-Graduate League.
Nothing Like Your First “W”
“We did it. We #@$%ing did it.
Men, with our backs to the walls and our balls in a vice grip, it looked like we were nearing the end. But we never gave up. We fought back. We gouged out the enemies eyes. Stuck our fingers in their ears. Spit in their mouths. Grabbed them by the balls and clenched our fists. We then looked in their eyes and asked them how it felt. They laughed. Spit in our faces. Told us we were surrounded. But we never gave up. We just turned the wrench. Their balls suffocating under our death grip. Never before have I seen such courage. Such bravery. Such brash bravado. I am proud of you. Each and every one of you. My team.
My Fantasy Football squad — Colston Creamery.”
Faced with the unenviable task of trying to defeat the League-leading fantasy squad, led by fellow co-conspirator The Bailynator, I had given up much hope. His team was riding an undefeated streak, raping and pillaging most other teams standing in his way — on the arm of NFL Golden Boy Tom Brady. And all of this without much help from No.1-ranked RB Arian Foster. I knew I was going to need a lot of help to win this one. Already conceding defeat, I was already imagining my speech at the end of the season for “League’s Shittiest Team”.