Chatting with the Champ, Chip Dunston

So maybe you missed the one-on-one with Wayne Gretzky or the tête-à-tête with Tiger Woods or the gab-a-gab with Roger Federer. No biggie. Now’s your chance to meet the real treat. This is one for the ages, one to grow on. Here it is, at last. Sports Fans everywhere, I give you my exclusive interview with the Greatest, the most Heralded, the most Hated, the most Feared and Famous Fantasy Baseball Player ever to lope across this planet, the switch-clicking, Chip Dunston.

JG: I’m here today with the World’s Greatest Fantasy Baseball Champ, Chip Dunston. He’s won 733 League Championships and something like 1239 Fan Duel single-day comps (the 50-yard-dash of sabermetrics). His opponents call him he WHIP Wizard, The Call-up King, Fantasy Fanner, Supergeek, and sometimes, pardon my French, El Diablo. Thanks for taking the time to swoop by today.

CD: Where’s my Chicken and Waffles?

JG: It should be here soon.

CD: Better be.

JG: Now Chip, I’m no mathathlete, but how exactly did a young buck like yourself win 733 League Championships. You’re not Yoda with Botox are you?

CD: No dipshit. I play in like 12 leagues a season, not including my daily Fan Duels.

JG: Oh, I get it, kind of like piggybacking.

CD: Your mother piggybacks.

JG: We don’t do mothers here on the show.

CD: Yeah, I already did yours in an elevator.

JG: Let’s get back to interview.

CD: Whatever.

JG: Tell us when exactly you knew that you wanted to be a Fantasy Baseball Player? Was it something you always wanted to be? Did the inspiration hit you one day when you were eating your Coco Puffs?

CD: Did Peter Parker ask to be Spider-man? Did Picasso ask to be a painter freak? Did Russell Brand ask to be a Pimp Daddy? Nah-ah. Each of them in their own ways had to sow their wild oats and be their unique, crazy-ass, crackerjack selves. Take your average hump, for instance. Your ordinary hump gets his cup of joe at 7-Eleven or Mickey D’s. He mopes to work, forklifts till his first smokes break and then he smokes a blunt a little bit after that, and then he’s thinking when can I crack open my first Corona. What are you shaking your head for?

JG: I don’t get my joe from 7-Eleven. I prefer Think Coffee, Queens Kickshaw, Birch (if I can find one), and yes, I’ll admit it, I like my Starbucks reserve blends.

CD: Well, you a freak.

JG: I can live with that. Let’s get back to you. What are your routines? How do you stay so sharp?

CD: Fantasy Baseball is nothing like the MLB. First off, you don’t’ get to loaf half the game away on the bench, farting and spitting out sunflower seeds. You have to be 100% fully-engaged, your bloodshot eyeballs keep scanning stats like you a CPA for the IRS, but instead of AGIs, MAGIs, CAP Gains you looking for subtle ways to outperform the other punks in your league. You get it? It’s not a half-time, half-ass thing, you have to be 100% all-in, all-the-time, 24/7, maybe even 35/8. Days bleed into each other: Muesday, Tednesday, Faturday. There’s no letup.

JG: Now hold on here Chip. Are you saying that your laptop-punching and mouse-clicking is more rigorous than what real ball players go through?

CD: That’s exactly what I’m saying. What are you laughing at dipshit?

JG: I hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but I don’t think most folks out there will buy that.

CD: I don’t give a rat’s ass who buys it. Who’s the champ here anyway? I know what I know. Whip this, OPS that. Do you know how many hours I log in BABIP? Too many that’s how many. And, I have to keep my eyeballs peeled for every rising star that’s about to shoot into the Ursa Majors. A few times this year alone, I’ve nearly gone through coronary thrombosis or something like that when one of my ace hurlers landed on the DL. My life is a constant flux. I wouldn’t wish my curse on anybody, not my worst enemy.

JG: So in the annals of baseball history, and by that I mean the one with the dirt diamond and the grassy outfield, if you wouldn’t mind indulging, who would you say you’re most like? That is to say, who would you find an analogue for you from the all-time Louisville-slugging greats? Would it be The Bambino, Ty Cobb, Shoeless Joe, Mickey Mantle, Greg Maddux, Kirby Puckett, Miggie Cabrera, Nolan Ryan? Who?

CD: You’re trippin, right?

JG: Fraid not.

CD: You’re not going to pigeonhole me into any analogue, dialogue, monologue, bump-on-log. No way, no how. I’m not like any of those fatheads you mentioned. I’m my own unique entity.

JG: No argument there. Now would you mind sharing any hobbies you have, ways you like to pass the time?

CD: Nope.

JG: Favorite soft drink?

CD: Mr. Pibb.

JG: What’s your sign?

CD: Capricorn.

JG: Me too.

CD: Are we done here? I need to take a whiz.

JG: Hang on. Only a few more questions.

CD: (Deep sigh plus crotch-grab.)

JG: There you have it Sports Fans. Chip Dunston, the greatest there ever was, so far anyway.

CD: Where’s my chicken and waffles?

Men in Black

Somebody did a study of all competitive sports and found that the red jersey was the most menacing. Teams that wore red had better records too. That’s all well and good, but it means zilch for tennis pros. Have you noticed the trend toward black garb? Living Legend Roger Federer has made it his signature outfit and has socked away quite a few commercials in his tennis tux attire. The ATP tour plays the “Imperial Attack” from Star Wars when Roger enters the stadium. It pumps up the fans.

Now, it seems like his comp is dressing in his style. More macho head games? Maybe. I’ve noticed that this US Open, more than any before, has more black-jerseyed baseliners. Jo-Wilfred Tsonga and Fernando Gonzalez both wore it for their fourth-round match today. Gonzalez edged the Frenchman, but is moving toward the Brobdingnagian black-shirted Argentine, Juan Martin Del Potro. Rising in their respective quadrants they might get a chance to put their punishing forehands to the test in a semifinal shootout. Gonzalez will first have to dump Nadal.

Roger still rides high in the top spot, naturally, he’s the originator. He needs to dispel the French Open Finalist Soderling. After that he’d dispose of Djokovic or Verdasco before tangling with any proshop copycatters. Not that Roger is worrying much. He’s already got his coveted 15 Slams. But, now he’s ignited a fashion fury. The workhorse has gone clotheshorse. He has to settle this last score as a matter of pride.

I’m feeling like that classic ACDC tune, which will remain nameless, would set the right mood booming throughout the Arthur Ashe sound system. Or if the match is more of a slugfest then maybe Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” would add better pomp.

Prediction: black-shirt in four sets.