Cheaters never win, and winners never cheat. And although it took 15 weeks for this truth to sort itself out, the fantasy football gods finally got it right.

Kevan Lee: champion! B Squared: Loser.

The final score was 194-116, a glorious, wonderful, predestined 194 to a spiteful, evil, unbecoming 116. The big result says just as much about my ability at fake roster management as it does about a just and fair world. B Squared went through the entire season swindling and deceiving his way to the top of the league, and I went about my business smartly and coolly. While he was busy plotting ways to siphon points out of my weekly haul, I was planning a three-team trade so I could have the entire Patriots’ receiving corps on my team.

As the last two weeks showed, my plodding, consistent strategy outshone the Squares’ mockery of fantasy ethics. No one on my roster had breakout games that could have been chalked up to a fluke or dumb luck; instead, they all put up serviceable scores that added up to a big result.
B Squared, on the other hand, threw gameplanning out the window and put all his eggs into his cheating basket. He started running backs that were out for the year. He paid no attention to matchups or resting starters. B Squared’s entire strategy seemed to revolve around Tom Brady throwing for 400 yards and eight touchdowns and The B’s girlfriend at ESPN Fantasy fudging the final numbers in his favor.

The championship was basically sealed by the time Week 16 was over. Our two-week playoff rounds were nice inasmuch as they provided me two weeks to run up the score. I didn’t even feel any remorse; instead I was filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling, not unlike the one you get on a snowy Christmas morning sitting around a crackling fire eating cookies and opening presents. Yes, beating B Squared was a little like reliving the holidays except instead of sharing the time with family, I shared it with NFL players I have fake relationships with.

My dominating win was so fulfilling because it meant so much to me and my fellow league members. The Squared’s reign of terror was depressing and awful. We were tired of his sneaky wins and impossibly good autodraft luck. No matter what his opponent did week in and week out, there was always the possibility of B Squared pulling out a win if he wanted to. Living in fear of a man we’ve never met is a terrible way to live. You’re welcome, Toxic Treefrogs. Don’t mention it, Cali McLovin. It was my pleasure, Nebraska Football Freaks. This win was for everyone—everyone not named B Squared.

I took a great deal of personal accomplishment from my feat as well. Having an arch rival, one who stood for everything I stood against, was a thrilling experience. He challenged me to be at the top of my game every week to keep pace and keep things competitive. He made every transaction that much more meaningful, and he drove me to compulsive roster managing in the middle of the night. For 16 weeks, he ruined my life and made visiting ESPN.com a chore.

So you can imagine what a relief it was to beat him. I felt justified in all the time I wasted putting together my imperfect team. I was proud of the way I kept fighting through the cheat and lies and how I never got discouraged enough to mail in a performance or two.

I wish I could say the same about B Squared. It was obvious in our championship game that he knew he was beaten before it even began. I rode into our final on the white horse of purity, and he was nothing but a disingenuous fly on my finely combed mane. He gave up, plain and simple, knowing that he didn’t have what it took to beat me in a fair fight (or perhaps he didn’t see the point in having a fight that was fair). My football knowledge was better, my team name was more creative, my reputation was above reproach, and I smelled like success. Conceding the title was really his only option.

Cheating, as it turns out, can only get you so far.