I remember the moment as if it happened just yesterday. I was almost nine years old and my parents sent me and my brother away to sleepaway camp that summer. I was a pretty independent kid, so the idea of living away from home for a few weeks was pretty exciting. I packed everything that was on the list my mom gave me into my duffel bag, but all I really cared about was that I had my Yankees cap and my two favorite t-shirts -- my New York Yankees No. 15 Thurman Munson t-shirt and my other New York Yankees No. 15 Thurman Munson t-shirt.

Yeah, that’s right. I loved him so much, my mother knew if left to my own devices, I would have worn my Munson t-shirt every day. So she got me a second one to wear while the first was in the wash. He was my favorite Yankee and even at a young age, I knew there was some inexplicable connection to him that I felt.

Then one night after lights-out, I got up out of my bunk to go use the bathroom. I walked past the counselors’ bunk and heard one of the guys ask, “Who died?” “Thurman Munson,” said another. “Wow. Really?” “Yeah. He was flying his own plane and it crashed.” I was stunned. Probably went into shock, though at the time I had no idea what that was. I just stood there crying. I didn’t make a sound, I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t move.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, but I remember one of the counselors came outside, saw me standing there and asked why I wasn’t in bed. I couldn’t muster the words to answer him. I just stood there in my favorite Munson t-shirt and continued to cry. He called out to my counselor Robbie, asked him to come out and take me back to my bunk. When Robbie saw me, he knew.

“Did you hear us talking?”

I nodded.

“About Thurman Munson?”

I nodded once more and proceeded to break down again. I couldn’t stop crying and it was getting harder to breathe. Robbie hugged me tight and tried to get me to calm down. I learned at a very young age what a panic attack was all about and finally, after hours of trying to get me to relax and take some deep breaths, Robbie and the camp nurse were forced to call my parents who ultimately had to come pick me up in the middle of the night and take me back home.

Munson was my everything. To me, he was the greatest catcher to ever play the game. To me, he was the reason the Yankees won the World Series in 1977 and 1978. While every other kid was fawning over Reggie Jackson, I knew that Munson was the heart and soul of my favorite team. Other people were fans of the game; fans of the team and its players. I loved Thurman Munson.

Now THAT’S a man-crush.

Had I played the game of fantasy baseball back then, I would have drafted Munson no matter what. I probably would have taken him the first chance I could for fear of not having him on my team. Trade him away? Never. Not for anything.

As an adult playing fantasy baseball, I understand how silly that sounds. This is a game steeped in statistics. If you have the best numbers, you score the most points, you win the game. This is a business. It’s not personal and there is absolutely no place here for man-crushes of any kind. In fact, it’s actually a term that gets haphazardly thrown around nowadays and its meaning doesn’t even carry the same weight it once did. You can fall in love with a player for the type of person he is, the game he plays and what he brings to the table. It’s about his character, not his numbers. You man-crush on a person, not his statistics.

A man-crush nowadays is just an excuse for being too chicken to trade away a player who posts strong numbers. These jackasses sporting a Bryce Harper jersey and bragging about having him for cheap in a dynasty league don’t have a man-crush on him. They love his production on the field and his fantasy price tag. That’s it.

They don’t love him. They probably don’t even like him. And the only reason they’ll even defend him for being such a douche in real life is to make themselves look less douchey for running around in a jersey that bears the last name of another man. Amy Schumer said it best – it makes them look like that guy’s little bitch.

Even worse is when these jackasses are in your fantasy baseball league. They’re impossible to deal with. I mean impossible. When someone tells me they have a man-crush on a player, I immediately balk at potential trade negotiations. It’s not even a hard-sell. It’s an impossible one. And if they have the guy’s jersey? Oh man, are you in trouble! Don’t even waste your time. You’d be better off trying to sell a ketchup popsicle to an Inuit in a white dress.

Fantasy baseball has no place for these overgrown bros. This is a thinking man’s game. This game takes skill. It takes intelligence. There is no place for love and there is certainly no place for the bullshit man-crush you claim to have.