You can feel it in the air. You can sense it in the streets. Quiet whispers give way to silence. The sound of crinkling papers can be heard, but upon entry into the room, everything is gone. You talk to someone, but there is obviously no one home. Their eyes glaze over, staring off into the distance, and quietly, just below their breath, they give themselves away by saying, “When am I going to pick a quarterback?”
It is fantasy football time again, in case you aren’t aware, fantasy football is the single greatest thing ever. Sliced bread, don’t need it. Caffeine, can do without. If the entry fee for my league were a small, blonde haired boy, Amy and I would be alone again. (If you think this is sad and pathetic, don’t worry. I am planning on winning this year, and the likelihood that we would get Malcolm back at the end of the season is pretty good.) If fantasy football were a large hairball, I would cradle it in my arms and tell it that I love it. If, god forbid, fantasy football fell into a pit full of urine and shit, I would jump in after it. Smiling. Fantasy football has a hold over me, and I am not alone.
Some people are just not that into fantasy football (or reality football, or any football for that matter). We have a special word for these people, “wives.” For a while, I tried to sell the experience to Amy, as if it were some kind of good thing. I would tell her that I was attempting to become a subject matter expert on something and that she should applaud me regardless of what that subject matter is. I told her that is was a good, structured way for me to spend some bonding time with my friends. I even told her once that I met a little boy in the hospital and his dying wish was for me to draft his favorite tight end in the eighth round. She didn’t believe any of those, and now I draft a team (or two) and watch the games with my friends, but spend a lot of capital to do it. (It is so totally worth it. And to think, George W used his capital on a couple of wars and a crappy ass Medicare prescription drug plan!)
My draft is Sunday. We are coming home early from a three day weekend to attend it. I will shortly start losing sleep running scenarios through my head. Once the season starts, I will leave my wife and son each Sunday to watch games and make fun of the other competitors. I will lose more sleep thinking about who to trade and chastise myself for drafting certain players and not drafting others. This will continue for the whole season until the sad, sad day, when my team is eliminated from title contention. That day, when I come home, Amy will tell Malcolm that “daddy’s back!” Of course it will be a lot harder for him to take if I have to explain why I had to use him as entry fees into the league, but I am hoping he will be excited nonetheless.
Tags: fantasy football
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