To my husband, this is serious business. For five odd years, my beloved has bullied, coaxed and sweet talked me into the annual drama that is fantasy football. Every year, when I invariably lose, I swear that I will never do it again. Yet, every year, I find myself here again.
It’s draft day.
In fact, in less than an hour, there will be universal pandemonium in my family room. We will be sitting on our respective couches with his and hers laptops - it’s almost like we’re playing Battleship. An air of tense panic and adrenaline fueled excitement will settle over the room (the tense panic belonging to me, the excitement to Dan, who thrives in these situations). The dogs will eventually flee once we start laughing at the picks our friends and fellow league-mates choose.
My sweet husband has suggested that I spend this last 45 minutes researching players and taking notes. I think he really believes that I can soak in 3 months of neglected football information in that amount of time. Instead, I elect to blog the moment: These final few peaceful minutes before football irrevocably reenters my life.
The quote that adorns my husband’s personal team page:
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