It started out fun.
I’d never participated in fantasy football before, but the wife suggested (rightly) it’d be a cool thing to do with Emmett, our 9-year-old son. So, OK, we signed up at NFL.com, joined a league. Emmett picked our name (the Mahopac Gatorsaurs—Mahopac for my boyhood home, Gatorsaurs for the merging of an alligator and a dinosaur), and the draft was fun and frantic and genuinely fantastic. We landed some terrific players (Odell Beckham, Jamal Charles, Peyton Manning) and anticipated fun, fun fun.
Which, eh, it sorta has been. We check the stats, make adjustments, bemoan the fall of some (Peyton didn’t last long) and the rise of others (we were fortunate to have drafted Cam Newton and signed Carson Palmer). But, as the weeks pass, our fantasy experience has grown a bit dull. And tedious. I’m tired of caring whether Michael Crabtree had a good game, or how healthy Chris Ivory looks heading into a week. Nobody ever bites on trades, and the free agent market … well, who gives a shit? They’re not real free agents. It’s all just a joke. A game. We’re not even playing for money.
I don’t know if we’ll do it next season. As I write this, the Gatorsaurs are 8-2, but about to fall to 8-3. I’m guessing the playoffs might be exciting, and a championship could inspire another dip.
Truthfully, though, I prefer tossing the ball around outside our house.
It feels much more real.
