It’s football season again, which means it’s fantasy football season. I don’t play but my husband does. Just as the leaves changing colors signal autumn, there are subtle signs in our house that Fantasy Season has arrived.
Sign 1: Lots of yelling at the Internet. I know it’s draft day when my husband comes home from work early and yells at the Internet when it cuts out one minute before he has the second pick.
Sign 2: Muttering into the iPad. Evenings together now consist of him staring at his Yahoo app on his iPad and muttering about wide receivers on the injured list or who he can trade for RG3.
Sign 3: The Thursday Night Freak Out. Fantasy teams this year have to be set by Thursday night. I’m sure that on at least four separate weeks during football season he will realize at 7 p.m. during his commute home that he has forgotten to shuffle his roster. The Thursday Night Freak Out will commence.
Sign 4: The Sunday Afternoon Agony. My husband is a die-hard Redskins fan, but the magic of Fantasy Football gives him a stake in every NFL game. Sundays are spent watching the Skins on TV and obsessively checking the iPad during commercial breaks for other players’ stats. Much cursing and muttering ensues.