Last night darling hubby held his annual Fantasy Football draft in our home. To those unfamiliar with this primal male practice (yeah, yeah, I know some women are involved too, but “primal male” always makes me picture men in a circle beating their hairy chests shouting Argh Argh and being all powerful and manly and stuff, k?), a group of men gather with their stash of football magazines, “insider” information, printouts from sports websites, spreadsheets, paper, pens, and beer. And meatballs.  And shout Argh Argh.  But I digress.

So our men draw cards to decide who gets to go first in the draft. Just like the pros. Well, the pros don’t sit at a kitchen table and draw Bicycle playing cards, but I mean they go in a specific order. ‘Cept the pros go by the Suckiest Team Ever for Last Year. My favorite team has been able to go first or nearly first for a really long time. Maybe Parcells will make this change. Either that or I’m going down to Miami and applying for the quarterback position. I think I can do better.

I digressed again. Anyways, so #1 (or the Ace) gets to pick his player first. You can see him quiver in anticipation of getting to be first.  Like the shot heard ’round the world, two little initials that every man in every draft wants to be able to say first, are shouted out like a old lady with blue hair screaming BINGO!   LT, if you get hurt this year, millions of men will singlehandedly (is it singlehandedly if millions do it? I dunno… but I digressed again) increase the stock of Budweiser by drowing their sorrows in alcohol. Be safe, my man. Be safe in your Journey.  I will pray for you.

That man sits back, looking smug, and sighs with relief.  And I’m sure he’s close to needing a smoke even if he’s never picked up a cigarette in his life.  Yes, he would say it’s as good as sex, at this very moment.

And so it goes, A through K, and back down again, until finally the “dregs” of the NFL are chosen for their team.   So now each man, glassy-eyed in anticipation of the season starting, has a roster that they think is the Best of Any Man, anywhere, in the world. Really. It’s perfect. Their quarterback will have more completions and will run in more touchdowns than any other QB ever. Their defense will sack the opposing team’s quarterback at least 6 times a game, and intercept double digits each week.  And on and on.

And in a few weeks it will begin.  Let me first say, I am a HUGE football fan.  I know all the fancy words that Madden spews each week (“all he needs to do is throw the ball and they can score”), and I can follow all of the commentator’s pretty drawings all over the screen, that are clearly there to help the men that have to stay out of the Circle of Manly Men until they grow chest hair.  So, I’m a fan.  I love to watch football.  But I love to watch the WHOLE game.  Like, the Steelers vs. the Dolphins.

I don’t wanna watch for Roethlisberger vs. Miami Defense. 

This is what a Fantasy Football Widow has to listen to for three hours every Sunday afternoon, Sunday evening, Monday night, and sometimes Thursdays.  It no longer matters who actually WINS the games, don’t be ridiculous!  It no longer really even matters what the scores are, although that does play a part in the QB’s, or RB’s, or defense, or a plethera of other players’ ultimate individual points.  They get so many points for a pass, for how many yards it is, for the kicks, for the interceptions, blah blah blah. 

I give points for cute butts, but the guys refuse to add that as a category.  Whatever.

Anyways, then begins the Cursing.  The trades that fail.  The beadie-eyed scanning of injury reports posted on the Internet.  The rush to submit your latest lineup.  The aggravation when you realize your running back’s team is on a bye week.  The grumpiness for an hour after every game.  The shouting at the TV because the QB threw to Bob’s player instead of yours.  The concern over the injury – not really for the player, mind you, but for the lost points that week that may have pushed you into first place for the League. 

Why, you ask, do I not participate in Fantasy Football?  Well, I don’t want these Chest-Beating Men to be deflated when a woman kicks their collective arses for the year.  *grin*

Ah, football.  How I miss you.