I’m a Fantasy Football wife. Not a wife that is any man’s fantasy because she buys brats and makes nachos every Sunday afternoon,  takes the kids to the park during Monday night games or wears a team jersey and little else. No, I’m a wife who plays Fantasy Football, and let me tell you I’m no one’s fantasy once the games begin.

Thursday night the first NFL regular season game was delayed by a half hour and my first-round draft pick was playing. I actually got grumpy because a little bit of deadly lightening kept my Manning off the field. You know he has a particular way to warm up and if things don’t go just so-so, he could have an off game and that could be tragic for my team in week one. He didn’t,  it wasn’t and instead the outcome was awesome!

Are you following any of this? This is who I have become. . . and it’s no fantasy (or even a dream). I say I’m not going to care (so much), I’m not going to be glued to real-time scoring, that I’m not going to grimace because my two-year-old son wakes up while my tight end (that’s a player, not the state of my body for those of you who don’t have a clue) is having the game of his life. But as my husband pointed out, if you don’t care it isn’t any fun. Is this fun?

How did this happen? I only wanted to watch a little football (I don’t even understand all the rules or the crazy hand motions of the umpires referees) but my competitive nature just kicks in, the adrenaline starts pumping and somehow I’m living vicariously through a nine man roster of sweaty men in various uniforms. Vicariously???? I never even played football.

Maybe it’s the strategy behind picking a team and who to play each week. Get a good matchup, set the right lineup and I can be a hero. These ”little” football toting, helmet wearing  men are my pawns and they don’t even know if they made the cut. They have no idea I will drop their sorry behinds if they don’t perform properly, and that I’ll pick up some wet-eared newcomer who just had a great game or two. And believe me, I voice my disappointment at the TV on a regular basis — I can’t believe they don’t shape up (yes wide receivers, I’m speaking of you) and play straight.

So after the games are over and I squeak out a narrow victory or a slamming defeat, it’s all good.  I turn off the live scoring, I kiss my husband and I lovingly put my son to bed. I’m me again and all is well. . . no wait, there’s the waiver wire.  February, yes come next February,  I promise to put Mrs. Hyde back on the shelf.

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