I’ve joined my very first fantasy football league, and it’s just too much effort.
My family decided this was the year to spend September to April fighting over player trades and league rules, all while saying, “Who the hell thought this would be a good idea?” In other words, we are a part of the coveted, very competitive, fantasy football league.
And I’ve found myself facing horrific news: I now have 50 dollars on the line and know nothing about this sport.
Here’s what I have learned in my first three weeks as a football fan: football players cannot stay healthy for more than three days; players are somehow under police investigation and still available for pickup; and somehow players can earn negative points, which just feels mean.
Let’s start with draft day. I show up ready to pick my team based on names I’ve somehow heard and which uniform colours I like best; meanwhile, my cousins have gone through multiple mock drafts — which, to be honest, probably wouldn’t have helped me much — and have a binder full of possible player picks.
It looked like I just walked into NFL Draft Day and we were about to be making calls.
This should have been my first sign that I did not know what I had gotten myself into, but no, I pushed on. What I thought was going to be a fun day of my family helping me pick my team turned into every man for themselves.
Not to fear, I recruited help and did absolutely nothing to pick my team.
After the passive-aggressive hellscape that was drafting, we all moved to decide on a punishment for the loser. Because apparently losing money wasn’t enough; the pride really needed to take a hit as well.
The punishment suggestions ranged from embarrassing to genuinely concerning, and somehow my family had turned fantasy football into a full-scale psychological warfare experiment. I quickly realized that finishing last was no longer an option. I may not know what offside means, but I do know I do not want to finish dead last.
During week one, I really began to understand the errors in my actions. I was suddenly bombarded with setting lineups — what’s the point of drafting a team if I must do this every week — and watching my projected points go up and down all week.
In my anxiety-induced checking of how my team is doing, I started understanding my family’s NFL coach personas, and let me just say, for an app named “Sleeper,” God does this require a lot of effort.
To everyone’s surprise, I actually won my matchup in week one, which unfortunately meant that I was about to get really invested.
Week two saw an entirely new element of work, when I think every single person had at least one player get injured. While checking how your team is doing, apparently, you are supposed to also be looking at if they are even playing.
Suddenly, fantasy football became less about watching football and more about conducting medical research. Every notification was either “player scores touchdown” or “player has been placed on the injury report.”
There is something deeply humiliating about spending 20 minutes deciding who to start, only to find out at 12:58 p.m. that your wide receiver has been out for the last two hours.
And then there is the mysterious little “Q” next to the player’s name.
Questionable.
What does that mean? Is he playing? Is he not playing? Is he questionable because he has a concussion or because his coach woke up and felt mysterious?
Apparently, you are expected to know. And not only are you expected to know, but also to decide whether you should play him based on pure vibes.
The third week is where I discovered that fantasy football has its own version of gambling against yourself: benching a player. You don’t only have your starting lineup, but also another five players sitting on a metaphorical bench.
You can spend all week reading projections, checking matchups, looking at target share, listening to analysts and convincing yourself that you have made the smart decision.
Then Sunday arrives.
The guy you benched scores three touchdowns.
The guy you started gets four carries for nine yards.
For someone who didn’t even pick her own team, how am I supposed to decide who to replace my injured player with?
The answer is that I don’t. I have been lucky.
My final takeaways are that I’m invested, overworked and overwhelmed.
Between my brother and his girlfriend making questionable trades, my grandfather who bought an entire magazine on player stats and a mother using A.I. to figure out her lineup — don’t get me started on that — somehow, I am leading the league.
I guess what they say is true: hard work pays off.