Fairly early on in our relationship my wife got a sense of how committed (she might say obsessed) I was with fantasy football. We were on a holiday and I spent the better part of an hour one day using the weak Wi-Fi signal from the resort’s bar so I could make free agent acquisitions and agonize over setting my lineup.
With this, as with all the sports I enjoy, she’s tolerated me (“I just tune it out,” she says), and for that I am very grateful. And with bemusement, she’ll lend her support when it’s needed on “football Sundays,” which is those Sundays between September and December.
I don’t go so far as insisting we need to be near the TV all day. But it’s not beyond me to enlist my wife’s help with finding the game on the car radio. She’s even had to learn to navigate my fantasy league’s mobile app so she can make last-minute lineup changes for me.
Yesterday was a decisive day in my fantasy season, in the league I’ve been competing in for 14 years, with guys I’ve known since highschool. I won’t bore you with the intricacies of the league I play in (but message me if you want to know more) but if things didn’t go my way I’d be sent down to play in a league one level below my own (told you it was intricate).
My wife doesn’t pretend to understand. But she tolerated my stress and even offered to go get groceries on her own so I could sit staring back and forth between my laptop and the TV, worrying about an outcome I had no control over. While I cut up some chicken and fruit for the week (while still staring at the TV), she has given me plenty of leeway to follow the games. Every little thing counts. I wasn’t sure I was safe in the league until tonight, but looks like we did just enough to pull it off. I’m sure she’s looking forward to next season as much as I am.