As I have related before, my first year of Fantasy was easily my most obsessive. I was expecting my first baby in November, so I did kill a lot of time in my doctor’s waiting room researching players, comparing stats, and trash-talking. It definitely wasn’t boring. On the highest of estrogen highs, and with active discouragement from my husband, I became a Fantasy fanatic.
I could hardly wait for the weekend to see how the storylines would play. I remember being thrilled as Darren Sproles lit a fire under the Chargers (because it’s not the size of the dog in the fight) while rookie Percy Harvin snagged balls thrown by a man old enough to be his father. The intrigue was pretty much endless. And it was all easily accessible from my smartphone. What a world!
In the small hours of a Sunday morning, our son came into the world, just in time to celebrate the firing of Charlie Weis as Notre Dame’s head football coach. Following the gushy new-baby routine, I caught a nap, glanced to see that the child was still breathing, and settled in for the really important stuff: setting my line-up. The nurse stepped in and smilingly asked whether I was “texting everyone the good news.” I told the truth. She seemed to think I was weird, or something. Some people, right?