My Fantasy Football Widow

Let me start by saying, "Sorry, Bridget." Every year, it's the same. We spend the months of spring coming out of our cocoon, spending time Kindling in Harvard Yard and shuffling off to some vacation destination. During downtime, we spend our free time watching entertaining television -- stuff like the "The Newsroom" and "Happy Endings." (Please don't knock "Happy Endings" until you try it.) Then summer comes and we fill our schedule with more trips, exercise, weddings, romantic dinners, and care-free love. Sweet, right? Awww. They are so in love.

Then two words happen: fantasy football.

Now, I wouldn't call Bridget a fantasy football widow, but ... actually, yes I would. That's exactly what she is. Like so many loving, understanding partners, she stands quietly by as I pore over statistics and stress about whether to start Jordy Nelson or Eric Decker. (Seriously. If you're knowledgable, who should I use in Week 1?) And the thing about football is that it takes a while. It takes a while every Sunday and it takes a while every year. Provided my fantasy teams (I have two) don't stink, I'll be making lineup decisions up until Christmas.

I should pause and say something here: "Sorry, Bridget."

I started playing fantasy football 10 years ago. As a sportswriter in New Hampshire, I joined the league at our newspaper. I left the newspaper, but never left the league. And now, a decade into it, I head up to Keene once a year to see old friends, make my picks, and pretend this year will be different. (Spoiler: It never is. I stink.) I've been in several other leagues and now act as commissioner of my work league down here in Cambridge. And I absolutely love both of them. I love the trash talk. I love "owning" a whole new group of players every year. I love reading Matthew Berry's Love/Hate columns.

Now, it's not that I don't love Bridget when the season kicks off. I do -- very much -- but it's safe to say my priorities change a bit. Want to go out for dinner? I would, but the Saints kick off in 20 minutes and I have Brees. Want to take Oscar for a walk? I mean, I do, but I kind of need to watch Sidney Rice for the next three hours because I'm down by five points and he just needs to catch one damn touchdown.

So, again: "Sorry, Bridget."

Bridget, as always, does her best to like my hobbies or at least suffer what I'm doing. She'll sit next to me while I watch useless pre-game shows and does a great job of cooking up some delicious meals every Sunday around 2 p.m. But I know deep in her heart, she wishes her husband wasn't so into fantasy football. She wishes it was just a hobby and not an obsession. But, well, she kind of signed up for this when she said, "I do."

Someday, something may change. But for now, this is the best I've got, darling: "Sorry, Bridget."