I'm Going to War

And Isiah Pacheco is coming with me

I write this open letter to my family, my wife, my dogs, my friends, and every other soul who may not understand what’s coming. The draft nears and my number will get called. I hope for something in the 6 to 8 range, but that’s simply wishing for some window dressing as my train departs and my loved ones watch as I get carried away to the horizon by the start of the NFL season.

Readers could rightfully tell me that such a letter as this is, at a minimum, too soon. “It is only July,” these keepers of time bark at me. “You have 46 days before your league’s draft. An veritable eternity to put your affairs in order, aided by the relative simplicity you live your life from mid-February to late August.”

Indeed, I have time before my body, my fingers, my eyes, are required in front of three screens (i.e. live stats, game 1, game 2). However, my mind began pulling away weeks ago. I see what’s coming and I will not turn away.

Less charitably, readers could say such a letter as this is, at a minimum, too much. “It’s a game,” they, the predictable public preen. “You don’t have to do this.”

But I don’t criticize or mock these civilians. They have simply never had their blood stirred by the dreams of what could be.

The clock ticks down, marching ever closer to triple zero. This year I make a public, preseason vow, before the Gods of Football or Abraham.

I promise to write to my lovely wife whenever time permits. I don’t want to promise what I can’t deliver, though. Even a good week in October can be utterly derailed by a torn ACL on the 12-yard-line. I don’t want her to live for my highs or to sink into my lows. She must be kept on the home front. She can keep a cleaner conscience and sleep more soundly at night if she doesn’t know I’m trading Najee Harris, at his high, just before Week 5 to a rube falling for the mirage of Pittsburgh.

My love is needed at home, but my machinations are needed away.

She doesn’t know why I must go, but she understands that I must. Our trust is a trust I cherish; and I will equally cherish a locket with her picture as I scroll the waiver wires, seeking the primed mid-season breakout of a rookie wide receiver. Desperate men will call out for Keon Coleman, but I don’t pity the desperate. There is no pity in fantasy football, we don’t have the roster space.

I am confident I will return to my family, but I don’t allow myself to fantasize the details. I need not the parade of a victorious Roman general who merely vanquished Carthaginians. I will take the victories I earn, but I will not dwell on the possibilities. Not in July at least. And neither in September nor November. No, I can only focus on the here and now. The here and now, through 2024.

I vainly pray that my face doesn’t age as severely as many of the men who came before me. I’ve seen the sunken eyes of veterans and their 1000-yard stare, as images of Saquon Barkley’s sub-1000-yard seasons rattle around in their heads. I have seen what a Week One hamstring injury does to a man.

I know I will be a different man myself come December 30th and the final whistle blows, ending Week 17, around 8:30 p.m. PST. I will return home then. I pray that my wife will recognize my face and my dogs will recognize my scent.

30 million people engage in fantasy football each year, but we are not just statistics who go off to play. We are brothers, sons, friends, neighbors, and so much more. We fight against tyranny and oppression as these forces wield their iron rod over our leagues. The victors of yesteryear cannot be the determinants of destiny.

I hear the cries of Rams 51, Broncos 14 (Dec 25, 2022)…

The wailing of Lamar Jackson’s five touchdowns (Dec 31, 2023)…

Perhaps the screams were my own, but they’re in my ears all the same and must be answered in this life or the next. Every man of true valor and virtue will soon contend for the honor of putting Zach Moss in at the flex in so glorious a cause as justice.

So remember me as I am, my beautiful bride. You are the ship that will carry me safely home, the armor that will shield me from devastation, and the breath that comes into my body between games. Every Sunday sunrise is the light that shines from your eyes, and every Monday sunset the curve of your lips. Also, there are games on Thursdays.

Even now, as I conclude this letter, I hear your lovely voice as the lapping of waves upon a shore.

But I also hear, “Kyler Murray won’t drop all the way to the seventh round,” and I know l’ll have to pick him the fifth or get stuck with Brock Purdy.