Fantasy Football is more of a nightmare

 For me, when one mentions the word "fantasy," football does not immediately spring to mind. And I am certainly NOT a league type of girl...not bowling, not under the sea, and not of their own. 

When it comes to Fantasy Football, I am OUT of my league.

I admired the intent.

My son-in-law...seeking a way to bypass the three thousand miles that separates his wife from her parents...attempting to provide a common thread to link families who live on opposite coasts but now share kids in common...organized a Fantasy Football League for his family and our's. Brad and Savannah, students of statistics, sailed confidently into these strange seas. Wary, Sydney and I strapped on our water-wings and waded nervously into these unfamiliar waters. 

I quickly personalized my and Brad's game icons on the site...giving the very false impression that I was well-versed and comfortable with the platform. 

I wasn't.

And The Draft was looming. Complete with count-down clock.

I received a lot of well-intended advice (spoken in a language I did not understand). WR? White ring? West-side runner? I thought BN was a position. Well...technically it is. A player sits ON a bench. I was told, again and again, to not select a quarterback until later in the draft. 

Sure, sure.

I snagged Josh Allen first thing.

I picked players like I pick ponies for the Kentucky Derby:  Poetic names and personality.

That's how I ended up with George Kittle even though he's been on injured reserve since we started. Great smile. Fun hair. Makes me laugh.

Travis had been snatched up by Sydney's sister-in-law and then, out of nowhere, set adrift. Although the Mosiman household has no personal knowledge of this particular phenomenon, I have heard that (almost 😏) every man experiences a poor performance now and then. I would not hold one or two disappointing moves against my players. Welcome to the team, Travis.

Skattebo. Egbuka. Chubb. 

"Chubb?" Savannah asked.

"I was worried he'd been bullied as a child," I confessed.

I obviously wasn't well-versed in football but I fluently spoke the language of trash-talk. Douglas's brother, Gary, obviously astounded by my picks, offered some gentle commentary on the group chat until he was shut down by our league commissioner. 

Rarely am I put off by some good-humored banter but, boy, I was not ready for the Fantasy Football platform algorithm to go so relentlessly for the jugular. 

"Amy Armchair QB Xtraordinaire languishes in the depths of despair with a 2-5-0 record, clinging to ninth place like a life raft in a sea of mediocrity."

"A little advice for Amy Armchair QB Xtraordinaire: maybe focus on players who can actually score points instead of those who seem to think they're auditioning for a role in a fantasy football horror movie."

I was quickly ejected from my seventh place seat...the gravity of my choices pulling me down. 

Concerned (about me embarrassing the good Mosiman name), Brad and Savannah monitored my line-up constantly and provided unsolicited advice. Annoyed by their pity and (understandable) lack of faith in my abilities, I secretly sought the help of seasoned professionals.

Naively, I did not anticipate their relentless review of every update. 

Savannah:  Mom is refusing to set up her football team.

Brad:  She made a few changes about a half hour ago.

Savannah:  She wants to draft Travis. And get rid of Chubb. We can do better.

For the record...I did NOT want to get rid of Chubb but my consultants were adamant that some adjustments were necessary for my survival. 

So, in spite of my best efforts, my secret was out as my family questioned my making key moves during school hours. Poor Tyler had to miss church for weeks because he didn't want to have to lie in the House of the Lord after Brad threatened that he was going to ask Tyler if he was helping me. Little did my husband know that my other benefactor, Aaron, a three-time Fantasy Football grand champion, was sitting unobtrusively in front of us this Sunday morning, safe from lightning strikes or a hail storm of brimstone and fire, because he was safely off my Brad's hunting radar. 

This has been much too stressful.

At this point, I'd call 5th place a win. And a miracle.

"Not last" would be a blessing.

Not included next year would be the dream.

Please hold the line...your call will be ignored in the order it was received

 Worry always lurks, like an unblinking black spider, in the cob-webbed recesses of my mind. I am always conscious of it but can ignore its presence on occasion. And that's when Guilt, also ever-present, unsheathes its claws, catching me when I've ventured too far from the safety of my den.

I was having dinner with my friends, Allison and Katriel, before we were to attend a performance showcasing the talents of our acting buddy, Spencer. My cell phone alarm, reminding me to call my mother, went off at its usual time:  6 pm. I ignored it because I was in the middle of ordering creme brulee. As three spoons did battle, spearing one another to attain territorial control over the dessert, we could hear, as though from across a vast field, my name being called. "Amy Mosiman! Amy Mosiman!" 

Scanning the restaurant in confusion, our attention finally landed on my phone, housing the incessant shouting of my daughter, Sydney. She'd apparently been privy to our conversation of the last ten minutes until she finally demanded to be included in our social circle. To the best I can figure, when I had hit ignore on the alarm, it must have coincided with Sydney's incoming call. We were delighted for Sydney to join us. The girls demanded  that Sydney verify my story of killing my Kindle and my daughter did not disappoint...launching into a blow-by-blow description of how I tried to exorcise the demons from the device.

It was now nearly a half hour since I had ignored my mother.

Stepping out of the restaurant into the rain, I called her. The phone rang seven times. 

I always count the rings.

Finally, there was a clunky rattle like the phone had been knocked off the table.

The phone had been pulled off the table by its cord.

My heart sank as I could hear my mother crying.

For the record, I cry when my mother cries.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

"No," she gasped, "I fell."

How long had she laid there, alone, scared, helpless...while I ignored her and enjoyed my creme brulee?

Katriel and then, later, my husband, would argue that she very well could've fallen AFTER 6 and, if I had called her as scheduled, she would not have been discovered until bed-check.

But we'll never know, will we?

Those claws are sharp. And dig deep.

I told my mother that I needed to hang up to call the front desk but she begged me not to go. "I'm scared," she cried. I assured her that I would call her back. That help would be coming immediately. And that I loved her.

And I hung up on my mother.

I returned, shaken, to my table.

Allison and Katriel were ready to bound into action but I wanted to wait for word.

Word came.

It had been decided, that, since she was mobile, to wait until the morning to take her for medical treatment.

I hung up and sat there quietly, the spider in my mind, spinning frantically.

Allsion and Katriel had already gathered up our things and swept me up with them, out the door.

In the darkness, on the drive, I cried, most of the way to my mother's.

Katriel quietly pointed out what a blessing it was that we were only 25 minutes away rather than my usual hour and a half.

We arrived to my mother, curled up, lost in my Dad's big chair, groaning. 

We inspected the damage:  Bruised wrist, elbow, and hip.

"We need ice," I said, Katriel immediately disappearing to retrieve some. I made my mom some tea. Hugged her. Held her hands.

We applied the ice compress and sat quietly with my mom. My friend Cathy had made me some cookies that day and I watched as my mom nibbled at one...hating myself for ignoring my mother.

Katriel wondered about the ice on the hour and a half ride home in the dark.

"The facility will not administer ice or pain reliever without a doctor's consent," I told her...fully understanding her shock and confusion at this news. At our elementary school, ice is administered for slivers, sinus infections, and slips of the truth. In our world, ice makes everything better. Had Katriel and I not driven up...my mother, curled up in a little ball in Dad's chair...would have been alone...feeling helpless, embarrassed, frustrated, confused and in pain. This is not a criticism of Mom's facility. I am indebted to many of the staff members who care for my mother. It is an indictment of the healthcare system of America...that leaves its most vulnerable citizens without respect, dignity, or the care they need. 

And do I need to remind you...I ignored my mother. 

As I drove, away from my mother (gasping as the claws dug in again), I was grateful for my friends who knew, immediately, that nothing upstages my mother. Grateful for Spencer, who hurried to my classroom the next morning to ask how Mom was. I thanked God that Mom's injuries were not catastrophic. 

I didn't sleep that night...mind spinning...pulling claws out of my gut. 

I vowed that I would do better.

And then cried...because it would never be enough.

I'm sorry, Mom.

Dressing like "Little House" turned out to be seriously funny: What an oxymoron

I admit it. I have a soft-spot for my friend and colleague, Marissa. That is the ONLY explanation for how I was talked into this year's thematic group Halloween costume. She did it two years ago with Willy Wonka...pleading to be Violet as it would work perfectly with her pregnant belly. I'm a big Roald Dahl fan. Fascinating man. I'm NOT a big Roald Dahl genre-defying book fan. Scary weird. But because I am a big Marissa fan...I strapped on my suspenders, put on my top hat, twirled my cane and gave it a go. Vowing...never again.

But guess who's pregnant again?

With twins.

Sigh.

Cue up The Little House on the Prairie intro because this land wagon is about to set sail.

I won't lie. I really wrestled with the notion that I'd been relegated to humorless home spun from Olsen's
mundane mercantile; isolated to a world of outdoor plumbing and a Roald Dahl-less library. Did Walnut Grove even have a bar? 

We HAD to liven this up a little.

I thought I had the team convinced to cinematically re-create the iconic opening credits scene of the television show. But, suddenly, stubborn as mules, they dug in their prim pioneer heels and refused to film on the day that we were scheduled to meet our new team-mate, Spencer...worried about traumatizing her with our wonky weirdness. Spencer, as it turns out, is even wonky-weirder than us...firmly entrenched in the local theater's guild. Heaven-sent opportunity...lost. And, c'mon! Wouldn't that have made for the most AMAZING first meeting EVER!?!

IMAGINED CONVERSATION

"So, Spencer," asked her husband upon her return, "How did it go?" 

"Oh, okay, I guess," she'd have answered, shrugging. "They tossed me in a prairie dress, handed me a basket, made me skip downhill through a field of flowers and feign falling a thousand times." 

"They sound like terrific people," her husband obviously would have responded. 

But...no. Denied my way...AGAIN.

How on earth could we slip a little spice into this bland porridge of pioneers?

"We've got Nellie!" Marissa squealed, clapping her hands with delight, confident that I would see that this was certain to elevate our game. But a ringlet-ed little witch would not be enough. I was going to have to hitch my wagon to another set of stars.

Wait.

A wagon.

And....aaaaaaa-way, we go!

Everyone now (more or less) appeased, we got down to the business of planning the annual 4th grade, end-of-Halloween parade, dance performance. We select songs that mirror our team theme. At first, I despaired finding songs that the kids would enjoy that matched our "Little House" choice (Oh my gosh..."Our House" by Madness JUST popped into my head! Drat it! Another missed opportunity!) but it came together pretty effortlessly. Sweet Caroline. County Road. 

And Wagon Wheel.

"Do we dare use props?" I gasped.

Oh, yes.

We dare.

What could possibly go wrong? We only needed around 70 hula hoops. And to teach 9-year-olds to use them in perfect unison. And trust 9-year-olds to NOT play with them. No problem.

We'd worry about the inflatable costumes later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun slowly rose the morning of October 31st. Frost lightly blanketed the ground. A precipitous mist baptized the beginning of a day where the  spirits of children were atmospherically high. Adults would take note of the heavy, battle-gun gray clouds and, with jaws clenched, heroically nod in resignation. We avoided active eye contact with one another...not sure which one of our own would fall today. 

My team swiftly donned their modest garb and then met in my room to wrestle me into my outfit.

Katriel bravely guided each of my feet into the legs of my lumber-some oxen costume as it was busy inflating. Allison kneeled primly on the ground to double-tie my laces as I can't see my tootsies on a good day. Team assembled...we were ready!

Belatedly, I worried about my choice of musical transitions...The Blue's Brothers version of "Rawhide." We needed to liven it up some...but how?

So...as nearly seventy costumed 9 year-olds twirled imaginary lassos between each choreographed song, Mrs. Mosiman, dressed as a giant ox, was chased through fields of 4th graders by...Captain America. Makes sense...right?

Turns out that running around the gym in a giant inflatable ox suit, dancing manically in a giant inflatable ox suit, and pulling a wagon around in a parade in a giant inflatable ox suit was almost enough to give this poor girl a cardi-yak arrest! 

Next year, I plan to steer clear of inflatable costumes (and Marissa)!