It’s difficult to embarrass yourself as a Fantasy Football manager.
There’s no real opportunity to headbutt a player on the touchline, burst into song during a press conference or publicly liken a journalist to an ostrich.
However, it’s far from impossible. I’ve gone and proved it.
Just 12 hours ago, I demonstrated some simple steps that illustrate just how a Fantasy Football manager can humiliate themselves in the space of a few mouse clicks.
Notebooks out – here’s how I “managed” it…
It was a rare evening out in London, away from the family. Pushed for time and hurried by the prospect of missing an overnight price rise, I quickly flipped open the laptop in a Soho coffee shop to make my Gameweek transfer.
I was meeting a friend (a barely maintained relationship) and a late night beckoned. I couldn’t trust myself to wait: with my brain and fingers likely to be dulled by alcohol, I didn’t fancy fumbling with the mobile to make a midnight transfer. I had to act now.
The steps were simple – Toby Alderwerield was the target, with Jeffrey Schlupp shown the door.
I’d left it to the last possible moment, patiently waiting on the Belgian to come through Tottenham’s Europa League tie unscathed. There was no confirmed Friday team news from Pochettino, but I couldn’t wait any longer.
It only took a few seconds. Bang. Done.
Then came the horror.
Two clicks and the screen refreshed. Jeffrey Schlupp was still on my bench. My eyes had been blinded by the blue shirts and I’d mistakenly swapped out Kurt Zouma.
The next fifteen seconds saw me frantically click the back button in disbelief that I’d actually confirmed my transfer. My attempts to rescue the situation were, not surprisingly, futile.
There then followed the blind panic. For a moment I actually thought about scribing a pleading email to the Fantasy Premier League to explain my mistake. Like that actually would help reverse the situation.
Ten seconds later, I simply transferred out Schlupp and brought back Zouma. I’d corrected the error. Or made matters worse.
I hadn’t even entertained the idea that perhaps I should leave Schlupp and ponder the situation and my remaining free transfer further. I just couldn’t stand the prospect of Jeffrey staring at me from my bench.
It was one ridiculous mistake, probably followed by another.
If Toby Alderweireld blanks or gets sent off and Schlupp starts and scores, this chain of events is going to haunt me.
Then again, if you look at my squad in the aftermath, nobody can tell. I’ve covered my tracks. Only those who bother to delve into my transfer history will realise the true nature of my blunder.
I’ll have to live with it, but, once I’d smashed my own face into a wall with frustration a few times, I felt fine. A few pints of overpriced London lager helped me sleep.
This morning, nobody can shame me. It’s my little stupid secret.
