All around me there are Wildcards fluttering and I’m finding it unsettling.
With every Tom, Dick and Harry Redknapp showing me their teams, I’m receiving a daily barrage of squads thrust in front of me – all looking far better equipped than mine to deal with the challenge ahead.
I thought my unashamed back-peddling on Zlatan would be enough to keep me content.
Certainly I’m approaching today’s late kick-off feeling far more comfortable having welcomed the Swede’s swagger into my dressing room.
Last Friday, as I witnessed him stroll to a brace against Southampton, I felt alarmingly exposed and vulnerable. That bullet header was a low blow; the second half penalty an even lower rabbit punch. I couldn’t leave myself open to another beating from Zlatan.
But Monday night’s second transfer spent on Barkley didn’t come so easy. I was nervy about the early trade ahead of Tuesday’s Cup tie, knowing that it’s a rookie error to bring a player in before a midweek run-out.
Having leaped that pitfall, I’m now prepared to sit through today’s early kick-off, fidgeting uncomfortably whilst Roberto Firmino, the player I shunned, conducts matters for Liverpool at White Hart Lane.
I don’t need Jonty nagging me with a stats table to tell me that Firmino has a “goal imminent”. I only hope that he isn’t so cruel as to time it perfectly to coincide with his exit from my squad. That would be unkind, almost personal.
Despite the trepidation, I really was happy with my squad until the Wildcard wavers came knocking.
I look on their reconstructed set-ups, with their 4.0 goalkeepers and optimised defence, and wonder if I too should hit refresh.
There’s always a temptation to deal the Wildcard prior to the international break but I almost need a crisis to prompt it. A Jonny Evans injury doubt just doesn’t cut it – that was almost booked in the moment I signed him.
It was so straightforward a year ago. I was floundering outside the top two million, desperately queuing for the Riyad Mahrez bus, having missed the first two and watching on anxiously as the ticket price shot up.
After my comfortably mediocre start and my quick act of self-defence to meet Zlatan’s blows, I’m currently fine. Just fine.
There’s no blazing fire to put out but I can’t help but feel that my squad looks set to gently simmer, whilst the Wildcard bunch bubble furiously to the boil.
Unless it’s dealt in this window, I know I will struggle to justify the timing of my Wildcard.
I will keep it in reserve like a comfort blanket to snuggle when I dip below the Gameweek average, imagining that it’s a silver bullet that will eventually help me to slow those edging further and further away from me each Gameweek.
In the absence of catastrophic events, it will likely be played to make three or four meaningless transfers before Christmas, one of which will be to finally rid myself of permanently flagged Jonny Evans.
My only option is to plan a disaster; perhaps schedule the complete combustion of my squad in October so that I have a decent reason to scrap the lot and rebuild.
So that’s booked in – utter misery and despair, plunging me into depression that will ultimately lead to my partner and children giving up on me – will come my way in October. Then I will deal my Wildcard to fix it.
Sorted. Now I feel much better.
