We’re at the business end now. Each every decision feels weighty with critical choices on every turn.
It’s about now that the contest between real life and Fantasy Football begins to escalate. With a nosebleed-inducing rank within reach and the pressure to progress building, I need to somehow find extra research time. I need to watch more football. Sacrifices need to be made.
Things have gone well but this season has stretched me. I feel it’s been gruelling and that I’ve had to work for every green arrow. Almost every transfer and captain decision seems to have come packaged with anxiety.
Let’s be honest, we’ve hardly been gifted with obvious value targets and, with Sergio Aguero rendered an unreliable firecracker; we’ve not even had a regular go-to captain option.
We’ve actually had to think. It’s all been rather inconvenient.
This morning’s decisions are typical of the dilemma’s thrown our way. The captaincy looks to be a complex, almost no-win scenario for me.
On paper, home ties for Alexis Sanchez and Zlatan Ibrahimovic make it a straight head-to-head choice.
But Arsenal face a Hull City side that now seem specialist spoilers, capable of parking a bus so cumbersome, I worry that even Sanchez will struggle to find a way around it.
Wednesday’s looming tie with Bayern also prays on my mind. Even if the Gunners do navigate around Marco Silva’s regimented rearguard, if we start seeing goals, Arsenal may just drop down the gears and may even replace key men.
Then there’s United at Old Trafford, still apparently struggling to cut loose and put opponents to the sword. Why, after serving us so well, do I still doubt Zlatan’s ability to deliver a big score at home to Watford?
I can’t quite fathom it, but there’s just this lack of trust surrounding Jose Mourinho’s side. Three goals in three at Old Trafford is hardly steller form, but this is Watford; I should really have faith in Zlatan.
I feel myself drawn to take a risk. I’m not able to entertain the idea of following the Jesus bandwagon without major surgery, so instead, I’m actually considering Gylfi Sigurdsson.
It’s surely an unnecessary gamble when I have two heavy-hitters at home in very winnable fixtures, and yet the urge to back Sigurdsson has been with me all week. It remains palpable even now, an hour before deadline.
But there is another factor at play.
Ignore both Sanchez and Ibrahimovic and I’ll be subjected to a Saturday watching both torment me with pot shots and near misses.
I’ll suffer a tumultuous afternoon knowing that I’ll be unable to salve any wounds by soaking up Sigurdsson’s performance on Sunday: my day is already booked out for my son’s fifth birthday party.
I can probably sneak off now and again. If I make tonight’s takeaway curry extra hot, I could set up a convincing alibi for frequent “required” trips to the little boy’s room and snatch sections of the match.
Listen to me. A 45-year-old man laying the groundwork to build excuses for spells of absence at his five-year-old son’s party, all so that he can sit on a toilet to watch his ill-judged captain pick save his Gameweek.
Years later, when I look back on photos of my son’s birthday, his cherubic face blowing out his five candles, I’ll remember it as the day Sigurdsson delivered me four points.
That’s pretty low. Particularly when I could just captain Sanchez or Ibrahimovic and spare myself the anguish.
This might be the business end but this is all just shady business.
Do yourself a favour – captain one of the big two and leave me to my own dark thoughts and stupidity.
