Iām so worried about my Wildcard flopping, I decided to leave the country.
These words are typed from a balcony on Spain, on the coast of Andalucia. Such surrounds really should provide ample distraction from any Fantasy Football concerns: I should be relaxed and fully engaged in holiday mode on my own āinternational breakā. My concerns should be limited to the layers of factor-40 on my two-year-old red-headed son and the fact that the resort have given us a faulty coffee machine. You know, real first world stuff.
Instead, Iām contemplating Nacer Chadliās consistency and whether itās a week too early to be calling on the luxury item that is Leighton Baines. While Iām working to convince my family otherwise, deep down I know that my Wilcard will ensure that, mentally, the weekend is a write-off.
As soon as a ball is kicked back home, my mind will be wandering off: at lunchtime, while Iāll be sat in the sun watching leathery German tourists wrestle with the locally crafted Paella, my head will be under grey clouds at the Walkers Stadium, where pasty Midlanders chomp on Balti Pies. This weekend Iāll be dividing my time between these two very different worlds ā I wonāt really be joining my family until Monday, at the earliest. Even then, my Wildcard probably dictates just what kind of a mood Iāll be in for the week that remains: thereās a lot at stake in the next two days.
My ability to enjoy this sunny haven will probably rely on Messrās Chadli and Baines, among others. Theyāll decide if I can park my Fantasy line-up until wheels hit the Gatwick tarmac on Friday, or if the frustrations of a wasted Wildcard will have me turning to āwhat might have beenā and points hits strategies to repair the damage.
I can’t help but beat myself up about this ridiculous scenario: I should be capable of taking a holiday. I have to wonder what would take the place of this ānonsenseā in my head if Fantasy Football wasn’t part of my “life”. Then I realise that it would probably be that broken coffee machine. That makes me feel better.
