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FUMBLE!

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By PAULINE HYLTON Special to the Tribune

Published: January 24, 2008

Last season was tough for my fantasy football team.

I didn't make it to the playoffs so I fired my general manager, Tom. (I retained him as my husband, however. Twenty-five years counts for something.)

In retaliation this year, Tom assembled his own team, the Leviathens, and our family of four competed head to head along with four other competitors.

The prize? A Wal-Mart football with the signatures of the previous years' champions.

More important, though, I was playing for pride. I was determined to beat Tom and show him I could win on my own.

Things started off on a positive note in September. When we tallied up our totals from the first week of the National Football League season, I came in first, and Tom was last.

That's right. After hours of planning and studying enough for an honorary degree, he had lost to his wife. A woman. Me.

"That's OK, Tom. You can live vicariously through me," I offered with a subtle smirk.

I didn't know then that it was the first of only two wins all season.

I honestly don't understand what went wrong. Was it faulty information from the experts?

I didn't follow my heart as I did last year. I followed the statistics and made my picks based on the advice of a popular sports magazine.

I had "Pretty Boy" Tom Brady and the New England Patriots' defense, but other than that, my team stunk!

My fantasy team also had its share of injuries, including my best receiver, Marvin Harrison of the Indianapolis Colts. Sure, his knee hurt and was facing the wrong way - but couldn't he still have played?!

I was a hard-working team owner. Week by week, I followed the NFL schedule and adjusted my players accordingly. Every Sunday, at our weekly football party, I watched three games simultaneously (via DirecTV and three cheap TV sets). I also followed StatTracker on the laptop along with the other team owners. When Frank Gore ran 10 yards for the San Francisco 49ers, I knew I'd scored a point. When Neil Rackers (named the NFL's sexiest man by Fox Sports) scored a field goal for the Arizona Cardinals, up popped my three-point addition.

I went from the heights of elation, which forced me to eat a chicken wing, to the depths of despair, which led me to eat more chicken wings. The weekly competitions were nerve-wracking and fattening.

Each Tuesday before school, my 16-year-old son, Micah, would greet me by asking who won the Monday night game. Then he would race to the computer to check his stats. Micah made the playoffs, but it was apparent by Week 10 that my daughter, Sarah, and I would not be moving on after the regular season.

By then, Tom's record was much better than mine. "That's OK, Pauline," he said. "You can live vicariously through me."

Ouch.

Tom made it to our fantasy league's championship game. His opponent was our league commissioner. Grudgingly, the kids and I decided blood was thicker than water and we would root for Tom.

The win hinged on the regular season's final Monday night game. Tom and the rest of the family went to bed early while I persevered to the wee hours of the morning - chicken wings in hand - to cheer for my husband. I fell asleep on the couch before the game ended and crawled to bed at 1 a.m.

The next morning, I eagerly suggested we check the stats to see whether he had won.

"I got up at 4 and checked. I won." Tom said. "Pretty amazing story: An unemployed GM gets his own team and goes straight to the Super Bowl."

I'm thinking fantasy football isn't for me. After three seasons of losing, maybe I should fire myself.

I wonder whether they'll still let me eat some of the chicken wings.

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