There was a time when Sundays were relaxing. I’d sleep in a little, maybe get a few things done around the house and settle in to watch some football.

Those days are gone.

Now, my entire emotional well-being depends on whether a grown man I’ve never met can carry a football across a painted white line.

Welcome to fantasy football, where perfectly rational adults become emotionally unstable over the performance of millionaires who have absolutely no idea we exist.

I don’t know who thought this game was a good idea, but I’d like a word with them.

I play in a six-team league, which should theoretically mean everyone has a pretty good roster. And I do. On paper, my team is fantastic.

Unfortunately, fantasy football isn’t played on paper. It’s played on a field where my players apparently go to forget everything they’ve ever learned about football.

Take Nico Collins, for example. He’s a talented receiver. I know this because I’ve watched him catch footballs before. I’ve seen the highlights. I’ve studied the statistics.

So naturally, when I put him in my starting lineup, he becomes virtually invisible.

But here’s the beauty of fantasy football. The minute I bench him, he’ll probably have 150 receiving yards and three touchdowns.

It’s practically a law of nature.

And don’t even get me started on injuries.

Good grief, gentlemen. Have any of you considered stretching?

Maybe a little yoga? A banana? Some extra water?

I’ve never seen so many hamstrings, ankles, knees and shoulders fall apart in my life. And I’m old. 

Every week, it’s something.

One minute I’m feeling pretty confident about my lineup. The next, ESPN has slapped a giant questionable designation next to half my roster.

Questionable? What does that even mean, other than it’s time for me to start questioning my life choices???

Are you playing? Are you not playing? Is your ankle actually injured, or did you just sleep on it wrong?

I need answers. Preferably before kickoff.

Breece Hall has become a particular source of anxiety. Is he playing? Is he limited? Will he get enough touches? Should I start him?

By Sunday morning, I’ve checked his injury status so many times I’m practically qualified to give the team medical updates.

Then there’s Josh Jacobs, another player whose availability has required entirely too much of my attention.

At this point, I spend more time worrying about the physical health of professional football players than I do my own.

And I’m the one who actually needs to remember to stretch. I’m old.

The emotional roller coaster begins well before Sunday.

Tuesday is optimism day. I examine my roster and convince myself that next week will be different.

Wednesday, I’m researching matchups.

Thursday, I’m second-guessing everything.

Friday, I’ve probably asked ChatGPT approximately 37 questions about who I should start. Its answer? Different every single time. Let’s make up “our” mind, shall we?

Saturday, I’m confident I’ve assembled a championship-caliber lineup.

Sunday, by approximately 12:17 p.m., I’m wondering why I ever got involved in this nonsense.

And the worst part? I can’t stop watching.

I’ll have three games playing, my fantasy app open and my phone in my hand, refreshing scores as though the extra effort might somehow produce another touchdown.

If my quarterback throws an interception, I take it personally.

If my running back gets tackled at the 1-yard line, I feel betrayed.

If my receiver catches a touchdown pass, I’m suddenly in a fantastic mood.

Life is beautiful. The sun is shining. Everything is right with the world.

Until I discover the touchdown was called back for holding.

Then I’m right back to questioning every decision I’ve ever made.

My husband plays fantasy football, too, which adds an entirely different layer of entertainment to our household.

We can be sitting on the same couch watching the same game, and one of us is celebrating while the other is contemplating throwing the remote.

He’ll be cheering for a touchdown while I’m yelling, “Not THAT guy!”

While we always cheer each other on and want the other to do well......in theory.....there’s nothing quite like watching your husband enjoy a wonderful fantasy football Sunday while your own team is slowly disintegrating.

Marriage is about supporting each other through good times and bad.

Fantasy football apparently tests how seriously you meant those vows.

Then there are the projections.

Oh, the projections.

ESPN will confidently tell me I’m expected to score 145 points and have a 72% chance of winning.

Wonderful! I’m feeling great! Get ready for some serious taunting, opponent!

Four hours later, my projected score has dropped to 91, and I’m desperately hoping my kicker can somehow produce 26 points.

I’ve learned that fantasy projections are basically weather forecasts. They look promising until reality shows up.

Perhaps the most ridiculous part of this entire obsession is that none of it actually matters.

I’m not coaching an NFL team, although sometimes I wonder if I should be. I have no actual control over who gets the ball, who gets injured or whether my quarterback decides to spend an entire afternoon throwing passes to the other team.

Yet somehow, the outcome can dictate my mood for the rest of the day.

A win? I’m delightful.

A loss by three points because my running back fumbled in the fourth quarter? Probably best to give me a little space.

And if I lose because I benched someone who scored 35 points?

Don’t speak to me until Tuesday.

The truth is, I love football. I love the competition, the strategy and the excitement of watching a close game.

Fantasy football just takes all that enjoyment and adds a completely unnecessary layer of stress.

But will I quit?

Absolutely not.

I’ll be right back next Sunday, studying matchups, checking injury reports and convincing myself that this is finally the week everything comes together.

Because somewhere deep down, I know my team is capable of greatness.

If everyone would just stay healthy, catch the football and score a few touchdowns. Is that really so much to ask?

Seriously, guys.

Try stretching.

Yvonda Freeman is a reporter for the Great Bend Tribune and currently in first place in her Fantasy Football League. Email her at yfreeman@gbtribune.com.