I hate fantasy football.

Every year I want to quit, and yet every year my so-called ‘friends’ pull me back in.

Because of fantasy football I now know more about groin injuries and calf strains happening in other people’s bodies more than I’m aware of ailments within my own.

Because of fantasy football I can tell you who the fifth-string wide receiver is on a losing team is, even though we’ll never actually see that guy get on field. EVER.

Fantasy football affects my productivity at work because I’m busy fielding trade offers, researching potential player pick-ups, and researching forthcoming match-ups. And reading about those aforementioned groin strains.

Fantasy football once caused me to take my laptop to a bar on Sunday so that I could truly keep up to date on how my team was faring. TO A BAR. Thank goodness for my iPhone fantasy football app. I can’t ever repeat that display of dork mastery.

Fantasy football interferes with normal dinner table conversations. Instead of asking my wife and kids about how their days were, I instead find myself asking them things like whether they think the 49’ers defense will be able to hold up against a high-powered Denver offense.

Fantasy football causes me to cheer for individuals rather than the team (though to be fair this isn’t all that different to the approach I take regarding my daughter’s weekend soccer games).

Fantasy football has been the ridiculous cause of heated arguments and debates between some of my oldest, dearest friends. I’ve held grudges for years against some of these guys because of a trade that fell through, a loss I suffered, or, more often than not, due to some imagined slight I manufactured while looking at my fantasy team’s miserable league standings.

Fantasy football causes me far more stress and anxiety, and takes up far more of my time than it ever should.

And yet I can’t stop, because I love that damn game.

I hate fantasy football.