The Morning After / Juwan Tee'z Nutz

Last night was pretty good. A local watering
hole and a few fellow members of the 2026
4692 Fantasy League Draft. The rest online
and in contact via chat. Wings, burgers, and
greasy cellphone screens.

Life was good fourteen hours ago.

Now I wake up and examine my roster.

Fuck.

Last night, I was sure I was heading home
with the homecoming queen. Now I look
over and see a wonk-eyed hooker named
Starla with bad skin and gin breath.

What the fuck have I done?

I prepared. I read guides and followed
multiple podcasts hosted by bros named
Jason and Matt and Brandon, with the
occasional Dom or Pam or Jamal thrown in,
most wearing baseball caps covering
receding hairlines and manicured facial hair,
all keen on dispensing the Solomonic
wisdom gleaned from the hearty whiffs of
their own farts.

Oh, they have value. Some are informative
and/or entertaining, even if they’re primarily
spewing rehash with a wrinkle to
differentiate their “brand” from some other
Jason or Matt or Brandon. Nothing wrong
with them, if you can ignore their offers to
sell you a $79.99 subscription to their
“exclusive content throughout the season”. I
recommend you toss a couple of sawbucks
for one of the periodicals that come out
every July, hit the head for a little reading
time, and listen to whatever free content you
can find. You can take the consensus and
build your own team from that and your own
goddamn gut. Your draft is going to entail
improvisational skill, anyway. John Coltrane
didn’t get to the top of the jazz mountain
by-the-numbers; he learned what he could

then set it aside and did his own thing.
That’s where the fun is.

The draft. That’s where the fun is. It’s
usually followed by five months of regret
and self-loathing.

Some people try to blunt the pain by joining
multiple drafts, the theory being that one’s
gonna go your way. I don’t recommend that.
Your teams will usually overlap players, and
rarely will you flame out in one league and
dominate the others, and, unless there’s real
money on the line, shooting fish in a barrel
is a false high. Play in a few, if you must,
especially if they’re different formats
(Dynasty, Chop Leagues, different scoring

rules), but I recommend the weekly player
performance-based contests on one of the
fantasy platforms in addition to your main
team, if you want a little more skin in the
game. For pure satisfaction, you put your
eggs in one league basket and roll with it.

In fantasy, you either is or you isn’t.

Then deal with the fact that most years, you
isn’t.

I won my league last year and had every
intention of doing it again. I was prepared,
and honestly excited about drafting 12 th in a
12-person league with a snake draft. Two
players a shot with the chance to surveille

the landscape for the 23 picks being chosen
before my turn again? Cool. I just had to
adjust a little on the practice drafts I made.

My plan was simple: barring some weird
first round run on quarterbacks, my first two
picks would be the two highest running
backs on board. It’s a lean year for backs,
and a deep year for receivers.

The two backs I figured would be available
were Chase Brown and Omarion Hampton.
With my 12 th and 13 th pick, I got ‘em.

When picks 37 th and 38 th , around, it was
wide receiver time. Gerald Wilson was
picked just before me, but I had my choice

between Zay Flowers, Ladd McConkey, Tee
Higgins, Malik Nabors, Jameson Williams
and Emika Egbuka. Nabors was tempting,
and had I chosen strictly on highlight-reel
presence, it was him and Jameson Williams,
but both were second receiving options on
their teams. Higgins was, too, but offered
consistency and high floor. Nabors injury
status nagged at me. Flowers and McConkey
were their teams’ primary receivers, as was
Egbuka, who helped me win it all last year.
But his toe injury looked like it might linger
for a few games, and McConkey looked to
be the primary passing focus in new San
Diego OC Mike McDaniel’s offense.
McDaniels is known for maximizing his
offensive weapons. Even though I’m not
normally big on getting one teams number

one running back AND number one
receiver, and I already had San Diego’s
Hampton, I figured there was enough
Chargers offense to go around. Flowers and
McConkey it was.

Except it wasn’t.

I drafted Flowers, ahead of McConkey on
the overall list. Then, call it fate, kismet, or
serendipity if it works out, or chicken-wing
juice fingers if it doesn’t, I calmly pushed
the button to draft McConkey, only to find
out, upon doing so, I pushed the Tee Higgins
button.

I did a double take when I saw what I’d
done.

No problem, I thought. Higgins is
consistent, on a team with an offense
generally considered the league’s best and
defense capable of producing a ton of points.
Even though I also had Cincinnati RB
Brown, this could work out, I told myself.

Sure.

Didn’t make me feel better when McConkey
was taken 12 twelve picks later, by the
owner of the overall first pick (Jahmyr
Gibbs), who, in one swoop, grabbed him
AND Emika Egbuka.

Shit.

No time for worry, I was still in good shape.
With the 60 th pick, I snatched up Christian
Watson, newly signed in Green Bay for big
bucks.

In the preceding rounds, three quarterbacks
had dropped off, and a QB run was
materializing. Next quarterback on the board
was ten suggested picks down. No way the
top tier quarterbacks were falling to me 22
picks away. I started thinking...

I shouldn’t do that. Thinking, I mean.

Joe Burrow was up. If I picked him up,
stacking him with Higgins and Brown, I
would have three stirrers in the Cincinnati
offense pot. Best case, I would have a hand,
in one way or another, in roughly 90-95% of
the touchdowns Cincy scored.

In moments like that, the worst case rarely
makes its presence known. I picked Burrow,
grabbed another wing, sipped a beer, and
slapped myself on the back for a job well-
done.

By the end of the draft, I was feeling good.
Picking up Higgins and New Orleans tight
end Juwan Johnson even gave me a team
name. I drove home confident that my

fumble-fingers mistake had been of no
consequence, and Juwan Tee’z Nutz was
poised to repeat last year’s glory.

Then came the cold, gray morning.

Joe Burrow? I HATE Joe Burrow; I hate he’s
an LSU guy, I hate those frosted blonde tips
on his hair, I hate that “Burrow-wood
Stadium” smarm. Mostly, I hate that he’s an
injury-prone clown who missed the bulk of
last season with goddamn Turf-Toe. I hate
Cincinnati, I hate the Bengals, I hate the
Brown family that owns them, and now I
have to pull for team, WHAT THE HELL
HAVE I DONE?

Christian Watson is my starting flex? The
guy who plays in a run-first offense with
multiple receiving parts who never topped
700 yards a year? Zay Flowers? Hardly a
fear-in-the-heart striker inner, especially
with a quarterback who runs too much and
ain’t exactly a pillar of good mechanics.

Oh, I picked up some hopefuls. Jordan
Mason, the primary back for Minnesota if
not exactly a bell cow. Parker Washington,
but who the hell knows who Trevor
Lawrence’s favorite receiver week-to-week
will be. Jacory Crosky-Merrit? Sure, a
second year, underperforming back on a
team with maybe the worst O-line in the
game? Sign me up.

Oh, did I mention that my IRL team is the
Atlanta Falcons, who are sitting their third
year starting quarterback who can’t stay
healthy and can’t escape a rush without
throwing the ball into the ground in favor of
a veteran quarterback who can’t stay healthy
or throw more than fifteen yards?

So who do I pick as the quarterback to stand
in if/when Burrows has an eyelash-curler
accident?

Tyler Shough, of the dog-ass New Orleans
Saints, the team any true Falcons fan speaks
of with pure hate and death-be-upon-them
wish casting. Fuck them and fuck you if you
like them. Fuck their city, their fans, their

sleazy-ass Bourbon Street, Cowboy Mouth,
Antoine’s, Marie Laveau, Bayou John, the
Jazz Fest, Mardi Gras, and Paul Murphy.

Until next March. Then we cool.

I have to pull for a fuckin’ Saint.

Yeah, this is going to be a long year.

Stay tuned.