"Duane! Duane! Get up!” a voice woke me from my peaceful slumber this past week.

I slowly opened my eyes to see my wife standing over me, shaking me awake. Through the cobwebs I realized something must be amiss as the wife never wakes me up for anything unless it’s bad.

The house must be on fire! Grab the television and cat and let’s make a run for it!
I leapt up from the bed, my head on a swivel, sniffing for smoke. There was nothing except the fresh smell of mint from one of those girly candles she burns to cover up the smell of my socks.

“What?” I asked, my eyes still darting, looking for what had caused her to roust me before eight.

“Come on,” she beckoned me. “I need your help.”

My suspicions raced. She never needs my help. What was going on? Was I being set up to get whacked like in one of my novels? That would certain increase sales of R.D. Sherrill books.

“I need you to help with my draft,” she explained, obviously sensing my confusion.

Giving her the stink eye, I plopped back down on the bed. “Call a carpenter,” I replied. “I can’t fix no holes.”

She huffed and pulled me out of bed. “I mean my fantasy football draft,” she clarified.

“Yep, I’m about to be murdered,” I thought to myself. Either that or I was still asleep and dreaming a very weird dream because my wife has always thought fantasy football is the stupidest thing ever. As a matter of fact she'll hardly go to Wednesday lunch with me and the guys because we talk a lot of football during the season.

“Your what?” I sat up.

“We have a league at work,” she replied as she walked over to her computer.
“You’re kidding me,” I rubbed the sleep out my eyes as I walked over to find she had erected a draft central complete with cheat sheets and an array of online sites all aimed at helping her have  a good draft.

“Wow,” I said as I looked at her lay out. “You’re serious.”

She nodded. “I’m going to whoop their butts,” she declared as she started telling me about the other people in her league.

I put my hand across her forehead, checking for a fever and gave her a good up and down, making sure this was actually my wife and not some fembot or perhaps a recent hatching from a pod placed under our bed.

“Stop and help me,” she swiped my hand away. “Who should I draft first?”
My surprise was replaced with sheer glee. First off, she never asks me to help her with anything and second I’m a super genius when it comes to fantasy football meaning she better win or I’ll be back in the dog house, a place I know well.

So, for the next hour we picked her a team and I explained the specifics of winning at fantasy football and it appeared she actually listened.

Now comes the test. If she wins, I’ll expect to be taken to a fancy restaurant. If she finishes last, well, it’s dog food and the dog house. Cross your fingers.

Contact Duane Sherrill at  news@smithvillereview.com