Helicopter blades whirl above my head, the whomp whomp of each rotation replacing my own pulse, putting me into a transcendent state where I commune with the all-knowing extra-dimensional beings of fantasy football. I pull a knife from my pocket and cut plastic strips from forty-pound bags of pellets of synthetic mosquito hormone. I lift the bags chest high to hand them to my partner, who dumps them in the hopper attached to the side of the helicopter. Whomp, whomp.  “You’re drafting with experts,” I hear from my inner monologue as I cut and lift and cut and lift. “It’s the RazzBowl. You can do this.” In 37 seconds we dump 320 pounds of pesticide into the hopper. When the bags are empty my partner and I step quickly away toward a row of pickup trucks baking in the sun. We secure our waste bags, pull out the sun umbrella, lower the tailgates, and watch the helicopter take off to distribute the pesticide in wetlands across the St. Paul area. I pull out my phone. It’s time. I’m on the clock in RazzBowl. With Christian McCaffery taken at 1.01, I pick Alvin Kamara at 1.02. I shout out my victory to my co-workers, who nod and go back to their League of Legend highlight videos. By the end of the day, I’ve drafted Keenan Allen, and I think–I know!–that I’m going to win in RazzBowl. 

[record scratch]