The quintessential autumn aesthetic.

This blog, coincidentally, will be published on the first day of autumn.

Autumn, in all her glory, ushers in romantic images of knit sweaters, warm hues of red, gold, and everything in between, caffeinated pumpkin spice drinks, often sickeningly aromatic candles, cozy, fog-filled days, string lights, etc. Think Rory Gilmore circa early 2000s.

This year is different. Gone is sweater weather, instead replaced by lingering 80 degree days. The trees remain sheathed in verdant green, even yellow remains a stranger. I tried Dunkin’s Pumpkin Spice cold brew. I did not enjoy it.

One change, however, is welcome: Fantasy Football. With the advent of September, so came football season, in all her equal glory.

Starting a Fantasy football league was not my idea – I have never been into sports. The extent of my football knowledge consisted of the rudimentary explanation of the rules my Dad would give me every Super Bowl season. Then, I’d forget it all by next year, require reexplanation, and thus, the cycle would continue. I am sure that, if a friend had not proposed it, I would have remained oblivious to the epic highs and lows of high school (fantasy) football for many years to come. I shudder to think of my life in past years, devoid of such pleasure.

Regardless, thirteen of my friends and I, all of whom have no prior knowledge of football, formed a league. The premise of fantasy football is simple: every person in the league acts as a manager of a football team. They draft individual NFL players to fill positions on their team based on the anticipated performance of the player. Call it socially acceptable gambling, if you will.

Two weeks into the season now, I am in an unimpressive 12th (out of 14th!) place. Although one of my wide receivers got a concussion during week one and just last week, my quarterback, heartbreakingly, broke his ankle, ending his season, this number could matter less. I am having a blast.

At a time in my life when it feels like everything is at stake, between looming threats of college applications and constant math tests, it feels good to invest energy into something where there is literally nothing at stake. Fantasy Football is a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there is light.

In a bizarre twist of fate, I find myself enjoying watching football. There is a distinct energy in cheering on your players, in celebrating their victories and mourning their mistakes. When I watched the Neuqua Vs. North game with friends last week, being able to understand what was going on made watching Neuqua absolutely annihilate North that much more enjoyable.

Neuqua v.s. North.

I am swept up with the roar of the crowd, and I will not resist the current.

Meanwhile, last Sunday, I watched the Bears vs. Packers game with my Dad. At a time when both my Dad and I are so busy that our interactions are limited to passing (no pun intended) conversations, it was a rare opportunity to spend time together. As we watched my tight end, Cole Kmet, score zero points for the second week in a row, I couldn’t help but feel thankful towards the catalyst of it all, Fantasy Football.

At its core, Fantasy Football is just that – a fantasy. Just as a part of me knows that I will never get my romantic autumn reverie, I know that if I were to rank all my priorities in order of importance, fantasy football would be sequestered neatly at the bottom. Yet as the number of days left in my senior year slowly dwindles down, spending time with my friends and family, whether catalyzed by fantasy football or not, is at the top of my list.

Wherever life brings me next fall, I hope that I, in turn, will have brought Fantasy Football with me.

 There is a strange gap in my memory. I do not know how to read, and then, suddenly, I do. Sometime in between my first words and kindergarten, the strange symbols on the strange pages became the stuff of language, tempting me into worlds with yellow-hatted men and primary-colored fish.

There is evidence that I learned to read. In the basement, there are long, white poster boards printed with simple, one-syllable words like “cat” and “home” dissected into phonics. Though I have no recollection of this, I am told by my Mom that I learned to read through these cards, sitting with her at the kitchen table, slowly and painfully repeating phonics until something clicked. This is how I learned to read. Both of my parents are Chinese immigrants, and though English is not their first language, I am forever grateful, humbled, and inspired by the lengths they went to ensure that it became mine as smoothly as possible. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to teach a language that is not the one you grew up with.

Most of my memories about reading begin to materialize around the age of 5. Here, I am reading the classic children’s books: Cat in the Hat, Goodnight Moon, The Giving Tree, etc. I remember one particular book – Caps For Sale – particularly well. I thought it was the funniest thing in the world and would ask my Dad to read it with me every night. Beyond these few specific books, however, I have no actual memories of reading these books. I know I read them because the covers and plots are familiar enough; it seems logical that I would have read them at some point.

Instead, my earliest memories of reading are defined by events surrounding these books. For example, I distinctly remember seeing a play in kindergarten based on The Very Hungry Caterpillar. To this day, I can picture the men dressed in black parading around the stage, each person holding a different segment of the caterpillar. I am somewhere in the back of the theater, sitting on the left side. I’m sure we read the actual book as an accompaniment to the play, but it is not the book that stands out in my memory. Another example: in elementary school, we had “green eggs and ham” days – scrambled eggs and green food coloring led to an unpleasant culinary creation. Even though by first grade, I had left Dr. Seuss’ world and stepped foot in the Magic Tree House, the image of those disgusting green eggs is what defines my memory of Green Eggs and Ham. I credit these schools (and my parents, of course), for teaching me that reading, above all, is an invitation towards creating a more magical world.

During these elementary years, as much as the Rainbow Magic and Geronimo Stilton series aided my escape from reality, reading also helped me understand reality. Understandably, my Mom, on a mission to shape well-read, informed global citizens out of my sisters and I, nudged a series towards us called A Story of the World. Exactly as the title implies, these books detailed the history of the world, from the first nomads of the Fertile Crescent to the modern day. What was special about these books, however, was that they presented history not as a dry recitation of facts, but as a narrative. For every civilization, there was a story to go along with it. My sister and I were hooked. In this series, I learned that no matter fiction or nonfiction, a good story is a good story, no matter the subject. I credit my current love of both history and storytelling to these books.

Finally, as I near the end of my time at Naperville North, I have a confession to make: I already have a copy of Dr. Seuss’s Oh, The Places You’ll Go! Though traditionally given as a graduation gift at the end of college or high school, my parents bought the book for my sister and I when we were preschool-aged. Indeed, it is quite satisfying to reflect on the places reading has taken me for these past eighteen years. 

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