Week 7 arrives like a medieval tax collector, demanding tribute in injured hamstrings and burned waiver budgets. I watch with a sideline’s vantage and a historian’s patience, chronicling screen passes as if they were treaties signed under duress. The only constant is variance, which now has a sponsorship and its own pregame show.

Broncos vs. Giants is not so much a game as a performance art piece about field position. Denver’s red zone is a carbon monoxide detector that keeps chirping at 3 a.m., and the Giants offensive line is a philosophical concept that refuses to prove its existence. Start a defense, start a punter, start journaling.

Rams vs. Jaguars features Sean McVay remembering formations like a savant barista recalling 27 milk orders, while Jacksonville is a large cat that naps for 58 minutes and then knocks your PPR juice glass off the counter. The Rams will motion until the Jaguars develop vertigo and invent a new zone coverage called “No One Where He Belongs.” Start whoever catches slants; sit anyone explaining “establishing the run” like it’s a mortgage rate.

Other matchups to exploit: any offense facing an opponent who treats timeouts like party favors and burns them before the first commercial break. Stream quarterbacks you had to Google if their opponent just signed a cornerback off a group chat. Favor teams that call plays as verbs rather than wistful nouns.

Exploit, in this economy, means you stare at a spreadsheet until the spreadsheet blinks. Before you slot Denver’s third receiver into a lineup you love like a houseplant, invest in a football-shaped stress ball and save your knuckles from negotiating with drywall. You are not building a roster; you are assembling a delicate soufflé in an active earthquake.

Coaching trees matter: branches grafted from systems that believe the tight end is both a fulcrum and a rumor. Some trees are orchards of efficient violence, others are bonsai trimmed by fear of a negative play. Find the coordinators who script like playwrights and avoid the ones who think a rub route is something HR needs to hear about.

Cap sheets are the quiet gospel of who matters on Sunday. The Rams invented a derivative called the Void-Year Smoothie and have been buying now, paying later, and selling yesterday since 2018. Jacksonville pays in beautifully folded Duval coupons and vibes; the Giants are refinancing third-and-long at 11.9% APR.

Sleepers are less about talent and more about camera angles. The moment the TV director forgets a player exists is the exact snap he scores, usually while you debate benching him for a guy named Dusty who plays all the special teams. Start the mystery when the game script smells like rain.

To endure the broadcast without learning the word “motor” 64 times, pair your TV with a stadium crowd noise soundbar, let simulated roars wash over your real dread, and pretend you’re at a parade for a parade. You deserve immersive delusion in 5.1 surround.

Trade advice: send a name-brand running back and acquire three players with solid jawlines and ambiguous snap shares; declare it depth and print a think piece titled “The Edges No One Wants.” Then ghost your league chat like a magician exiting in smoke and confused emojis. All negotiations should begin with the line, “I value certainty,” while juggling bye weeks like flaming pins.

Start/Sit lightning: Start anyone whose coach refuses to answer questions in complete sentences. Sit anyone whose coach explains the plan on Wednesday in full paragraphs with a visual aid. Start players with names that sound like action verbs; sit players who share a first name with your accountant.

If your Broncos-Giants exposure leaves you lightheaded, hydrate with targets and pretend yards after catch are vitamins. If Rams-Jaguars becomes a fireworks factory, be the person who says, “I saw it coming,” and keep a straight face like a statue at a budget museum. And if everything collapses by halftime, blame your process, wink at variance, and tell friends that 6–5 final score was baseball; nobody argues with baseball.