It's Saturday night and I'm sitting in my leather chair with a glass of wine getting prepped for the upcoming Catos Roto League draft.
My laptop is, appropriately, on my lap and my brand new fantasy baseball book is sitting next to me, on the end table. Not a magazine, mind you. A book. A $25 book.
I'm busy entering projections, structuring lists, crafting strategy. That's me being happy.
Then, I spill my wine.
Five seconds later, I'm in the kitchen and I realize that I'm frantically trying to wipe Two-Buck Chuck from the pages of my fantasy baseball book. Never mind the end table, the wood floor, the sisal rug or the leather chair.
When danger struck, I, apparently, attended to what was most important to me.
I can't wait for the draft.


