The fix must be in! For the first time in the history of this league, The Brothers Legere are 1-2 in the standings! But let's not focus on that. Let me instead remark another historical league first. This week, no less than seven (7) pitching transactions were made, and everyone got their first choice! Outstanding! Just feel sorry for the guy who got Shawn Chacon… Just kidding, nobody had a Rockie listed on top of their list, nor did anyone have to add the consensus "backup pick" Paul Byrd to their staffs either. Nice job guys, can you figure out a way to do this every week? Lot less work for me that way… Now since I'm a little short on material (hey, I feel like Britney Spears' dress designer) this week, I've decided to reprint a column that I found in this week's Sports Illustrated. Columnist Rick Reilly (my fourth favorite writer trailing ESPN.COM's The Boston Sports Guy, Walt Cherniak and Doug Quat), has written what I think is an absolutely hilarious piece that defines "the fantasy baseball geek". And yes, I'm sad to admit that I think I am one, and I'm sure that after reading this, you'll all find out that you too are afflicted. My apologies for the duplicate material to those who have Sports Illustrated subscriptions. For the rest of you, read on, the words of Rick Reilly…

You smell like a goat. You're unshaven. You work endless hours in dimly lit caves. You speak a language understood only by others of your kind. You fear women and put prices on men's heads. And legions of enemies long to destroy you.

You are, of course, a fantasy baseball geek.

All you care about is your pretend world of major league players and their stats. You root for numbers, not teams. You have depersonalized the game, sucked the life out of it; all so you can say you took $100 off your former friends.

It's not just baseball. Fifteen percent of Americans over 18 have been in one fantasy sports league or another. There are leagues for golf, NASCAR, even professional fishing. Dammit, honey, not now! I'm doing my smelt projections!

And you know you're hopelessly addicted when....

You go to your league draft meeting wearing a cup.

You don't come out to watch your kids hunt for Easter eggs because you are prepping for the draft.

In bed you ask your wife to call you "the commissioner."

You realize the only person you haven't "activated" all season is yourself.

You conduct your draft in the Situation Room of the White House (Sandy Berger, Washington, D.C.).

You go up to a major leaguer and say, "Dude! How you feelin' this year? 'Cause I'm thinkin' of takin' you in my fantasy draft, and you kinda let me down on the ribbies last year, bro!" (Can you imagine if a ballplayer hassled you at work? "Hey, Harlan! How many transmissions you think you're good for this season? 'Cause I got you in my mechanics league, and you hurt me on your lubes last year, y'know?")

The league newsletter you slave over every week is far better than anything you produce in your real job.

You end a longtime friendship over the trade value of Baltimore Orioles reliever Jorge Julio.

You refuse to watch any channel that doesn't run a sports scroll at the bottom of the screen.

During sex, you catch yourself wondering whether you should activate Steve Cox.

You leave the hospital early after knee surgery, insist that the person driving you home stop at a pay phone and then stand there for an hour and a half so you won't miss your draft (Dan Patrick, Bristol, Conn.).

After a particularly good week you dump a cooler of Gatorade over your head.

You contemplate waiting in the players' parking lot and running over Alex Rodriguez's toe in hopes of moving up in your fantasy standings.

You call an official scorer at home and berate him for taking a hit away from one of your players.

When asked by your kid whom he could write about in a report on great Americans, you suggest Peter Gammons.

You hope to get the house to yourself at night so you can call a 1-900 fantasy baseball line.

You curse the Internet sites with live box scores for refreshing only every 30 seconds.

You cut and paste together your official team photo.

Your witty conversation begins to run the gamut from your fantasy baseball team to your fantasy football team.

In the last hour of the weekly trade deadline you instruct your secretary to put through only calls from fantasy league players.

In the maternity ward you make a good trade in between your wife's contractions.

The number 1-800-BOXSCORES is on your speed dial.

And your girlfriend's number isn't.

You utter the sentence, "Honey, I'm up to 3,129th out of 8,000 in the Jackpot.com fantasy league!"

You wonder if you could get a tan from monitor glow.

You communicate constantly with people named JockItch and Ballpark Frank -- though you've never met them.

You are more excited about minor league prospects than dating prospects.

You take a second job in order to buy John Smoltz.

Your wife leaves you in May for her lambada instructor, and you don't notice until the All-Star break.

You realize that the real fantasy is that you have a life.

… and before anyone decides to get clever over the line "In bed you ask your wife to call you 'the commissioner', I swear that my wife Trish has been sworn to silence, and is being paid very well to maintain that same silence… That's all for now! Hope everyone enjoyed the diversion. I'll be back in seven days with a full set of MLB rantings and ravings… 'til next week…