I will spend hours upon hours Friday night looking over documents. I will pore over reams of documents searching for the perfect solution to my problems. Taxes? Nope. It’s time for my fantasy baseball draft.

This is serious business. Sure, there is money at stake, but I’m not as worried about that as I am about undoing the past two years.
Two years ago, I finished dead last. Last year, I managed to move up one spot to finish in 11th. The Baltimore Orioles envy the futility of my past two seasons.

I joined this league in 1993 or 1994 and have never come close to winning. One year I did threaten for the title in one of the closest races ever, but fell from first to seventh in less than a month.

A lesser person might walk away from that history. A better person would find a better way to spend the money I allocate for this hobby each year.

Luckily, I’m neither that big nor that good.

Playing fantasy baseball is about more than bragging rights or prizes. If I got out of the league, I would turn my back on the food and beer served at our draft and the meetings we hold throughout the year.

People give me free food and beverages at those meetings. We sit around and watch sports. We swap stories and make fun of each other.

How can a guy turn that down?

I also hold onto the illusion that each year might be the one I turn things around. Every draft gives me the hope that I might actually buy the beer for the next year’s draft, an honor bestowed on the champion.

I had that feeling last year. I sat down and looked at the spreadsheets I had prepared. I scanned my lists of preferred players. I filled up my plate with wings and pizza.

Nothing could stop me now. Until the time came for my first pick. I had the ninth choice in the first round and as the guys ahead of me wrote their selections on the board, I faced a horrible realization.

Barry Bonds was the top player available when my turn came. Getting one of the best players in baseball with the ninth pick was too good to be true.

I once played in a free league online with my nephew and some of his college friends. One of them kept trying to trade me a player I hated. He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t budge. I told him I could only root for a player I hated if I stood to win a lot of money.

I hate Barry Bonds. Always have, even before we all found out (and you know it’s true) that he has used steroids or something similar to improve his performance. I shook my head in disgust as I wrote his name on the board.

Every time I looked at my name near the bottom of the standings, I recalled that moment. Perhaps my performance wasn’t a sign of my incompetence, but a lesson in disguise. Maybe I would have done better if I had picked a player that wasn’t on drugs.

If I keep telling myself that, maybe I’ll have some confidence when I make my picks this year. I have the second pick in the first round this year and am pretty sure Barry Bonds will be available.

I won’t make the same mistake twice. This year, I’ll have someone else to blame when I bring up the rear.