Tim Cowlishaw

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The big story last week was the Rangers laying the groundwork for the rebuilding of their farm system through the amateur draft.

I don't know what the big deal is. I just built the best farm system in the league in less than a week.

There is this saying that "Confession is good for the soul," and it's one of those expressions generally uttered by people with little or nothing to hide who merely want to get the dirt on you.

While my Los Angeles Times colleague formerly known as Mike Penner has sports column "Confession of the Year" locked up, I will plow ahead, anyway.

I am a fantasy and Rotisserie geek.

(You're supposed to feel an overwhelming sense of relief for typing these things. Isn't happening so far, just FYI.)

A baseball team I have shared for years with a Morning News colleague – we will protect his identity by letting you know that the show Around the Horn is not named after him – had fallen on hard times.

Who knew Sean Casey would never hit another home run?

Who knew Dioner Navarrro, once a coveted Yankee prospect, couldn't hit his weight as a Devil Ray?

Who knew Joe Crede's 30-homer 2006 season was a one-year mirage?

Well, I suspect a lot of smart people knew some of these things.

And so I went about the business of trashing the roster and acquiring five minor league prospects – Oakland's Javier Herrera and Daric Barton, Seattle's Jeff Clement, Baltimore's Nolan Reimold and Kansas City's Chris Lubanski – to go with young, low-salaried major leaguers such as Oakland's Travis Buck and Toronto's Dustin McGowan in barely a week's time.

So what's taking the Rangers?

OK, I recognize there is a difference. Livelihoods are at stake throughout the Rangers' organization. In my case, the simple lack of a life beyond a livelihood compels me to play Rotisserie baseball.

And fantasy football.

And fantasy hockey.

And fantasy golf.

For some of these leagues I monitor results every day. For some, I tend to forget I have a team.

I was reminded of this recently when I was informed that the golfer I had "protected" for the second half of the season was someone I cut before the Colonial.

Who knew?

The good news: I resigned my post as commissioner of a NASCAR league that I ran for five years. Had to free up a little time for coverage of the real thing.

The main reason I play any of these isn't to make money. That tends to happen too infrequently, anyway.

But if I am compelled to pay attention to what the Canucks and Pirates are up to and to the bottom ends of rosters and to the struggling golfers (usually mine), that should only help me as a columnist.

When Rangers GM Jon Daniels acquired catcher Guillermo Quiroz in a very minor off-season deal, I told Daniels that I thought Quiroz was looking like a pretty good prospect in the Toronto system until he suffered that collapsed lung.

He seemed impressed. I didn't mention that Quiroz used to be "mine."

That brings us to the most important rule regarding fantasy sports. If you play these things and you are beyond the age of 30 – some of us are coming out of the backstretch of Lap Two in this category – you keep your mouth shut.

Plaxico Burress scores a touchdown, you don't shout, "I've got him."

Former Morning News columnist Gerry Fraley, who would rather sit through a daylong seminar on "How to Write a Baseball Game Story" conducted by a writing coach than join a fantasy league, used to always mockingly say "I've got him" after watching a home run at the Ballpark.

The most vicious violation of this rule I have ever witnessed came a year ago at a place I occasionally find on my way home from work. Just to give it a name, we'll call it the Idle Rich Pub on McKinney.

AP

Bud Selig presides over the MLB first-year player draft, months after many baseball fans had their fantasy drafts.

An attractive female friend was sitting with another man, and she waved me over to the table and introduced me to him. For 20 minutes, he seemed like a normal, solid guy.

Maybe even a guy with a chance.

And then it happened. A home run sailed out of the park on the TV he was watching and he was transformed.

"I've got Pujols on two of my teams," he shouted.

While he stared trancelike at the TV, my friend leaned across the table and said, "Does this mean he has more than two teams? And why does he have ... teams?"

There are exceptions to this rule. One came about Saturday night when I found myself in a conversation with two members of the Bowie Baysox in a Bristol, Conn., restaurant.

After making some small talk about ESPN, I handed one of the players my card and said, "Do me a favor. Give this to Nolan Reimold."

He seemed stunned that I would know the name of a Double-A outfielder in the Orioles' system.

"Tell him to call me anytime," I said. "And tell him to get off the DL and get some hits in the second half. My team is in trouble."

And after this column the same can be said for my life.