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.