My preseason prep work has been flawless. I’ve studied players, I’ve made projections and I’ve mixed it up with a variety of draft strategies that have allowed me to come out on top, no matter the size or the style of league. My game was sharp. With the real world cast aside for the month of March, my draft senses were heightened much like those of the superhero Daredevil when he lost his sight. I was Roy Hobbs stepping to the plate against that kid from Nebraska. I was Reggie Dunlop leading the Chiefs to the Federal League championship. I was Rocky in the opening montage of the third installment. OK, maybe I was more like Dewey Oxberger at the Pom Pom Club, but you get what I’m saying. When it came to drafting, I was a lean, mean fighting machine.

But when it came time for the Fantasy Alarm Staff League draft Thursday, I was suddenly Mike Tyson stepping into the ring with Buster Douglas. After 40-odd mocks and a handful of regular drafts, it was bound to happen. I went looking for a left and got hit with a right. I bobbed, he weaved. I got hit so many times I thought I was surrounded and in the end, I was kissing canvas. The mighty had fallen.

It all started when Clayton Kershaw came off the board with the first overall pick. I know, right? Kershaw. In each and every draft I had done, Mike Trout was always the first guy taken. Always. I won’t call out the person who made that pick (He is more than welcome to identify himself in the comments section), but suffice it to say, the draft room shook.

When it came time for me to make my selection at No. 4, I was still stunned by the move. Trout went next, followed by Giancarlo Stanton and I was left with the obvious choice of either Andrew McCutchen or Paul Goldschmidt. Maybe the Kershaw bomb left me concussed because suddenly I was Rick Gassko trying to decide between taking the car or keeping Debbie.

With first base deep and my eyes originally set on either Anthony Rizzo or Prince Fielder, I opted to go the safe route and take McCutchen. He’s a great power/speed combo and a no-brainer first-round choice. I felt good about it for about eight seconds when the next song on my iTunes shuffle was the Grateful Dead’s Samson and Delilah. FML.

Adam Jones was falling fast in our draft so I had him queued up next but Glenn Colton snagged him the pick right before me – a continued theme throughout this debacle of a draft. I went with Ryan Braun who was next on my board. Not a bad call, but I felt like I was settling.

Now normally I’m a proponent of waiting on starting pitching but in the last few drafts I had done, I grabbed a starter in the third round and was still able to build a strong offense and a better-than-average pitching staff. I figured if pitching went early, I would do it here and when four hurlers went off the board in the second round, I queued up David Price, my usual go-to guy here.

Well wouldn’t you know it, but my wonderful podcast-mate Michael Stein who says he ALWAYS waits on pitching took Price with the pick before me. Colton thumped me in the second round and Stein did it here. Suddenly I was Andy Dufresne fighting off the Sisters of Mercy. Dazed and confused by the snipe, I flinched and took Chris Sale, hoping to just try and stick to my adjusted game plan.

In the fourth round I grabbed Greg Holland for my knockout closer and was all primed to grab Prince Fielder with my next pick. But as we came around the wheel, I noticed that people were bypassing Evan Longoria. Really? A position that thin and he was falling to the fifth round? When Stein passed on him for Craig Kimbrel I was sitting there staring at the screen like some slack-jawed idiot trying to do a hard math problem in my head. I couldn’t pass him up, could I? So I didn’t. I took him and crossed every finger and every toe that Fielder would somehow fall to me in the sixth round.

Well not only did that not happen, but between my two picks, Fielder, Chris Davis, Joey Votto, Todd Frazier and Albert Pujols came off the board leaving me with Carlos Santana as the next best first baseman. I hesitated and thought about just waiting and grabbing someone like Adam LaRoche later on, but I was so off my game here I just couldn’t rely on him being there when I needed him.

The next few rounds were all just a blur as the fantasy baseball gods struck me dumber than I have ever been dumb before. I don’t really know what happened. I grabbed some more pitching, I filled out my middle infield with guys I’ve never drafted or owned before and how the hell did I end up with two catchers so quickly? Colton stayed in my queue all night, Stein kept doing the same on the way back and when someone lifted Jesse Hahn, a super-late round standard of mine, in the 15th round, I just threw my hands up in the air, slammed my head in a door about a dozen times and said, “F***it!”

No more rankings, no more ADP sheets and no more sensible drafting. I spent the last several rounds just picking guys I wanted regardless of anything else that was happening in this nightmare I was somehow thrust into. Did I reach by a few rounds on some? Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I? I seemed to screw everything else up in this one so why not go out with a bang. Killed every other real draft I’ve done, but somehow this one found me sitting on a pile of Kryptonite.

When the dust settled and the smoke cleared, there I was. I was Deebo. Just laid out on the ground with Smokey standing over me, Red taking back his chain and Ezal stealing my shoes.

I got mocked the f*** out!