Steve Wulf, a member of the Original Rotisserie League, continues his two-part guided tour of Fantasy land. Today: How the Wulfgang fared at the League's 22nd annual draft.

Misery loves company. In the case of the one and only Original Rotisserie League, misery also insists on the same seats every year, periodically mutters, "I hate my team," falls victim to a ridiculous bidding war over someone who ain't worth it ("Livan Hernandez, $28"), cracks the same joke from the year before ("Milton Bradley is a real gamer") and responds to the inevitable "Where you putting him?" question by snapping, "Where do you think I'm putting Mark McGwire? Middle infield?"

Woe 'r' us. I would attribute the draft day grouchiness to our advancing age except that we've been acting this way since we had hair and physiques. We got into Rotisserie for fun. We stay in it for what? Obligation? Self-abuse? Penance? In my case, it's certainly not to win. We enter the room with apprehension and dread. We leave with dread and apprehension. In the five hours in between, there are more sandbags than laughs, more desperate cries for approval -- "I think Scott Strickland is a good buy at $15, don't you?" -- than displays of friendship. After 21 years, we have to sneer at our original slogan: "The best game for baseball fans since baseball." What the slogan should be is, "Rotisserie bi-polar dysfunction. Catch it."

And our strategies, or lack thereof, are as unchanged as our moods. Each year, I wonder, "Maybe I should get some pitching first," or "Maybe I should build for next year?" But each year, I let my competitive, win-now urges get the best of me, then go out and try to rationalize having a starting staff of Brian Tollberg, Tony Armas Jr., Jimmy Haynes -- and others. I also fall victim to a sort of Rotisserie anthropomorphism: clubhouse chemistry plays a role in my assembly of a team.

Of the 10 owners in our league, seven have been playing long enough to have scouted rookies Tony Gwynn and Kirby Puckett. We take pride in our knowledge of the players, the rules, the ebb and flow of the auction. Even though some of us never win, we think we know better.

That may have changed last Saturday. We had an opening this year, and through a friend of friend, that opening was filled by young uniform maker Dave Ludmar, who renamed his team the Lud Zeppelins. Not bad, we thought. Allowed to keep five players this year, the Zeps protected five $1 bargains: Matt Morris, Jose Lima, Steve Kline, Glendon Rusch and Jose Vidro. Again, we were suitably impressed, although we made snide asides about Lima's ERA.

In the first half of the draft, Ludmar methodically assembled a pitching staff: Greg Maddux for 34, Kevin Brown for 31, Robb Nen for 40, even Rick Ankiel for 10. At first I thought he was spending way too much on pitching. But then it dawned on me -- and us -- that our twentysomething knew exactly what he was doing. There was plenty of offense in the draft, and very little quality pitching.

In the last third of the draft, he picked up some unbelievable offensive bargains: Chris Truby 3, Brian Jordan 12, Daryle Ward 5, Ron Belliard 1. Every time he made a successful bid, the realization grew, and our smiles at each master stroke soon gave way to chuckles. We had invited a shark into our midst. The Epaulet Kid.

Who knows if the Zeps will win this year? He's a little shy on relief and speed, but then again, maybe he knows something we don't. (Very possible.) Even if he doesn't win, we now know we have a worthy adversary sitting at our table -- between the Bakers and the auctioneer.

And that alone will bring us back next year.

Steve Wulf is executive editor of ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at steve.wulf@espnmag.com.