THERE COMES A TIME IN EVERY MAN’S EXISTENCE when he questions his very being. When, through the various comings and goings of the phantoms that call his mind home, he can be heard wondering aloud, in a primal scream, whether any of what he experiences is indeed real.
This is exactly the feeling, dear reader, one gets upon drafting AJ Pollock, as I did, in the 16th round of 42.
The next two rounds saw the conscription to my forces a pair of paragons of positional pliability: David the Arrowmaker of the Angels of the City of Angels of Anaheim, and Señor Gimenez of Cleveland-née-New York.
The next five rounds were outfielder/pitcher/guy-who-might-not-play-at-all/outfielder/pitcher, a pentaverate comprised of Andrew Benintendi, Ryan Yarbrough, Jared Walsh, Aaron Hicks, and Kwang-Hyun Kim. At this point, my starting lineup was coming together nicely. Walsh, in fact, represented an initiate to my reserves.
The RazzSlam being a cutline competition, the reserves are plentiful indeed. This does not mean, however, that I wished at the 24th stop along the way, to dip back into the fetid cistern that is the catcher pool.
Alack, when time came for my 24th selection to be made, I received a most distressing missive. By way of carrier pigeon, a dispatch arrived to my quarters describing, in horrific detail, the phalange-crushing experience of my 2nd-selected backstop, one Austin Nola.
Furious, I threw the message (not the messenger, of course, for may the gods smite any who harm animals) across the expanse of my office, and called up the roster of what passed for ballplayers among the remaining catcher ranks.
OK. Fine. Danny Jansen.
With the taste of bile still thick in my mouth, I realized I had but one pitcher remaining to complete my complement of riflemen. So to Rafael Montero of the Pacific Northwest I turned. I am not, dear reader, to this moment entirely sure why.
After that, the young comrade of Montero’s, one Justus Sheffield came to my ranks, and finally for this segment of the draft, the leadoff man for The Baseball Team of Cleveland, Cesar Hernandez.
Twenty-seven rounds down, and am now selecting nothing but reserves.
You will hear from me again when this nightmare ends.
