Hello my dear friends. I apologize for the absence, but I was getting my butt into a master’s program (because one masters wasn’t enough), and then some family stuff popped up. There will be no grand introduction today, as I’m already seven minutes past my deadline. I’m happy to be back, but burdened by teams populated with Julio Rodriguez, Carlos Correa, and Nolan Jones.

Sometimes your life is tough. They don’t tell you that at first, but then either a wary parent or an honest teacher gives you the straight dope. “The reason things are tough is because life is tough,” they’ll say, either with a slight melancholy or an aggressive bark in their voice. They will tell you that struggling builds character, or resilience, or even chest hair. The ones who bring up chest hair are very stubborn on this point, and are either starring in a Dad Role in a 1950’s greaser movie, or a B-list comedian popping in a party scene in a Netflix teen drama that gives your brain the positive shock of, “Oh, it’s that comedian!” so you can try to forget that this may be the 1,000th episode of television where teenagers navigate the pitfalls of the dreaded “HOUSE PARTY.”

On the weekend last, I bucked my 20-year trend and met fellow Razzballers at an event more than worthy of our time. Your author came as close as he will ever stray to meeting his anti-hero, Bud Black. It was a reverse World Series, a battle between two of the four most futile teams in all of baseball. In another world I live in California or Miami and manage to catch the Athletics play the Marlins. In this world, however, we watched the Colorado Rockies do battle with the Chicago White Sox. What a glory it was to behold.

Last night I spied an incredible blurb that sent me into a near-catatonic state of entertain-related nostalgia-bliss.

Yordan Alvarez (family matter) remains out of the Astros’ starting lineup on Wednesday.

It’s the time of the season wherein we look at our teams and some people see a magnificent juggernaut, while others see a mirage, a trojan horse of confidence hiding grisly innards of broken dreams and decaying hope.

Having spoken (written) extensively on the topic of waiver wire articles, to the point that Baseball HQ published one of my articles in their annual fantasy baseball physical magazine last year on the subject, I have fallen off the wagon outside of Grey’s weekly missives. Granted I don’t do the Patreon thing, so I’m not quite on the razor’s edge of hot infotainment, but I used to absolutely guzzle those waiver articles down like young person doing poppers at a rave type gathering (I enjoy my vague understanding of youth culture drug usage, maybe one day I’ll even watch Euphoria — psyche, I’d rather fingernail my eyeballs to death).

Since the dawn of time, fantasy baseball writers have used puns to title their blog posts. This is a tradition carried over from the olden thymes, eons ago when man pulped trees to create very delicate flat wisps, upon which etchings and scrawlings of every day activities where thenceforth transcribed. Even the title phrase of Bible is a pun. Jesus Christ would shorten the term “imbibe” to “bibe,” when he was discussing his need to attend an early afternoon Pizza Hut buffet. “Judas,” he would say to his BFF, “Let us stalk two-footedly to The Hut, we must bibe the garlic bread before the Romans go on lunch break.” If the so-called great book revels in the puns, then let us not believe ourselves to be above the practice.

Come over here. Quietly. In the corner of the room, away from the rest of the party. Ignore JKJ and Coolwhip’s invitation to play Pin the Crown on the Jo Adell. Yes, Keelin just broke the knee of another party-goer so she can breathlessly describe the extent of the injury to a captive and frightened audience, and also finally live out her iTonya fantasy. Don’t mind Bdon, he’s 12 White Claw’s deep and ranting at a potted plant regarding his Bo Bichette vindication tour. Please give no attention to Grey, he is once again Golden Godding on the rooftop, enjoying the pyrrhic victory that is every Oneil Cruz home run. And the rest of the crew? They’re out getting whippets and vapes because they’re one in the same, right?

The itch that brings us back to fantasy baseball every day is a special little needler. No matter if your team went six whole days without a home run, and your top four picks are on the IL, or your hitters are only demolishing home runs off pitchers that you own, you still want back in. There are several reasons why we daily league people hear our phone alarm going off at 5:30am, snooze it, set it down…but then pick the phone back up to see if our waiver claims went unchallenged.

One might believe that being privy to the secretive goings-on at Razzball gives one access to information quicker than your average Joe Q. Public, and one would be absolutely correct in making such a bold declaration. Upon hearing there was not one, but two features on Jo Adell coming down the old Razzball pipeline, my brain did the only thing that seemed logical. I decided to avoid mentioning Jo Adell in order to not clog the blog arteries with too much rich and redundant content.

Today we reflect on a form of blurb elusive to those not steely of eyes, or dan of mind. Jorge Luis Borges once contended that every story ever written is part of the 1,001 Nights, a beautiful idea that places the timeless prose of Faulkner or Wolff on the same pedestal as the Olive Garden advertising copy, “When you’re here, you’re family.” One might not believe a fantasy baseball blurb worthy of said pedestal, but if one looks carefully, stories of passion emerge from the morass. On Wednesday evening, the following blurb appeared on Rotoworld: