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We live in a post-sleeper world. Grey is more prescient than most, but he is onto something (and also petty as heck) when he urges certain players to continue tanking so their draft price is cheaper next season. I use the term tanking a bit freely, as I am a bird (Remember “Free As a Bird?” That John Lennon demo tape that the surviving Beatles overdubbed to make a “new” Beatles track that sounded exactly like a Tom Petty track, because you just realized George Harrison played on all the great Petty albums? And then McCartney added that cloying bridge? I know it’s hip to bash the Beatles, but I studied them for my extremely useful BA in Music. I’ll make sure to work my track-by-track dissection of the White Album into my weekly missives for the few remaining Beatles fans willing to weather criticism). Where was I? Aha. The post-sleeper world.

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Have you ever been so wrong about something that you would rather have your knees broken by two giggling Gallagher impersonators rather than face the world? I can think of many instances in my life that this phenomenon drowned me in sweet sorrow. I was sure that there were no cars coming as I backed my parents’ Chevy Suburban out of the driveway – directly into a school bus. The cop looked at me incredulously, remarking, “How could you not see it? It’s big and bright yellow!” I spluttered something about a big tree in my line of sight as I made sure the bus driver was okay. I was the toast of my high school that morning, a kind of reverse-Pyrrhic victory. All those accolades for being wrong.

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These post-dog days of summer, one finds oneself pondering the parallels of a fantasy season to one’s own lifespan. The seven-to-nine-month span of pregnancy covered in the January to March months leading up to drafts. You read countless draft day primers in the same manner one reads What to Expect When Expecting, Cribsheet, the novelization of the film Junior, or any pregnancy guide for parents. On draft day, you give birth to a roster of adult men, and there is much champagne and merriment. In the first month of the season, your team is a baby from ages 0-5, learning to walk, talk, and slowly becoming a person. The months of May to June follow your baby (team)’s ascension through teenagerdom, as you struggle to shape the identity of your child and improve their chances of lifelong (season-long) success. July represents your child’s 20’s and 30’s, a spectrum of human experience that ranges from spectacular success to floundering failure. August finds your baby now in their 40’s to 50’s, full of regrets and yet nostalgic for youthful triumphs. Your child now knows their true nature, and regardless of subtle lifestyle changes brought by mere tricks, the dog remains the same. 

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Having been gone for a goodly amount of time, I return refreshed and tickled pink into the loving arms of Razzball. I have some new categories, as I’ve decided that limiting things is too…erm…limiting? Know that I’ll still list my glossary of category titles, because it’s right below this section, so I’m not sure why I’m reassuring you of something that is incredibly obvious. Know that I recognize the profound redundancy, however, I follow a version of Radical Truth that allows me the freedom to make mistakes and immediately reflect on the different species of humiliation I endure publicly upon their consumption. There’s a reason you can almost spell “mutilation” from the letters in “humiliation.” Mostly it’s to make your partner curse to themself while not quite having the right letter combos in Spelltower.

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The Beach Boys “Endless Summer” is an almost perfect distillation of both a band’s formative years, while also chronicling the absurd, empty sunniness of the early-mid sixties. This Endless Summer time of year lends itself to fantasy baseball sloppiness. Schools are starting to kick into gear. Families are getting in last-minute vacations, we’re all trying to spend more time getting outside before life sweeps us along like so many fallen leaves in the river of time. Meanwhile, you’re driving your family across the country and you don’t check your lineup because of priorities. You had picked up Tyler Gilbert for a spot start in a head-to-head league that counts shutouts and no-hitters. You get to your destination, unpack, smile, and then check your team and a fragment of you withers away.

I won’t wither away, friends. I’m running on full spite, and won’t run out until I can forget that I dropped Eloy Jimenez. Luckily, my spite tastes like fritters. It’s not all bad!

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League trade deadlines are approaching. If you are in a league with move limits, this may be your last opportunity to turn your bland, generic Karin Carpenter into a unique, under-appreciated, criminally amazing and overproducing Judee Sill. No knock on Karin’s drumming though. No joke here. Are you dead yet? Are you angry I called Karen Carpenter bland even though I caveated with the drumming line? Sounds like a “you” problem. Make your trades now, nothing is immovable if you do the math and a category needs juicing.

This week we will get swiftly to the blurbs, as I am now stomping on blurbs in the NFL section of Razzball. Check it out if you want to watch a full grown adult search for mentions of “Free Agent Right Tackle” turned into the acronym FA RT. It’s going to be a hoot.

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Goodbye trade deadline, hello your team’s post-deadline decline? Did you do the thing? Did you hold onto Kendall Graveman, Ian Kennedy, Richard Rodriguez, and Savesy McSavesperson and now you have almost no source of precious saves? Well, in the words of Radiohead, “You do it to yourself, you do, and that’s what really hurts.” Of course, Thom Yorke then followed that up by looking at your middle infield options and muttering, “A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics.”

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“Rut” is a splendid noun. I am not speaking of the close encounters of the deer coitus kind, but the classic rut where one is stuck in a negative pattern of behaviors. If one were to be judgemental, one would ascribe rut to the situation of Mr. Cody Bellinger. I found a quote from Old Cody regarding his struggles in hitting the baseball, wherein he said he didn’t need to fix his swing.

These are the things you say and do in a rut. Again, not that kind of rut. I may be Welsh, but we’re talking about baseball here. Don’t be craven. Bellinger could do any number of things to fix his swing. He could shorten his swing, add three toe taps, choke up halfway up the bat. He could also drink the venom of a cobra on the dawning of a Super Moon at the home plate in Dodgers Stadium. He could hit Mickey Morandini with a car. Regardless, he is staying the same and it is not working.

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Maybe the funniest part of doing this gig is realizing how insanely destructive season-long roto fantasy baseball can be to one’s mental health. Whether you are in the basement, hunting for third place whilst languishing in the 6th spot, or even in a healthy 1st place, the grind gets to you. Reading the updates, maintaining your roster, trying to convince your cravenly obdurate league-mates to trade anyone who without them throwing in someone they just picked up off waivers; it’s brutal. In the fantastic work of the late and still great J Dilla, we find an artist who takes a beautiful, pristine 5-second loop of music, and chops it into an extremely moving aural collage that is both compositionally complex, and almost paradoxically dance-able. Meanstwhile, an engineer in a state-of-the-art recording studio would press play on a soul record and P Puff Diddy Daddy (he was the original rotosportsedgeworld) would slap “produced by me” on it and prepare to grunt and say, “Yeah,” maybe 30 times while Biggie turned his laziness into pure gold. 

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The All Star Break is both a necessary breather for everyone in fantasy baseball, and also the worst thing that could ever happen to the gray matter that I dedicate to visiting fantasy blurb sites and line up posters. I will now read some books, perhaps finally transfer belongings from one storage space to another. I may even clean some bathrooms. Not my own, mind you. I’ll probably break into some people’s houses and give them a taste of my special brand of “cleaning.” This entails almost finishing cleaning every surface, but getting tired and giving up. Also, I will use all of your paper towels out of spite and try to flush them down the toilet. That’s class!

On to the blurbs!

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Trade rumors are starting to brew as we get deeper into the season, so do yourself a favor and trade your closers on losing clubs right now. Richard Rodriguez? Kendall Graveman? Get whatever you can before the blurbs start to absolutely bury their trade value. You could still get a top-100 bat for one of those guys. With Twitter and mlbtraderumors.com, your league-mates might be too savvy to figure it out, but send those offers out now before you’re holding a ticking time bomb who you are praying ends up on a team that needs a closer. In the world of fantasy, it’s the equivalent of knowing that a corpse is about to turn into a zombie in the background of a scene in any zombie movie. You are the hero in the foreground and in focus. Behind you, a fuzzy, out of focus shape slowly staggers up. Slay that zombie, especially if he’s played by Josh Gad! On to the blurbs!

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