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I feel like such a dope anytime someone sends me a message written in acronymoglyphs. Sure, I know LOL. I’m not a complete moron but everything else has me going to the good ole Google machine. Even then, I have questions. Do I click on Urban Dictionary or not? The prudent thing is usually to eschew UD but I need the street cred. So, to exhibit my proficiency in acronymoglyphs, this post will be dedicated to my new creation: A. S. S. Anthony Santander Sucks. The beauty of this acronym is that it can be used in a sentence: Anthony Santander sucks A. S. S. He’s the 574th player on the Razzball Player Rater. To be fair, Santander has not always sucked but he’s sucking A. S. S. so far this season, which has led 12.1% of owners in ESPN leagues to drop him. Who’s going to be the A. S. S. at the end of the season?

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Michaelangelo’s statue of David is arguably the most famous statue in existence. Korean bus tours ferry their customers to gawk at it, so you know it’s famous beyond famous. Giorgio Vasari, a renowned Renaissance painter himself, said this about the statue of David:

“When all was finished, it cannot be denied that this work has carried off the palm from all other statues, modern or ancient, Greek or Latin; no other artwork is equal to it in any respect, with such just proportion, beauty and excellence did Michelagnolo finish it”

The David I’m going to be talking about in this piece is far from perfection. In fact, his imperfections are so apparent that the boy from the Mask, not the Jim Carrey one but the Cher one, has become more confident. This David whom I write of is David Villar of the San Francisco Giants. Here’s why I think he has some utility.

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The beginning of any fantasy season is the most wonderful time of the year. After mental masturbating over rosters, listening to pods, and reading prognostication after prognostication, the little white ball finally travels from mound to plate, and the live scoring flickers and lights up the screen. We fantasy nerds latch onto every play and either go into bouts of depression when the players we mentally masturbated over all offseason do not perform, or victory lap without clothes when our “guys” exceed even our most erotic dreams and desires. After about a month, the honeymoon period ends and the true grind begins. Until then, though, there will be overreactions galore, for better or for worse, ’till death do us part. On April 1st, Trayce Thompson went 3-for-4 with uno, dos, tres homeruns and 8 RBI. Brother Klay Thompson did not play on that night, so Trayce took care of all the treys for the Thompson family. He was on SportsCenter all day and all night. Now, most of you will not and have not fallen for the banana in the tailpipe, but he was scooped up by close to 15% of owners in ESPN leagues. NFBC owners were not immune either, as Thompson is now rostered on 18% of teams. Even though I have assumptions about many things, I do like to do my due diligence….just in case.

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Throughout this preseason, I have dived deep into the trash bin, trying to unearth some diamands in the…smelly trash. Ewwwww. P. U. The things I do for y’all. Before I continue, I have to give a shoutout to Laura, for she is the deep league specialist, and I recommend that you all read her work if you don’t already. Now, I like to have some semblance of balance in my life, so I’m going to flip my world upside down, don the hater cap, and throw internet tomatoes on a player who I feel has a chance to disappoint this season. I got no shame in my game, as I’m playing don’t pass at the table if I sense a disturbance in the Force. The stink eye I get from the others ain’t no thing. So, I’m prepared for the internet tomatoes that will more than likely be thrown my way, but such is the life of a hater. 

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After 40 days and 40 nights of rain in Los Angeles, a respite finally arrived, so I slipped on the Vans and ventured out. The birds were chirping, the fresh after-storm smell was pungent, the sun was glistening off the puddles on the ground, and the Vans were getting soaked because Son is an idiot. As I walked in a trance-like state, I was brought back to reality when a car zoomed around the corner as I was about to step into the crosswalk. Furious, and about to fire off a salvo of expletives, I hesitated because I heard giggling. Not the teenage girl giggling that I’m scared to death of hearing when my daughter gets to the age. No, this was unadulterated joyous and free giggling. I looked left. I looked right. I looked down. Why did I look down? Anyways, I finally triangulated where the sound was coming from with my bat-like abilities. My eyes finally calibrated to expose a meadow, not one flush with green grass and blooming flowers. No, this Austin Meadows may be made of glass but could provide plenty of power. And he’s cheap! Let’s dig in.

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This could be my last baseball post at Razzball. If so, it’s been real and you all shall be missed. The reason why I have my head on a swivel and hear Grey’s cackles reverberting through my dome constantly is because I write up players he hates. In addition, I may be committing the cardinal sin being a writer at Razzball as this post is about a catcher! Yeah, I done F’d up. But such is the life of being the trash man at Razzball. It’s a thankless job but someone has to do it. Last week, I brought you riveting analysis of one Mike Yastrzemski. This week? Another Yas shall be written about: Yasmani Grandal. I am impervious to those internet tomatoes being thrown at my head because I’ve got my helmet on. Suck it! 

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This is a story as old as time. You enter the draft with the fervor of a hormone-raged teenager while donning a cap with YOLO embroidered on the front. Outfield? It’s super deep. Let me handle my business with the rest of the squad. So, you’ve got one hand on the steering wheel while the other is trying to find some good tunes on the radio as you cruise down the fantasy draft highway. The windows are down and the wind blows the hair into Picasso art. Round marker after round marker whizz by, then a dread encompasses the cabin of the car like a nasty fart; I need outfielders. With leagues requiring five outfielders, the once vast player pool dissipates quickly like a Sahara watering hole during the summer. One name that is often dredged up is Mike Yastrzemski. He is far from sexy and there’s a reason he’s in the dredges in the first place, but is he trash or a diamond in the rough?

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Life is all about utility. But one person’s concept of utility is different from another’s. Someone with tons of disposable income may view having a Ferrari as useful because it makes them feel better. Another who is living paycheck to paycheck may view that as silly. It very well may be, but it doesn’t matter because it serves a purpose for the owner. Religion is a hot bed topic that can spoil the most tastiest of dinners. What ever side of the debate you are on, though, it doesn’t matter because religion is a personal experience that provides utility for that particular person. The same goes for fantasy baseball. We all have different perspectives and values on players and go about roster construction in unique ways. One man’s trash could very well be another’s treasure. Which brings me to Christian Arroyo. Who? Yeah, this is not going to be a sexy piece, although most of these aren’t, but whatever. I leave those for the real writers on the baseball side. Arroyo is being drafted as the 490th overall player in NFBC drafts from February so he won’t be an option for standard leagues, but could he have utility in deeper formats?

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There have been three Jake the Snakes that I can recall. There was Jake “The Snake” Roberts who starred in the WWE, letting his python terrorize and constrict his opponents, sometimes before but usually after DDT’ing them into submission. Jake “The Snake” Plummer excelled in football at the Arizona State University, leading them to a one-loss season and fourth overall ranking in 1996. He did play in the NFL for 10 seasons, albeit a middling career with 161 touchdowns and 161 interceptions. I respect the symmetry. The sequel is rarely better than the original iteration. Now we have Jake “The Snake” McCarthy of the Arizona Diamondbacks. Has anyone called him “The Snake” but me? Niet, but this is the power that I wield from my mom’s basement. He doesn’t have the ferocious power of Roberts’ DDT and never got as many panties wet as Plummer did at ASU, but McCarthy has been doing his thing and been a viable edition to “The Snake” triology. Let’s dig in if he is truly worthy of it. 

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The Angels are not from Los Angeles. Get the F outta here with that Manute Bol s**t. Grey has ranted about the topic more than once in the past but this is a topic that must never be left to die. The distance from Los Angeles to Anaheim is around 26 miles which equates to approximately a 45 minute drive with minimal traffic. Narrator: There is never minimal traffic. Do you know what’s around 25 miles away from New York City? White Plains. If you drive 14 more miles, you’re in Stamford, Connecticut. From San Francisco, add 12 miles and you’re in San Jose. After I start my GoFundMe account and get enough funds to purchase the team from Arte Moreno, my first order of business is to change the logo:

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Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound was mesmerizing as the blacksmith expertly smushed his hammer down onto the glowing piece layed before him. Clink. Clink. Clink. It’s an arduous process to turn a raw piece of steel into a weapon of extraordinary magnitude. Heat it up so that it becomes malleable, dump it in water to strengthen it, then repeat the process until a sword emerges, blings, mesmerizes, then slices and dices as it’s intended to do. Unfortunately, the proliferation of weapons powered by gunpowder made swords obsolete, but swords could still have utility in the right situation. At the end of the day, in close quarters, they can still slice and dice. Justin Steele of the Chicago Cubs has taken time to be forged, and doesn’t have the explosive nature of some of his contemporaries. That said, he has been useful and could be employed in the right situation. Let’s dig in to see how potent this Steele truly is.

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