Forgive me, dear reader, for coursing through my veins is the work of pharmaceutical geniuses, and medical marvel that this vaccine is, it fogs my mind like the finest product of the poppy flowers of the Far East.

But I have contracted with the publisher of this revered issuance to isochronal editorials on the state of the RazzSlam. And so here we are.

The first month of the baseball season, and therefore the RazzSlam, has come and gone, more or less. To what have we so far borne witness?

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Ah! My good and noble reader! It has been too long since last I regaled you with tales of my raising of an army for the RazzSlam!

Things are… not going well, I’m afraid.

With the injury to Austin Nola documented in my original missives, to the occasional negative-earning performance by Danny Jansen and the continued toiling on the farm of one Adley Rutschmann, I can on very few occasions secure scoring of any kind from both of my catcher positions. Which, given my unabashed and very public distaste for the role, brings me no shortage of rage.

I find myself, as of this writing, mired in 220th place, of 240 competitors. I do not intend, dear reader, to remain at such a mockable rank as this, and so I have turned my efforts to the mysterious legend that can save one and all from the fates of injury, demotion, and generally piss-poor performance.

Have you heard, then, of the legendary FAABidden Island?

Please, blog, may I have some more?

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.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

MY INITIAL FIVE SELECTIONS HAVING BEEN MADE, I decided to stop a moment and look around. I had come into this effort so headstrong, and so assured, that I did not consider for a moment what my opposition might be up to. I had assumed that my zigging and their zagging would leave me feeling accomplished.

Quite the contrary.

I had been correct in my assumption that The Acefecta would be unique as far as strategies go, and yet, gnawing at my mind like the ceaseless banshee shriek of nails dragged across a blackboard was one fact: I was not the only manager who found himself with three pitchers after five rounds.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

THE INVITATION CAME ON 8 FEBRUARY in a gilded envelope, printed with the finest inks of the Far East, on the heaviest parchment I’d ever felt. One knew, simply by sight, that the contents of the envelope were destined to change the life of the man– or woman– to whom it was addressed.

It came from a man named “Donkey Teeth”… I assume this is a man, as sure as I am that the post was not, in fact, sent by the sentient protrusions from the alveolar of an ass. This Mr. D. Teeth was inviting all recipients of the missive to something called a RazzSlam.

Please, blog, may I have some more?