My wife thinks I worry too much. It’s a fair criticism manifesting itself more plainly each day with our daughter. She’s a bit older than one, and I can’t help but freak out about every little way she’s about to hurt herself. I was raised by an insurance adjuster who taught me life was a booby-trap parade. I used to tell him he saw the world only in landmines. It’s inevitable you’ll walk the wrong way and blow some up, but by God you’d better try your best to avoid em. He never disagreed with this assessment. 

I mention this because every one of Atlanta’s prospects worries me. I see the reason for optimism in a lot of them, but if I took over a dynasty loaded up with Braves, I’d be shopping a lot of them before they fall on their ass and look at me crying like it’s my fault.