Wheelin' and Dealin'

It's getting late early for the Darling Asteroids.

An overall score of 89-105-10, seated in 9th place with four weeks of regular season play left. Only the top six teams make it to the playoffs.

Last season we made it to the finals, tying Joba Rules 6-6 but losing the ERA tiebreaker.

We could almost taste the immortality,eternal glory nuzzled comfortably against us...but it was a quick wink and a nod before breaking our darling hearts.

What a tease.

This season has been a different story. For the first time in my five years as a pretend baseball GM, we're in danger of missing the playoffs.

They're starting to say I don't have what it takes anymore.

That they appreciate my years of service, but the Darlings need someone who can finally get them over the hump.

Rumors that management interviewed some hotshot fantasy football GM cannot be confirmed or denied, but just last night ownership gave me the dreaded "vote of confidence."

So in a last gasp attempt to save the season---and possibly my job---two blockbuster trades have been made in the last two weeks.

First, we shipped the man who would be King Felix to Antarctic Arsenal in exchange for Rangers 3B Michael Young and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera.

Former Twins closer Jon Rauch was rendered useless and expendable at the reality trade deadline, opening the door for the Asteroids acquire the greatest closer that has ever lived.

Young is having a good year as well, hitting 16 homeruns, knocking in 64 and scoring 74 runs. A nice little upgrade for a struggling offense.

And boy, has our offense been struggling, thanks in no small part to Hanley Lollygagging Ramirez...so it was time for him to go.

His numbers this season have been comparable to White Sox SS Alexei Ramirez (.280-50-58 for Hanley, .289-43-53 for Alexei).

So we sent Hanley and Placido Polanco to the Space Turtles for NL Cy Young contender Adam Wainwright, he of the 2.07 ERA and 16 wins.

There's nothing more exciting than hearing about someone else's fantasy trades, right?

You're on the edge of your seat right now. You love this.

Here's hoping this new blood can inject some life into our Darlings and surge us into the playoffs.

This season is growing old far quicker than we expected.

In a few short weeks it could be over, done with, gone before its time...a brilliant flash in the night sky that burnt out before it could even live its life.

Luckily for us, this is fake baseball.

It should come with a disclaimer: No actual lives or feelings were hurt in the making of these trades.

The same cannot be said for some. Take poor J.A. Happ, for example.

Life was good for the man who finished second in Rookie of the Year voting last season, until Charlie Manuel called him into his office one fateful day.

"Kid," I imagine Cholly said in his slow-paced southern-drawl while chomping on a tuna sandwich, "it's great to have you back from the DL. You were a big part of this team last season and we missed you."

"But don't get comfortable. You live in Texas now."

And just like that Happ is uprooted, shipped to the bottom-feeding Astros, likely never to sniff the playoffs until Houston goes through another "rebuilding year" (probably next season) and he gets traded to a contender.

Can you imagine?

It's easy to not feel sorry for these blokes since they're stupid rich and all, but they've got it rough sometimes.

Do me a favor: Close your eyes and imagine you're a famous athlete.

(No, don't really close your eyes. How would you read the rest of this fine post? Come on, man...stay focused)

But imagine you're an athlete. For argument's sake, let's say you're New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady.

Congratulations, you're handsome.

But your day at the office consists of 300-lb. men trying to annihilate you at every given opportunity.

You also have to spend time before and after work answering inane questions from media members who absolutely can't do what you do, yet still have some excellent suggestions on how you can improve.

So that's the life you lead.

You're under intense scrutiny and pressure from various avenues on a daily basis, and it's other men's jobs to make sure you do your job poorly.

But there's one more thing to consider, one thing that gets lost in the shuffle for these poor millionaires.

One thing that makes the life of a celebrity all the more bizarre and, in a way, sad.

If you're a famous athlete like Tom Brady, you can't go to the mall.

You just can't. Not even for a quick stop at Old Navy.

Don't even think about it.

You wish.

A host of the basic activities the rest of us enjoy are off limits to our favorite stars because they're going to be swarmed by fans and photographers the second they show their chiseled faces.

A lot of people won't feel sorry for trade bait like Ted Lilly or Lance Berkman, but I sort of do.

It's a strange, cold life these gentlemen lead sometimes.

Maybe I'm just getting older and wiser. Maybe I'm just more empathetic and advanced than some.

Maybe I'm just trying to deflect the fact that the Darling Asteroids suck more than "The Last Airbender."

Still, if you ever run into the likes of Cliff Lee on the street or in an Applebee's, have a heart. Give him a hug.

He's fighting a tough battle called life, just like you and I.

It will help him sleep better on his bed made of money in his house made of gold.