Just Let It Go

I used to be awesome.

For close to a three-year stretch beginning mid-2003 and screeching to a halt roughly around the time Arrested Development was canceled, I was unstoppable.

Unfortunately any and all photographic or video evidence from that time has been lost in the annals of history, and anyone I knew who could corroborate my story is long dead.

But it's true. You have to believe me.

I bring this up because yesterday, in a groggy haze fueled by waffle fries and pot, I began to daydream. And, as is usually the case when I daydream, my thoughts turned to one thing and one thing only:

Him?

John Lackey, much like myself, used to be the man.

He won Game 7 of the 2002 World Series as a rookie, and once got to live out the dream that many of us all share: beating the hell out of Jason Kendall.

He was also on my very first fantasy team in 2006 and rewarded me with 14 wins and almost 200 strikeouts.

He'd be back on The Fellowship the next season, racking up 19 wins and a 3.01 ERA, finishing third in Cy Young voting.

That's the beauty of fantasy baseball. This AL pitcher who I previously had no real connection to or interest in was suddenly one of my favorite players.

His success was my success. We had a bond. He was my boy.

And then, much like Friends circa the Ross-Rachel-Joey love triangle, things went south in a hurry.

Lackey's ERA ballooned up to 3.75 the next season, and 3.83 after that. I didn't even draft him that year. It was time to move on.

In 2009 he signed with the Red Sox...possibly to be on a contender, possibly for the change of scenery, possibly because he likes snow in April and public trains that shut down before most of us are good and drunk.

But I think I know why he really signed here. He was hoping to recapture the magic by moving to the city where I live.

The magic from when he felt alive, when he was king of the world, when winning championships and repeatedly ramming his fist in Jason Kendall's head was not just a dream but a beautiful, beautiful reality.

John Lackey just can't let go.

Well I'm sorry, old friend, but your ERA has risen each of the last three seasons and you play on a team I do not care for.

Not only that, but the memories of our former glory are still too fresh...the hurt is just too real.

For all these reasons--professional, personal and miscellaneous--I won't be drafting you this season, John. You're on the short list of players I just won't touch.

No touching!

That last sentence sounded kinda gross, but you get the idea: There are a few players out there that I want nothing to do with.

Maybe I don't trust them. Maybe I don't like the look on their smug little faces. But for whatever reason, these fellas have no place on my roster:

Ian Kinsler: Oh, don't get me wrong. Kinsler here is a fine player who can hit for some power, swipe some bags and has a boyish charm about him. But he's also going to miss about 40 games this season, just like he has the last five years.

He's good for a torrid May, and as the Rangers mop up the mediocre AL West we might even get a "Kinsler for MVP?" article or two. Then he'll pull a hammy, twist an ankle or look at Michael Young the wrong way.

No thanks, I'll pass.

J.D. Drew: You can take your insanely-consistent .280-20-65 season someplace else, Jonathan. You refused to play for the Phillies when they drafted you, you never smile and you bore me. I'm this close to whipping batteries at my screen just thinking about you.

Chad Billingsley: Just kidding. Could you imagine?

Denard Span: This isn't really his fault, but he's one of those players that puts up decent numbers...yet announcers just gush about him endlessly.

As if he's the only guy alive who works hard, or has heart, or does the little things. If there's one thing I hate, it's a player who's overrated.

If there's a second thing I hate, it's Minnesota.

And while he hit .300 his first two seasons, he put up a depressing .264 when I owned him last season.

Why would I put myself through this again? I'd have to be denarded.

"I've made a huge mistake."

Melky Cabrera: Because you're awful at baseball and nobody likes you.

Hanley Ramirez: Because last year I drafted you, Hanley, and you responded by lollygagging your way right out of my good graces.

Now I may not be the smartest fantasy GM around. I might occasionally forget to bench a player on his day off. I've made a bad trade or two in my day.

And I may or may not have a foot odor problem that should really be looked at by a professional.

But I have my pride, Hanley.

And your guaranteed .300-20-100 season with 100 runs and 30+ stolen bases isn't enough to...can't possibly make me want...I would never...

Oh, screw this.

We're trying to win here. Pride is overrated.

How denarded do you think I am?

The Name Game

I'm not much for this lovey-dovey stuff, but today is special. So here goes:

I miss you.

Whenever you're not around all I do is miss you. And then I wonder where you are, I wonder what you're doing, I wonder when you'll be back and I wonder if you're thinking about me.

I still repeat our little inside-jokes to myself in my head and laugh every time. It's a bit of a bummer, really, because all day long people ask me what I'm smiling about...and I can't explain it to them.

I just don't know where I'd be without you sometimes. Seeing you is always the best part of my day, and I'm sorry for not telling you all this sooner.

Today is just special, I guess.

And so, on the day when pitchers and catchers report to spring training, the day that officially marks the start of the 2011 MLB season, heck, I'm never going to have a better chance to tell you how I feel. So I just wanted to say:

You're the best, Carlos. Don't ever change.

Be Mine?

But as the spring training doors swing open for the first time and the team formerly known as the Darling Asteroids embarks on its championship quest, one unanswered question lingers sweetly in the air like lilac-scented kitten kisses.

A question which, if answered correctly, will set us on a path to glory.

However, if answered incorrectly, a future of pain, suffering and being picked last in gym class awaits.

The question, on the surface, is simple: What's in a name?

No big deal, right? It's just a combination of letters, after all. And the only logical reason for people or places or animals or muffins to have names is so we can distinguish them from other people, places, animals and muffins, correct?

Wrong.

If I said to you, "Hey [best friend], let's go watch a Marion Morrison flick. He's a real Man's man," you'd look at me as if I had two heads and only a vague concept of what constitutes masculinity.

And what if I was all, "Darn, [best friend], that new rap track by Calvin Broadus, Jr. is the shizzle, right my [bizzle frizzle]?"

Finally, if I told you I had a friend named Paul Hewson who was really dedicated to charitable causes and such, you'd likely think, "Pfft, that guy sounds like a pompous tool..."

Did somebody say "Africa"?

In conclusion, names are important. Picking a really great name just sets the right tone, ya know? A strong name gives off a confident vibe, something to let your opponents know you mean business.

A weak name intimidates no one and only ensures that some red-head at Tuesday Night Trivia gives you a fake phone number.

So it's with championship goals in mind, and the lingering memory of that lying strumpet Tiffany in our freshly-broken hearts, that we begin the search for our new team name.

This task is not to be taken lightly. I made a New Year's Resolution to lead this rag-tag group of ballplayers to the promised land, and a killer moniker is step numero one.

I also resolved to make more dick jokes, but that's not important right now.

When thinking of a sweet team name, there are two basic rules to follow. First, originality is key. According to this article of the top 20 most popular fantasy team names, a whopping five of them are just the names of actual baseball teams, with three more being MLB nicknames.

I won't be taking this route, and you shouldn't either. We're better than that. Besides, no one has nightmares about facing Jacob Upham's Internet Baseball Team.

Rule #2: Try to be clever. The ladies love it. A punny title based off a player's name or pop-culture reference could be right up your alley.

Let's say you're a big Padres fan (I know, I know...but just go with it), but you also enjoy kicking back with some Hemingway from time to time. That's an easy one: For Whom the Heath Bell Tolls.

No need to thank me, that was a freebie. Some other possibilities:

"The Good, the Bad and the Uggla"..."Two Girls, One Ump"..."Thor's Mighty Boner"..."Leave It To Bieber"..."Melky Cabrera and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Utility Outfielder"..."Dancefloor Paratroopers"..."The Bayside Tigers"..."Bam! Said the Lady"..."Legends of the Hidden Casey Stengel"..."Pat Burrell's Wild Ride"..."The Musial Suspects"...and lastly, "The Chad Billingsleys."

"My eyes are up here."

You get the idea. Or, if your team/city has an iconic ballpark or player associated with it, something like "The Green Monsters" or "The Big Red Machine" has a classic, although slightly cliché, touch to it.

The point is, there's no wrong answer. This is your team. Mold them in your image. Do whatever is in your heart. And heck, just have fun out there!

But...is it possible I'm going about this all wrong?

Maybe the Darling Asteroids deserve another chance. They only had one season, after all. Any GM knows that building a winner takes time and effort and love and more money than God teamwork.

To so callously drop this name after one season would be heartless. How could I live with myself? Who am I, Tiffany?

Or maybe I should kick it old school and go with "The Fellowship." Ah, my first fantasy team's name.

And just like the first time I visited Applebees, or the fading memory of my first love (who I met at Applebees), the feeling this name stirs up is one of tenderness, excitement and reasonably-priced family fun.

Like a lot of problems in life, I think I need to take a step back for awhile and return later with a fresh pair of eyes.

And if that doesn't work?

Well then I think Carlos' Mighty Bono is in for one hell of a season.

Super Bowl Hangover

The smoke has cleared, the fans have departed and the confetti has nestled snuggly into the astroturf. Some poor sap has to vacuum all that stuff up, but that's not important right now.

Last night the country took part in America's greatest invention...a day fueled by football and friends, by bright lights and booze, by overindulgence, glory and those tiny hotdogs with the cute little crusts that when you dip them in honey-mustard sauce it's just the best thing.

And as the Green Bay Packers ride off into the sunset, Lombardi Trophy clutched victoriously, the rest of us schlep to work in the morning with a killer Super Bowl hangover.

Eyes bleary, heads aching and with morsels of chicken wings still lodged in our collective arteries, we shuffle slowly and silently towards the break room's coffee machine.

The room is quiet and despondent. No one speaks. Everyone just stares into their mug. Steve from HR looks like he might cry. The mood resembles that of a wake, only worse. Football is gone.

Finally breaking the silence, Steve let's out a long, depressed sigh. With tears welling in his sullen eyes he turns to you and says:

"Well shit, man. What now?"

I'll tell you "what now," bro!

America's favorite sport may be gone, but its national pastime (as in, something to pass the time until football) is right around the corner.

So break out the Big League Chew, brush up on your sabermetrics and don't forget to remember to never step on the foul line...because baseball is back!

Man up, Steve!

Or rather...it will be shortly. Pitchers and catchers report in no time. And while the two month lull between the Super Bowl and the start of baseball is excruciating, it gives us plenty of time to get our minds right for the coming year.

It's no secret that last year, the Darling Asteroids fell apart. With Evan Longoria, Hanley Ramirez and Matt Kemp all failing to have the three greatest offensive seasons in history, the Darlings lacked the firepower to compete through the summer.

When Stephen Strasburg's elbow tragically exploded, injuring 13 patrons at a local Applebees, our season was effectively over.

The team was just too demoralized to contend after that, and we failed to make the playoffs. Pablo Sandoval's head hung low for days. Poor David Aardsma couldn't handle the stress, and by season's end was visibly exacerbated.

Then Michael Young walked in and caught David exacerbating. Things got awkward.

Most preseason predictions I made also fell flat, as I went a lame 3-for-10 in picking division and award winners, nailing only both Cy Youngs (Doc and King Felix) and the NL East.

The actual season had a bitter end as well as the Phillies lost in the NLCS, sending the Giants to the World Series and me into a blackout after too much sadness whiskey.

I think the Giants went on to play the New York Rangers? I'm not sure, I wasn't paying attention. If you actually watched the World Series, shoot me an email and let me know who won.

In a shocking twist, Jacob wins the World Series.

But none of that matters now.

Today is a new day, a new season, a new year! On the back of steadfast determination and laser-like focus, a John Rocker Invitational Championship is headed my way.

I even have the perfect spot in my room picked out for the trophy: On my desk, next to my Chase Utley bobblehead, right underneath my Lady Gaga poster, right beside my reserve stash of sadness whiskey.

And in the actual baseball realm, this season is littered with new questions and answers. A number of stars have relocated during a busy offseason...how will they impact their new clubs?

In a symbolic move, Johnny Damon and Manny Ramirez signed with Tampa Bay, choosing to spend the twilights of their careers in the state most people go to die.

With Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford joining the fray, Boston's lineup rivals the fabled 1927 Yankees, only with more black people (but just barely).

Zack Greinke was traded from Kansas City to Milwaukee, which is more of a lateral move, really.

And a certain Clifton Phifer Lee reunited with his best buddies in Philadelphia, prompting most NL clubs to bemoan, "Well shit, man. What now?"

And these tasty subplots are just for starters. Which lucky souls will be drafted to my squad this year? What will that squad even be called? And what is the over/under on Chad Billingsley-related poems?

While I can't promise any answers just yet, I can promise that this season will be filled with excitement, intrigue and unexpected plot twists at every turn.

Just keep your personal items close and don't make any sudden movements around Prince Fielder, and you're bound to have the time of your life.

What, you have something better to do?

You can't be serious.