My god, I thought, as I sat down to write this dispatch, staring down the blinking cursor like a thing that might have to be killed… if this is what Week 7 looks like, we’re not making it to the All-Star Break…

Monday, May 19, 2025

It was already too late by the time I remembered it was Monday morning. The matchups were over. The standings had settled into place like a broken jaw, and I was still sprawled on the floor of my office in a folding chair that had collapsed under the weight of my own inaction.

I trudged to the coffee pot, trying to shake the cobwebs from my head while staring at the Yahoo Fantasy Baseball app like a detective looking for clues in a murder he may or may not have been involved in. I knew—without really knowing—that there was no way I’d have this week’s recap posted ahead of the self-imposed lunch deadline.

You try wading through the psychic swamp of American fantasy sports every week and see what it does to you. Try holding the line as waiver wires turn to mass graves, closers implode like Soviet reactors, and all three of your catchers simultaneously forget how to swing a bat.

Something in the back of my mind started buzzing as I stared into the computer screen—like a smoke alarm going off in a locked glove compartment. Something wasn’t right. Not wrong, exactly… just misaligned, like a man wearing two different shoes to a job interview and pretending it’s a choice. And then it hit me. There it was. Plain as day: Sinton 7, Oahu 4.

The Mullets had done it. Not just survived—but won. And not on a fluke, either. The bats had finally woken up from their six-week coma, cranking out 10 home runs and hitting nearly .290, while the pitching staff somehow managed not to choke on its own tongue. Oahu put up a fight—matched the dingers, threw some numbers on the board—but it didn’t matter. Sinton rose from the muck, swinging.

It wasn’t the only surprise. Coastal Bend had been parked in first or second place all season, quietly convincing the rest of us that their dominance was inevitable. The Oilers winning had started to feel like gravity—annoying, inescapable, and not worth questioning. But Doña Ana kicked down that door and set the building on fire. Final score: 9–2. The Oilers had the power—more homers, more RBIs—but their pitching looked like it was happening under duress, possibly at gunpoint. Meanwhile, the Chihuahuas threw like they’d been possessed by the ghost of Sandy Koufax, back from the dead with a personal vendetta against earned runs. Cold. Efficient. Remorseless.Like all good desert predators, they waited in silence—then struck without warning .

With my mind still reeling from the upsets, I reached for something—anything—solid to hold onto… and found it in New Mexico. Turns out there is something left in this league that can still be trusted. The Roadrunners handled Rockport 6–4 with the calm, cold efficiency of a man vacuuming blood out of a rental car. They didn’t hit better. They just pitched smarter. Five saves, better WHIP, no panic. They let Rockport believe—just for a moment—that they had a shot. Then they pulled the ripcord and floated safely into yet another win.

Elsewhere, the Denver Donuts took down the Michiana Cavemen 5–3, in what felt less like a fantasy matchup and more like a kitchen fire that refused to burn out. Both pitching staffs detonated on impact—ERAs high enough to require hazmat clearance—but Denver brute-forced their way through with 35 RBIs and managed to tie Michiana in homers, steals, and wins. It wasn’t a win so much as a controlled explosion. The kind you walk away from barefoot, holding a clipboard, and claiming it went according to plan.

Gallagher Gulch snapped out of whatever drunken haze Week 6 had left them in and hammered the Integrals 7–3. The Fat Boys outmaneuvered Indy like a prison-yard shiv fight—quick, dirty, decisive. Five saves, nine steals, no apologies. Indy’s offense swung hard to the bitter end, but it wasn’t enough. You can’t close a gap when the other guy already cut your shoelaces.

And my Armadillos somehow scraped together enough chaos and dumb luck to edge out Boerne 5–4. It wasn’t so much a game as a weeklong test of faith. I watched my roster like a man trying to keep a leaking lifeboat afloat with duct tape and sarcasm. Injuries. Rainouts. A Sunday night save opportunity that could’ve gone either way. It wasn’t pretty. It never is. But it was a win. And in this league, that’s worth its weight in bourbon and blood pressure meds.

And now, as is tradition, this is the part of the recap where I would normally summarize the Top Six, update the standings, and lay out next week’s matchups in neat little bullet points.

But I’m not doing that this time. You’ve got the goddamn app and you know how to use it.

“I have learned, in my life and work as a sportswriter, that big-time Sports and big-time Politics are not so far apart in America. They are both a means to the same end, which is victory… And why not? Victory is good for you, and don’t let anybody tell you different.”
— Hunter S. Thompson