Greatest Love Story Never Told

This heart-warming human interest piece is based on a little known fact to even the most dutiful baseball fan. In the 1980's a young man known as "El Chulo" (English Translation, n. pimp) landed his dream job aboard the "The Carnival Breeze", a luxury cruise liner amongst the famed Carnival Cruise fleet. "My yob, it was muy beueno", said El Chulo, as he stared in the distance almost watching the memories of a better time take place all over again. "My yob was to clean dishes aboard el ship, but when we docked is when I really did my work."
Rafeal "El Chulo" Cabrera Jr. was born in a poor Dominican village and it wasn't long before his thirst for life outside the slums could not be quenched. As a wide-eyed 8 year old boy, he once wandered to the bustling city of Santo Domingo. It was here that young Rafeal saw a cruise ship unload a cargo of knowledge seeking tourists. These tourists looked so different than what young Rafeal was used to and this intrigued every fiber in his being. He finally gained the courage to speak to one of these strange people and learned that simply by getting on this ship they were able to see many parts and people of the world in a relatively short period of time. It was exactly what he wanted. He would finally break the chain of landscaping and tortilla rolling that had plagued his family for generations.
After many years of laying on the dust ridden streets of his village and imagining traveling from port to port as he stared at the stars, a now 17 year old Rafeal worked up the strength to tell his father that he would not carry on the family landscaping business. He would go out on his own. A dejected Rafeal Sr. peered up at his son through teary eyes and said, "promise me this son, you will bring the name Cabrera all over the world." "I will Papa", returned the emotionally torn Jr. as the sadness of departing and the angst of starting anew set in.
One week washing dishes on the ship couldn't pass soon enough. Finally the ship made port in the South American country of Venezuela. Rafeal Jr. finished his work and decided to mix in among the locals of the community to learn their way of life. It wasn't long before Rafeal began laying the foundation to lay the pipe that would earn him his nickname. He got hammer drunk, hung out in an alley behind the local watering hole and grabbed the first nina' that walked by. He held a steak knife from "The Carnival Breeze" to her throat as he forced his "excavadora" (literal translation to english is "shovel", but apparently it Mexican slang for dick, also) in her hooha. After spraying he heard the departing words of his father ring true in his head. He then, almost instinctively, pressed the steak knife even closer to his lover's neck as he said, "Bitch, no matter what, if this baby is a boy, his last name must be Cabrera, if you do not follow my wishes, I will be back to end you!" This romantic ritual took place all over the Caribbean.
Flash forward 20 something years to the Grapefruit League in Arizona. Three Cabrera boys, Melky, Asdrubal, and Miguel, all playing for different Major League squads, get together and discuss how great it is that despite being from different areas they all have the same last name. Their stories soon turned to their families and each tells the story they've heard all their lives about their father. All three stories are eerily similar and they conclude that it has to be more than a coincidence, they were all sired by the same man.
May 2nd the 3 Cabrera's were united on a fantasy baseball force known as the Lord of Nations. Melky was the last to come along and was a little aprehensive at first. "I didn't know what to expect, new places are always different, the new manager may be cool, he may be a dick," said a still uneasy Melk-man. "Manager is super awesome, after my epic night of partying he not only kept me, he kept me as a first rounder!" said the senior and senor Cabrera, Miguel. "It's so nice to be here with all my rape brothers," adds Asdrubal, "we're pretty sure our Papa also rape-loved Orlando's mama, but he's a real dick and he also plays my position so we asked the LoN to just limit it to us three."
We caught up with this Lord of Nations and asked him how this brotherhood took place on his squad. "We weren't worth a flying shit, so I figured a little familiarity would be a good idea," bellowed the saintly GM/Owner/Manager. "Plus, have you ever seen how many Mexicans can fit in a car, I was hoping Yahoo! would let me cram the 3 of them into 2 positions in my lineup." Things may be turning around for the lowly Lord of Nations. Now if only El Chulo had produced a pitcher.

What the Deuce?

Here we are a whopping month into the fantasy baseball season and I'm already looking for what went so terribly wrong. My draft day preparation and state of mind was exactly on par with where it was last year when my team made an improbable playoff run, so that couldn't be where the problem was. That can only mean one thing, if it's not the manager's fault, the crime being committed here must fall squarely on the shoulders of his shitty players. (This is the part where David Caruso takes off his glasses and says something like "It looks like someone has....struck out"---cue Roger Daltry)
The leading suspect for the murder committed on my dreams is none other than, The Carcass of Carl Crawford. No I'm not referring to the lost Mark Twain volume in which Huck Finn pokes a dead bloated black man with a stick after finding him floating on the mighty Mississip, it's how the South Shreveport fantasy sports media is now referring to Red Sox left fielder. Why, because he smells like shit and there are always buzzards flying around him trying to see if they can get an easy meal off me (No I don't want anything involving 2014 draft picks Eric). The guy just signed a $142 million dollar contract and has a sperm tatooed on his neck, did I really think he would stay hungry? It's no secret that Crawford is from a real sketch neighborhood in Houston and is an inner-city kid to his core. To understand the complex life of someone who has been through such trials and tribulations as The Carcass of Carl Crawford, I think one must turn to a brilliant mind of our time that has also gone through such travesties himself. For that brilliance, I turned to the great Fiddy Cent who once said, "Get rich or die tryin." Well, The Carcass is now rich, I guess there is no longer a reason to try.
Another very substantial breakthrough I've had when studying the history of Tiger Bait fantasy baseball is this cutting edge theory. If you want your team to be good, you can't miss on any of your first 3 picks. Miss on one, you may make the playoffs as a low seed, miss on two pieces of your triumvirate and you'll be figuring out your next year keepers by May 3rd. I feel like if you've made it this far through this poorly written expose' that is being used to help me deflect personal thoughts of baseball shortcomings, you should know that as of today, The Carcass could be construed as a miss. Well let's take a look at the other fellas that comprise my triumvirate. First off, there is my rock, my northstar. His position in the night sky never waivers, it just pulls over to sober up and hope no cops find him before he can sleep it off. Miguel Cabrera, I thank you, scotch is in the mail my friend. Now, in order for this theory to hold true, the genius that created it said that if your team is in the basement, there must have been atleast 2 misses in the triumverate. Well since my team is now rooming with Anne Frank, I feel like I should back this theory up. My 3rd pick was Victor Martinez who decided to break up his uber slow start with what Al Michaels would refer to as a groin (I really fucking hate when he does this by the way, "Randy Moss is out with a knee." What the shit does that mean, and hopefully now you'll notice it and it will drive you nuts as well). Anyway, Victor Martinez apparrently has a groin and decided to sit out for a few weeks. Miss.
Well, that explains my lack of offensive prowess, let's see how I manage to re-write the Un-record book on the other side of the plate every week. Pitchers 1 and 2, same as last year's awesome staff. Pitcher 3, second year in a row has decided to personally aid his family after a Tornado destroyed their home. Excuse me Roy, you make millions of dollars, buy your family a steel encampment and get back to work. At the very least, send them a check that your employer so graciously gave you in return for your services. I once read an article where your father is a a fifty-something year-old logger that never missed a day of work in his life and refuses to retire although his son makes enough money for him to do so comfortably. Quit being such a disappointment to him Mr. Oswalt, get back to Philly and earn your check. Also, while I'm at it, why must every pitcher I touch lay an absolute turd for me. It's like somewhere between last year and this year I turned from King Midas to his evil twin brother that can magically turn things to shit just by touching them. Everytime I pick up someone for a spot-start they manage to post a solid 9.00 ERA. If Cole didn't make such an irate rant this offseason about changing your fantasy team name, I would have already changed mine to "5 IP, 5 ER's".
And there you have it folks. The explanation for what may be a truly monumental year. After looking a little closer, final verdict on this case is that there was no one murderer, it has been a real team effort. As I said in my opening paragraph and will now reiterate in my closing paragraph, because that's how Mr. Hurlbut taught me, it's not my fault, it's my team's fault. I've obviously done my part, they are all working toward a common goal as a true unit. Unfortunately, that goal is, Lord of Nations.....You have first choice, what position would you like to draft from?