The Simulation Keeps Simulating (And So Does My Suffering)
My editors called me on a Tuesday. I was doing something productive — I think I was re-ranking every Larry Bird regular season game from 1984 — and they said, "We need a follow-up on the WLB standings piece." I threw up in my mouth a little. Not metaphorically. Actually, physically, a small amount of bile traveled northward and I had to excuse myself from my own kitchen.
Because here's the thing: I wrote that first column as a cry for help. I named the owners. I mocked the team names. I practically begged someone — anyone — to stage an intervention. And instead of getting help, I got an email from my editor with the subject line "Great engagement numbers!! Readers want MORE WLB!!" with two exclamation points, which is how you know someone has truly given up on journalism.
Fine. Let's do this. Let's look at the standings.
The Numbers, Which Are Real Despite Everything
The Iron Knob Explosions sit at 11-3, which is the best record in the league and also the sentence I never thought I'd type with a straight face. The Fugging Honey Badgers are 11-4. The Rick Astleys are 12-6 — more wins than anyone, but somehow a game back because they've also lost six times, which is very on-brand for a team named after a man whose entire career is built on showing up where you're not wanted.
Let me be very clear about what we're looking at here. The three best teams in the WLB are managed by:
1. A not-for-profit youth theater CEO. Andrew Harris, the man behind the Iron Knob Explosions, runs a nonprofit youth theater. This man spends his days teaching twelve-year-olds to emote and his evenings presumably staring at simulated ERA leaderboards at 1 AM whispering "just one more inning" to a computer screen. His team is named Iron Knob. I have covered the NBA Finals. I have watched Kobe drop 81 points. I am now writing about a man whose professional calling is children's theater and whose hobby is managing a fake baseball team called the Iron Knob Explosions. This is where the arc of my career has led.
2. A doctor. Dr. Garth Prinsloo Graham. The man has a medical degree. Somewhere out there, a patient is lying on a table and a doctor is thinking about whether to start Kelly in center field. "Dr. Graham, the imaging results are back —" "Can it wait? I need to figure out if McClure has another inning in him." The Honey Badgers are 11-4 and leading the league in runs scored at 159, which is either impressive roster management or evidence that Dr. Graham prescribed himself something in the off-season.
3. A lawyer. Jeff Burris. Of course it's a lawyer. Of course the Rick Astleys — a team that literally cannot stop winning games while also refusing to pull away from the field — are run by a lawyer. Lawyers never fully win. They just bill hours until the other side gives up. The Astleys are 12-6 with the most wins in the league and they're still a game back. That's a legal settlement if I've ever seen one. "We got twelve wins." "Great." "But we're still behind." "That's fine, we'll appeal."
What Actually Happened This Week
In my previous column I called the Rick Astleys "predictable." Lawyer Jeff Burris's team responded by blowing a 5-0 lead against the Honey Badgers on 4/16, giving up five runs in the fifth inning, and losing 6-5. Then on 4/17, the Astleys led 3-1 going into the ninth inning and somehow gave up four runs to lose 7-3. I want you to understand that a pitcher named Honeycutt — Honeycutt — came in to face a lineup that promptly hit him for three runs and a walk in a third of an inning. Jeff Burris, attorney at law, watched all of this happen on a screen and presumably billed someone for the emotional distress.
Dr. Graham's Honey Badgers, meanwhile, pulled off a comeback for the ages on 4/17. Down 3-1 heading to the ninth, they scored four runs on a walk, a single, a sac fly, a double, another single, and a steal of second base by a man named Kelly, who has three home runs and apparently also steals bases like it's nothing. Dr. Graham probably ran a controlled study on Kelly's baserunning and published the results in a peer-reviewed journal. Kelly does not care. Kelly never cares. Honey Badger, et cetera.
The Iron Knob Explosions, helmed by the youth theater CEO, are quietly doing something genuinely alarming: they are outscoring opponents 119 to 55. That's a run differential of +64. Andrew Harris has either figured out something everyone else hasn't, or the algorithm likes him because he radiates "I just want the kids to believe in themselves" energy.
The Rest of the League
The Knockemstiff Slap Daddys — managed by Brett Houlberg, who I can only assume named his team after both an Ohio town and his own personal philosophy — are 9-6 and quietly dangerous. Houlberg is the kind of manager who wins games you weren't expecting him to win and then loses two in a row to a CPU team. Chaotic. Unknowable.
The Nicaragua Crepe Wrappers, managed by Chris Carpenter — and yes, they have a player also named Carpenter, which is either intentional or the simulation has developed a sense of humor — are on a five-game winning streak at 8-7. The Crepe Wrappers have a run differential of just +9, which means they are winning close games through vibes alone. This is the most dangerous team in the league.
The Huanca Wankers — managed by Chris Broyles, who I remind you is a real adult human who named his team the Huanca Wankers — are 8-9. Robin Yount is hitting .347 for them. A simulated Hall of Famer is carrying a team called the Wankers while their manager presumably explains to his family at dinner why he spent four hours watching fake box scores.
The CPU Teams Deserve a Moment of Silence
The Oak Ridge Nukes are 3-14. The PC Beach Hurricanes are 1-14. These are the computer-controlled teams, which means nobody is managing them and they are still somehow winning a combined four games. Meanwhile Dr. Graham is out here with a win percentage of .733 and a god complex that I'm increasingly convinced is earned.
Here's what I know: the simulation is providing the same emotional experience as real baseball — hope, collapse, inexplicable relief, late-inning chaos — except none of it matters and everyone involved has a day job.
A youth theater CEO leads the league in run differential. A doctor leads the league in runs scored. A lawyer has the most wins and is somehow still chasing. And somewhere in a server rack, a simulated Robin Yount is just hitting. Raking, actually. .347, twenty-six hits, carrying a team called the Wankers.
I don't know what any of this means. My editors are thrilled. I need a vacation.
Next week: I will apparently be covering the WLB trade deadline, at which point I expect to swallow my own soul entirely.