I’m trying to figure out why Mat Latos is trying to ruin my life. The only logical explanation is that he’s somehow tracked me down on the internet, maybe on Twitter, or through this blog, or by way of some cosmically cursed Google search—somehow, someway, he’s tracked me down on the internet and he’s decided that he does not care for me. Does not care for me one bit. This all must have happened some time right before the season started—that sweet spot of time post fantasy baseball draft and pre Opening Day. Yes, Mat Latos found me on the internet, took a real disliking to me, saw that I had drafted him in the ninth round to be my number two starter, and Mat Latos decided to sabotage my fucking life. A 5.97 ERA, a 1.57 WHIP, 18 K’s and 10 walks in 28 innings pitched. Mat Latos is laughing at me right now. He’s laughing at the damage he’s done to my fantasy team and he’s laughing at the damage he’s done to my personal and professional existence. He knows it’s going to take me months to remove the filth he’s smeared all over my pitching ratios, he knows it’s going to take me months to repair the personal relationships I’ve soured after my tailspin into aggressive and alienating and violent depression. He knows C.J. Wilson is not the answer. And so he sits there, Mat Latos, a self-appointed foil to my success and happiness, smirking, smug and content with that stupid face of his. The face of an overfed and over indulged baby. The face of oblivious entitlement. The face of an Escalade owner. The face of the enemy. He sits there, he watches as my life gets torn to shreds, he watches as I fall to the ground and pick up the disparate strands, as I run them through my fingers and attempt in vain to piece them back together, as they fold and break and wind into knots, and he smiles. He smiles wide. He smiles pure.