He walked out of the hotel into the fog, fog that thickened as he wandered down towards the harbour: fog in his mind as he tried to interpret the strong and sometimes contradictory emotions that overlapped and mingled in his unreasoning part — grief, disappointment, self-accusation, loss: above all irreparable loss — a cold void within.

          Patrick O’Brian, The Fortune of War

Perhaps there was a game last night, and perhaps I watched it. Perhaps a team that has scored 30 runs in its last five games has bigger worries than its offense.

But at this present moment, the Barves are not a team. They are a motley crew of 24 men who are not Ronald Acuña, and only one man who is.

Is Max Fried tipping his pitches? I’m not sure, but even though he’s in the mid-90s, he can’t seem to finish anyone off, and he’s not getting people to chase. Anyway, he’s going to the IL. So is Cristian Pache, who for all I know may have an actual owie, but who for now I’m diagnosing with a sprained bat.

This team isn’t exactly listless — they scored two in the ninth when Adam Duvall decided to giveth after having taketh for most of the game — but the pitching is a serious problem, as pitchers up and down the roster are having trouble hitting their spots and missing bats, and outside of El De La Sabana, most of the offense is simultaneously slumping.

Brian Snitker’s job is to say there’s nothing to worry about in public and to put fire in his boys’ bellies in private. But it’s mid-April, it’s 80 degrees in Cobb County, and it ain’t too cold to play baseball.

One of those other 24 is going to have to step up and start playing on Ronald’s team.