Charlie Morton is, at 37, the ace of the staff, and right now he feels like one of the only good players on the team who’s still healthy.
That’s unfair to Freddie, who is only hitting .233, but since he’s hit as many extra-base hits as singles, his .286 ISO means his actual numbers are awfully pretty.
The basic problem, as near as I can diagnose it, is that Mike Soroka is hurt, Max Fried is hurt, Ronald Acuña is hurt, the ceremony of innocence is drowned, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, the falcon can’t hear the falconer, the best lack all conviction, and the worst are full of passionate intensity.
The Braves are underperforming their Pythag right now — they’re 7-10 even though their mark of 82 runs scored against 86 runs allowed suggests they probably should have won one more game. (Ronald Acuña has already been worth one and a half wins above replacement, which is handy, since the rest of the lineup other than Freddie is basically replacement-level.)
What can you say about a 150-year-old division-winning team whose offense died?
That they were beautiful. And brilliant. That they hit fastballs and sliders. And then couldn’t.
Either way they won’t come first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that they always had to be number one. Winning heritage, don’t you know?