Hardball Stitches Reporter

S4 Initial Power Rankings

Richard Castle - contributing reporter

Ladies and gentlemen, baseball romantics, and those of you who read these rankings purely out of spite—welcome back. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Long enough that I half-expected to return and find the league replaced by robots, scandals, or a shocking midseason plot twist involving identical twins. But no—Hardball Stitches is alive, dramatic as ever, and finally ready to unveil the very first power rankings of Season 4.

Now, early-season rankings are a bit like first chapters: wildly misleading, full of red herrings, and guaranteed to break someone’s heart by page ten. But that’s the fun of it. New contenders rise from the shadows, old favorites stumble out of the gate, and at least one team inevitably insists, “We’re better than our record.” Sure, and I’m a quiet, subtle writer who hates attention.

But enough preamble. The scene is set, the suspects are assembled, and the plot is already thickening faster than a New York cheesecake. So grab your magnifying glass—or your popcorn. Season 4’s story begins now, and trust me… you’re going to want to read every word.

Best Record

Fargo Mud Dogs

2nd Best

Baltimore IronBirds & Trenton Thunderbolts

3rd Best

Boston Act As If Afflects

4th Best

St Louis Archers

5th Best

Syracuse Firebirds & Texas Toast

But for now, let's talk about expected wins - or, in other words, how teams SHOULD be playing. Are some squads punching above their weight class? Are others underperforming like a blockbuster flop? Time to separate reality from illusion.

.736 - Trenton Thunderbolts (NL-N Champ)

.679 - Boston 'Act As If' Afflects (AL Wildcard 1) & Baltimore IronBirds (AL-E Champ)

.675 - Fargo Mud Dogs (AL-N Champ)

.629 - St. Louis Archers (NL-E Champ)

.609 - Texas Toast (AL-S Champ)

.600 - Chicago Northsiders (NL Wildcard 1)

.583 - Buffalo Bomb Squad & Montgomery Fightins

.541 - Syracuse Firebirds (AL Wildcard 2)

.540 - Tucson Road Runners (NL-W Champ)

.536 - San Antonio Yo-Yo Bros Yo (NL Wildcard 2)

.512 - Cincinnati Redlegs

.495 - Fresno Romans

.493 - Mexico City Luchadors

.491 - New Orleans Voodoo

.489 - Tacoma Armada

.485 - Vancouver Blue Heron

.477 - New York Pizza Rats

.467 - Colorado Springs Ranchers

.463 - Durham Corgis

.462 - Indianapolis Speedsters

.458 - Nashville Hot (NL-S Champ)

.426 - Philadelphia Hooligans

.411 - Rochester Mighty Flour Mills

.398 - Los Angeles Labradors (AL-W Champ)

.391 - Scottsdale Sazeracs

.378 - Louisville Bourbon Chasers

.362 - Helena Highlanders

.352 - Salt Lake City Trappers

.324 - Arizona Canyon Kings

.316 - Charlotte Intimidators

The dreaded list

Team On Pace Wins Expect Win %

Salt Lake City Trappers 45 W 57 W

Arizona Canyon Kings 53 W 53 W

S4 The Six-Tier Mirage: Dispatches from the International Frontier

Eli Cash - contributing reporter

I was sitting in a hotel bar in Santo Domingo when the first whispers came through the ceiling fan — the kind of whispers that smell like ambition and motor oil. Six tiers. Six layers of the economic afterlife. A new system to measure what a team can spend on hope, or at least the version of hope that throws ninety-seven and can hit a curveball in the dark. The bartender told me the tiers were supposed to make things “fair.” I told him fairness is a rumor spread by accountants.

Tier One rides tall — these are the desert kings, the oil scions, the men who believe the world was built so they could sign it. Their checkbooks glint like machetes in the sun. They don’t scout — they summon. You can almost hear the laughter of the gods when they announce a $5 million bonus for a kid who hasn’t yet learned to shave. I envy them in the way one might envy a thunderstorm: destructive, inevitable, and somehow poetic.

Indianapolis

Tier Two is not so rich in blood or gold, but they still carry a certain nobility — like the second son of a forgotten dynasty, sipping flat champagne in the shadow of empire. These teams still dream big, but they have to dream clever. They talk about “market inefficiencies” as if that’s a kind of faith. I’ve seen their scouts sleeping in airports, translating potential into per diem receipts. There’s a sadness in it, but also a kind of quiet art.

Charlotte

Salt Lake City

Fresno

Tier Three lives in the gray — what I call the philosophical middle class of baseball. They can afford to gamble, but only on a horse that’s already half-broken. These are the teams who find poetry in the waiver wire, who believe every $600,000 shortstop from Caracas might just be the key to eternal life. I respect their delusion. I share it.

Tacoma

Philadelphia

Helena

Baltimore

Arizona

Durham

Vancouver

Tier Four is where the mirage starts to fade. They wander the same desert as the rest, but their canteens are dry. You’ll hear their GMs talk about “development focus,” “internal growth,” and “strategic restraint.” I’ve used all those phrases myself, usually right before my editor stops returning calls. They don’t buy players — they rent dreams. Sometimes the dreams come due. Usually they don’t.

Cincinnati

Rochester

Scottsdale

Colorado Springs

Texas

Tier Five… well, these are the haunted ones. They’re the teams whose fax machines still hum with regret. They know the numbers, the limitations, the futility of their chase, and yet they show up at the market anyway — like a man showing up to a duel with a pocketknife and a poem. I admire their courage, though it often looks like confusion. Somewhere deep down, they must believe that destiny still accepts credit.

Chicago

Boston

Tucson

Trenton

Nashville

Los Angeles

Montgomery

New York

Louisville

And then there’s Tier Six. The forgotten pilgrims. The ones who watch the whole show from the cheap seats of history. Their budgets are smaller than the tip line at Tier One’s team dinner. Yet somehow, they persist — the monks of the market, trading faith instead of funds. Maybe they’ll find a kid out there who doesn’t care about money, just the smell of leather and red dirt. Maybe they won’t. Either way, they’ll tell themselves it’s noble.

Buffalo

San Antonio

New Orleans

Mexico City

Fargo

St Louis

Syracuse

Because that’s the trick, isn’t it? The market isn’t about money — it’s about mythology. Every team believes it’s building a legend. Every scout believes he’s found a ghost. Every general manager thinks he’s outsmarted gravity. But in the end, they all wake up in the same heat, under the same sky, staring at the same mirage that keeps the whole thing moving.

I left the bar that night and walked out into the alley behind the stadium. A kid was throwing a ball against a rusted fence — barefoot, balanced on dreams alone. I asked him what tier he thought he belonged to. He shrugged and said, “The one that signs me.”

Maybe that’s the only truth there is. The tiers are just scaffolding. The rest is dust and destiny.

S4 Draft Order

Amy Amanda 'Triple A' Allen - contributing reporter

Alright Hardball Stitches fans, we have an updated draft order for Season 4 as it stands today. Current Round 1 and Comp Round as of the recent Type A/B signings. We've noted teams who have more than 2 picks. 7 of the 18 Type As were compensated with 1st round picks,

Arizona
Baltimore
Charlotte
Louisville
Scottsdale
Cincinnati
Colorado Springs - Type D
Durham
Nashville
Vancouver
Philadelphia
Los Angeles
Rochester
Colorado Springs (2nd pick)
New York
Helena
Salt Lake City
Tacoma
Buffalo
Tacoma via Mexico City - Deven Bickerton (2nd pick)
Chicago
Mexico City via Montgomery - Allie Walls
Texas
Tacoma - Type D (3rd pick)
Indianapolis
Tucson
San Antonio
Charlotte via Fesno - Howard Quinn (2nd pick)
Boston
Texas via New Orleans - Jose Rios (2nd pick)
Charlotte via Fargo - Benji Richardson (3rd pick)
Syracuse
Charlotte via Trenton - Vincete DeSoto (4th pick)
Baltimore via St Louis - Joe Winston (2nd pick)
Charlotte - A (5th pick)
Arizona - A (2nd pick)
Baltimore - A (3rd pick)
Tacoma - A (4th pick)
Mexico City - A (2nd pick)
Texas - A (3rd pick)
Tucson - A (2nd pick)
Fresno - A
Boston - A (2nd pick)
Trenton - A
St Louis - A
Charlotte - A (6th pick)
Mexico City - A (3rd pick)
Texas - A (4th pick)
Boston - A (3rd pick)
St Louis - A (2nd pick)
Boston - A (4th pick)
St Louis - A (3rd pick)
Durham - B (2nd pick)
Nashville - B (2nd pick)
Charlotte - B (7th pick)
Vancouver - B (2nd pick)
Baltimore - B (4th pick)
Los Angeles - B (2nd pick)
Colorado Springs - B (3rd pick)
Tacoma - B (5th pick)
Chicago - B (2nd pick)
Indianapolis - B (2nd pick)
New Orleans - B
Fargo - B
Nashville - B (3rd pick)
Indianapolis - B (3rd pick)
New Orleans - B (2nd pick)
Fargo - B (2nd pick)

Remaining Type A/B players in Free Agency (I could be missing some)

LF Gerald Ledee - B - Scottsdale
3B Leo Gwynn - B - Trenton
SS Feliple Tabata - B - Rochester
LF Al Ruffin - B - Cincinnati
RF Brendan Craig - B - Vancouver

The Ball That Shouldn’t Have Risen

Jack Torrance - contributing reporter

It begins, as all miracles and nightmares do — quietly.

The baseballs are spinning. A cyclone of white leather, red seams, and blind hope. Inside the glass, they crash and ricochet, each one desperate to be the one. The audience breathes in unison, like a congregation watching a storm crawl toward their church.

The lights flicker. The air hums.

Then something happens.
A tremor.
A sound that isn’t mechanical, not quite.

And from the churning storm — a single ball begins to rise.

Slowly. Too slowly.

The studio is frozen. Cameras fix on it, lenses wide and trembling. A murmur ripples through the crowd, that low, uncertain murmur that always comes before revelation.

The ball spins, turns, reveals a mark — faint, almost hesitant — Arizona Canyon Kings.

For a heartbeat, no one reacts. The odds said 3.90%. The math said almost impossible.
But the machine — the machine never lies.

Then the eruption comes. Cheers, disbelief, the stunned laughter of a team that just watched the laws of probability bend in their favor. Arizona rises from the desert dust, crowned in the glow of the first overall pick.

Across the stage, Baltimore blinks twice, still unsure if it’s real.
Their odds were lower — 2.7%, almost nothing — yet they’ve clawed up to the No. 2 pick. A miracle, or maybe just another trick of the glass. Either way, the Ironbirds are soaring tonight, and everyone knows it.

The rest fall into place, one by one — a roll call of the faithful, the broken, the nearly blessed.

Arizona Canyon Kings
Baltimore Ironbirds
Charlotte Intimidators
Louisville Bourbon Chasers
Scottsdale Sazeracs
Cincinnati Redlegs
Durham Corgis
Nashville Hot
Vancouver Seawolves
Philadelphia Hooligans
Los Angeles Labradors
Rochester Mighty Flour Mills
Colorado Springs Ranchers
New York Pizza Rats
Helena Highlanders
Salt Lake City Trappers

Somewhere in the back row, a man from Durham rubs his temples. They had hope — always do — but the machine had other plans. Charlotte and Louisville trade polite smiles that don’t reach their eyes. New York sits still, the kind of stillness that smells like resentment.

The studio lights burn too bright now. The chrome glistens, the glass gleams, and for a strange moment, the entire stage feels alive — breathing, pulsing, feeding on every gasp, every cheer, every broken sigh.

Someone whispers, “It chose Arizona,” and the phrase lingers like frost on the tongue.

The host smiles again — that same hotel-lobby smile — and declares the lottery complete. Cameras flash. Confetti falls. The crowd exhales.

But the machine keeps humming.
It always hums.
Because even when the lights go out, it remembers who it lifted up…
and who it left behind.

Before the Ball Rises

Jack Torrance - contributing reporter

They say the baseballs are sleeping now. Resting in their transparent chamber, each one identical — polished, numbered, waiting. But we know better. We know they feel the tension, the electric hum that creeps through the studio like static on old wallpaper.

It’s Draft Lottery Night in Hardball Stitches, Season 4. Sixteen teams. Sixteen chances. One truth: somebody’s luck is about to change, and somebody’s dream will dissolve under bright lights.

The stage glows sterile and silver, all glass and steel and reflection — the kind of place where destiny doesn’t whisper, it hums through the floorboards. On the monitor above, the league’s insignia spins like an eye that never blinks: HARDBALL STITCHES — SEASON 4 DRAFT LOTTERY

There’s applause, of course. Polite. Nervous. Manufactured.
But underneath the surface, you can feel it — the quiet, desperate heartbeat of sixteen front offices waiting for salvation. The contenders stand still in their rows, each team clutching its little share of probability, its fraction of fate.

Durham. Charlotte. Nashville. Cincinnati. Louisville. Scottsdale. Vancouver. Arizona. Baltimore. Philadelphia. Los Angeles. Rochester. Colorado Springs. New York. Helena. Salt Lake City.

Sixteen names, strung like rosary beads. Each one has whispered their prayers to the same cold machine.

Behind the glass, the lottery drum waits — immaculate, mirrored, heartless. A glint of chrome catches the overhead spotlight, and for an instant it looks alive. There’s something almost holy about it. Or maybe hungry.

The host smiles the kind of smile that belongs in hotel portraits and fever dreams.
He says the words everyone’s been waiting for: “It’s time to begin the draw.”

A mechanical hiss. The first baseball trembles. They begin to spin — a white blur, a storm of motion, all hope and chaos compressed into one transparent sphere.

Around the room, tension crackles like lightning over snow. Some stare straight ahead. Some can’t bear to look. The numbers blur together — 16 chances to be rewritten, 16 doors that lead to entirely different futures.

You can hear the soft clink of baseballs colliding — the rhythm of fate, the soft percussion of anxiety.

And then… silence.

One will rise.
One will break the symmetry.
One will wear the crown of the Season 4 Draft.

But not yet. Not yet.

For now, they spin.
And every GM in the room is thinking the same thing — the same, desperate line, scratched somewhere deep inside the skull:

“All work and no luck makes for a long, cold season.”

Talking Dog Baseball Owner Furious He Was Forced to Pay Player Fairly

“This is not the lucha way,” says El Señor Perro after unprecedented act of basic decency

MEXICO CITY — Outraged at being forced to engage in what he called “the most dishonorable act in baseball history,” El Señor Perro, the diamond-mask-wearing lucha wrestler and owner of the Mexico City Luchadores, held a fiery press conference Monday to denounce what he called “a dark day for villainy.”

The cause of his distress: paying star right fielder Deven Bickerton the contract he actually deserved.

“I cannot believe what these other owners have done,” growled El Señor Perro, adjusting the gold and diamond-studded mask that has made him both a baseball legend and a four-time interspecies lucha champion. “They used underhanded tricks so vile, so sneaky, so beautiful… that I had no choice but to act like some sort of ethical businessman. Dios mío.”

According to league sources, the Fresno Romans’ owner—known only as “Musketeer22,” though widely suspected to be shadowy WhatIfSports mogul WISBob—manipulated the free agent market so aggressively that Perro was boxed into actually matching the market rate for Bickerton’s services.

“I had the whole scam ready,” said Perro, shaking his paw in frustration. “Deferred payments until the year 2087, loyalty bonuses that disappear when you look at them too hard, an extra line of fine print that says he has to mow my lawn in the offseason. It was perfect. And then Musketeer22 comes in with this 21st-century capitalism crap and ruins everything.”

Around the league, other owners expressed sympathy for Perro’s plight. “It’s disgusting,” said San Antonio 'Yo-yo Bros' owner FW ‘The Account Adjuster’ Kikeonga. “He’s supposed to be the bad guy. If the villain has to play fair, what are the rest of us supposed to do? Pay taxes?”

Despite his outrage, Perro admitted to having “deep respect” for the scheme. “I wish I had thought of it first,” he said, briefly removing his championship lucha belt from the podium to wipe away a single dramatic tear. “Musketeer22 is a true artist. I am but a humble dog with a gold mask.”

When asked whether he’d retaliate, El Señor Perro confirmed he plans to challenge Musketeer22 to a best-of-three falls match at next weekend’s “Brawl at the Ballpark” exhibition.

“Winner takes free agency,” he barked, before dramatically leaping off the stage and powerbombing a nearby mascot through a folding table.