Welcome to the dead months, the stretch where every manager in The League becomes a genius, a visionary, and a lock for next year's title. Allow this paper to gently pour cold water on all of you.

Hurts So Good, you led the whole thing with 1830.1 points and a 10-4 record. You were the best regular-season team money can buy, and your reward is an entire offseason of explaining to people that yes, you were technically the best, and no, you do not have the trophy. That is a haunting you carry alone.

Pufftrees, congratulations, you are the champion, and you will remind us of that in every single message until roughly the heat death of the universe. Fine. Enjoy it. We all saw the 1626.3 points. You backed into greatness like a car reversing into a parking spot on the first try, purely by accident.

3rd Street Litter Kitties, you scored more points than the champion and finished 5-9. You are the human embodiment of studying all night and failing the test because you filled in the wrong bubble. Fix your schedule luck or fix your prayers, but fix something.

B Robbin' Son's, same energy. 1637.5 points and a 7-7 record. You are a Ferrari stuck in a school zone.

Mayo Clinic and AvailableName, matching 7-7 records and points totals that could not be more forgettable if they tried. You two are the beige paint of The League. Please, for the love of the game, develop a personality before September.

And Polk High Panthers. 3-11. Dead last. 1511.9 points. You are the reason the last-place punishment exists, and you served it with the quiet dignity of a team that saw it coming in Week 3. The good news: there is nowhere to go but up. The bad news: you have said that before.

See you all at the draft, where hope is free and delusion is complimentary.