Baseball is back.

No easing into it.
No warm-up lap.

We’re off.

2026.

This isn’t just another season.
It’s consequential.

You can feel it.

Everywhere you look—tension.

The Los Angeles Dodgers are Goliath.
Loaded. Relentless. Built to crush October before we even get to May.

The question isn’t are they good?
It’s: is anyone beating them?

Meanwhile…

ABS is here.

And the pushback?

Former umpires say ABS is embarrassing them in front of 40,000 fans.

No.

Missing calls in front of 40,000 fans—
that’s embarrassing.

And hovering over all of it…

The CBA expires after 2026.

The clock is ticking.

Every headline.
Every quote.
Every negotiation.

It’s all building toward something bigger.

So yeah—

Baseball is back.

But this isn’t just a season.

It’s a race.

In 2013, Mrs. Ingoldsby gave her 5th grade class a simple assignment:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

JJ Wetherholt didn’t hesitate.

He wrote it down.
Held it up.

MLB player.

Big dream.
Crazy dream.
The kind kids write down every day.

Fast forward.

Opening Day, 2026.
JJ Wetherholt steps in for his first major league game with the St Louis Cardinals.

Third inning.

He goes deep.

Home run.
Welcome to the big leagues!

And that classroom assignment?

There’s a photo.

A young JJ—holding up the card that said it all.

Some kids dream it.
He kept the receipt.

We’ve all done it at the ballpark.

You sit down.
Look around.
Think… yeah, these feel like my seats.

Then someone shows up.

Tickets in hand.

And suddenly—you’re not supposed to be there.

Even happens to big leaguers.

George Springer and Ernie Clement rolled into a Toronto Maple Leafs game this week with their custom jerseys.

And then…

they got bounced.

Wrong seats.

No VIP pass.
No “don’t you know who I am?”

Just two MLB players doing the slow, awkward walk of shame.

Turns out—even All-Stars gotta check their tickets.

Watch the video 😂

Let’s be honest—

lying about your height is a time-honored tradition.

Now some players are getting called out. 😂

Gavin Lux lost three inches.
Bo Naylor dropped from 6'0" to 5'9".
A few others trimmed an inch or two.

No one actually shrank.

They just got measured.

Welcome to ABS.

No shoes.
No hat.
No rounding up.

Just a wall.
A number.
And the truth.

Because now—

the strike zone is built off your real height.

Not your media guide height.

Baseball didn’t change—
it just stopped pretending.

For years, the game lived in the gray.

Framing.
Reputation.
A little extra on the corners.

Even the roster sheet got in on it.

ABS wipes that out.

The zone is the zone.
Your height is your height.

Turns out… baseball finally measured up.

Last week, we talked about prediction markets.

Betting on outcomes.

This week.

One step further.

Carlos Lagrange—a Yankees prospect—has partnered with Finlete.

Fans can invest in his future earnings.

Not watch.
Not follow.

Invest.

That’s where this stops feeling like innovation—

and starts feeling like overlap.

First—

you bet on what happens.

Now—

you buy into who it happens to.

Same ecosystem.
Same money.
Closer to the field.

And that changes everything.

Because every outing?

Isn’t just performance anymore.

It’s value.

Velocity up? 📈
Command gone? 📉

Returns.

A bad inning used to mean a tough night.

Now?

It might mean someone loses money.

Baseball has always been a business.

But this?

This is different.

Because once speculation, investment, and performance collide—

you don’t just have a game.

You have exposure.

At some point—

the player stops being the product.

And becomes the position.

Watch video

Remember the Italian baseball team that was auctioning off their espresso machine for charity?

Yeah… that one.

It just sold.

For more than $16,000.

Turns out—

good coffee travels.

Opening Day is about hope. Thirty teams. Thirty fanbases. Clean slates everywhere.

But for one player, it’s simpler than that.

Carlos Correa almost didn’t make it here.

Last summer, on a lake in Minnesota, he jumped into the water with his young son. No life jacket.

Halfway between the boat and shore, his legs cramped up. His son climbed onto his shoulders and asked if they were going to be okay.

This wasn’t a swim anymore.

It was survival.

Correa reached for a buoy. Slipped. Went under. When he came back up, he yelled for help.

His father-in-law dove in and threw a life jacket.

One shot.

Correa caught it with his pinkie.

Just enough. Just in time.

Correa is back.

To the field.
To his family.
To another Opening Day.

We spend the season riding every pitch, every at-bat, every home run.

But every now and then, the game steps aside—and reminds you what actually counts.

John Boxley
High N Tight