The Crew just crowned a champion, and let’s not sugarcoat a damn thing: #21 didn’t “win” the Lynn Trophy, they kidnapped it, duct‑taped its mouth, and paraded it through the league like a hostage on victory tour. With a 12‑2 regular season and a title‑clinching 173.80–139.38 thrashing of The God Damn Batman in Week 17, #21 turned this league into an extended live‑fire practice drill. This wasn’t a Cinderella run; this was Jason Voorhees with waiver claims—relentless, inevitable, and leaving every other roster face‑down in the lake by Sunday night.
Week after week, #21 posted video‑game numbers—dropping 213.98 on The God Damn Batman in Week 12, 193.92 on Mind The Gap in Week 4, and 192.74 on Injured All Pros in Rivalry Week 10—like the scoreboard owed them money. Then when the real money weeks hit, they casually hung 206.76 in the semifinals on 80 inches of Mahomes before finishing the job in the championship, locking up eight straight wins and the only streak that mattered. Everybody else brought “fantasy lineups”; #21 brought a fully armed death star and aimed it directly at your fragile egos.
| Rank | Team | W-L-T | PF | PA | Streak | Waiver Bdgt | Waiver | Moves | Playoff Status |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| *1 | #21 | 12-2-0 | 2434.74 | 2038.30 | W-8 | $136 | 2 | 23 | 🏆 Clinched |
| *2 | The God Damn Batman | 8-6-0 | 2121.38 | 1941.90 | W-2 | $220 | 1 | 6 | 🥈 Clinched |
| *3 | Injured All Pros | 10-4-0 | 2328.62 | 2018.72 | W-4 | $219 | 7 | 63 | 🥉 Clinched |
| *4 | 80 inches of Mahomes | 7-7-0 | 2079.02 | 2115.94 | L-1 | $300 | 10 | 6 | * Clinched |
| *5 | Mind The Gap | 6-8-0 | 1910.48 | 1972.94 | W-1 | $265 | 6 | 16 | |
| *6 | All Injured Reserve | 7-7-0 | 2015.88 | 2053.92 | L-2 | $61 | 3 | 34 | |
| 7 | Return of The Mack | 4-10-0 | 2094.12 | 2263.84 | W-1 | $300 | 8 | 13 | |
| 8 | Can't Wait To Hate This Team | 6-8-0 | 1835.12 | 1992.40 | L-4 | $200 | 4 | 31 | |
| 9 | My Team Hath Perished | 4-10-0 | 1726.62 | 2045.10 | L-1 | $120 | 9 | 32 | |
| 10 | Country Road Take Mahomes | 6-8-0 | 1728.74 | 1831.66 | L-2 | $300 | 5 | 23 |
Take Me Home? More Like Take Me Out of My Misery
Country Road Take Mahomes, you 6-8-0 sack of disappointment. You finished with 1728.74 points for (second-lowest in the league) and 1831.66 points against. Your team was so offensively inept, it's like you were playing with a roster of fucking mascots instead of actual NFL players.
Week 9, #21 beat your ass 146.98 to 112.72, and that 112.72 pretty much sums up your entire season—you showed up, you tried, and you still got your dick kicked in the dirt. You had FIVE fucking waiver pickups on your roster and made 23 moves, which means you were constantly trying to fix this shit show and failing miserably. It's like watching someone rearrange furniture in a burning building.
The best part? Your team name is a play on "Country Roads" by John Denver, a song about going home to West Virginia—a place known for... well, not much. Perfect metaphor, really. You tried to ride Mahomes' coattails and ended up in 10th place with a losing record. Take me home, country roads? More like take me to fucking therapy, because watching your team play was traumatic. Fucking pathetic.
"Hath Perished" Is Right, You Fucking Corpse
Jesus fucking Christ, where do we even start with this dumpster fire? My Team Hath Perished finished 4-10-0 with a pathetic 1726.62 points for—the lowest in the entire goddamn league—and somehow managed to have 2045.10 points scored against them. You know what's impressive? Being SO consistently bad that the entire league used your team as batting practice for 14 weeks.
Your team name says "Hath Perished" but honestly, it never even lived, did it? It's like you showed up to a gunfight with a fucking spoon and wondered why you kept getting shot. Week after week, you'd put up scores that would make a Pop Warner team embarrassed. Week 6? Won 150.76 to 146.04 against #21—at least that was close, I guess? That's like saying you almost didn't shit your pants.
The best part? You were formerly "The Kansas City Chiefs" and changed your name mid-season, probably hoping a rebrand would fix your shit team. Spoiler alert: You can't polish a turd, and you definitely can't rename one into competence. You finished in last place with 32 moves—desperately shuffling deck chairs on the fucking Titanic. My Team Hath Perished? More like My Team Never Had a Fucking Pulse.
Spoiler: Everyone Fucking Does
Can’t Wait To Hate This Team finished 6–8 with 1835.12 points for and 1992.40 against, the textbook definition of aggressively mid. Week 7 was your big moment: you got #21 on the schedule, they hung 181.42 on your 163.48, and your season died in prime time like a bad network pilot. You were close enough to dream and just far enough away to feel like a complete dumbass for believing.
With $200 left in FAAB and 31 moves, you were thrashing like someone trying to kill a spider with a flamethrower—dramatic, loud, and utterly ineffective. You kept “fixing” the roster the way a drunk guy keeps “fixing” a wobbly table by kicking it. Every waiver claim felt less like strategy and more like screaming “FUCK IT” and smashing the “Add Player” button.
Your highs were forgettable, your lows were unwatchable, and the only thing this team truly excelled at was inspiring creative new ways for everyone else to say “what the actual fuck was that?” Your name promised self‑aware misery, but by the end of the season it wasn’t just you who couldn’t wait to hate this team—everyone else got there too. You didn’t just underperform; you became the living, weekly reminder that fantasy football is, in fact, a cruel, petty, joy‑killing piece of shit game.
Returned…Strictly to Get Their Ass Beat
Return of The Mack went 4–10 with 2094.12 points for and a league‑worst 2263.84 against, turning every matchup into a charity drive for opposing offenses. You saw #21 twice—Week 2 (195.60–159.52) and Week 11 (192.22–154.28)—and both times you got bounced like you accidentally queued into All‑Madden with a broken controller. Your “comeback tour” looked less like a return to glory and more like a farewell tour nobody bought tickets for.
You made 13 moves, clutched all $300 of that FAAB like it was your retirement plan, and treated the season like a set‑and‑forget crockpot recipe instead of an actual competition. While other managers were burning budget to scrape together relevance, you were sitting on your stash like a fantasy Scrooge, guarding every dollar as your team bled points. It’s almost impressive how you managed to be both inactive and still loudly fucking terrible.
Your name promised swagger, but your record screamed “Netflix reboot nobody asked for,” and by December the only thing that really came back was the same tired thought every Sunday: “Why the fuck did I even set a lineup?” The Mack didn’t return; what returned was regret, disappointment, and that sinking feeling when RedZone cuts to your matchup and you already know you’re cooked. If this was a comeback, it was the fantasy football equivalent of a washed pop star playing a half‑empty county fair stage for drink tickets and pity applause—just sad as fuck.
Injured? More Like DOA
All Injured Reserve, formerly known as "Jawaan Taylor" before you realized that name was fucking cursed, you finished 7-7-0 and missed the playoffs. Let that sink in: 7-7, .500, perfectly mediocre, and you got to sit home while teams with the same record made the postseason. That's like showing up to a party and being told there's no more room, even though you RSVP'd.
You scored 2015.88 points (middle of the pack) and gave up 2053.92 points against, which means you were basically playing .500 fantasy football all season. Week 3, #21 beat you 165.56 to 125.56, and Week 5, #21 beat you 178.30 to 142.56. You couldn't even keep it close. Week 14, you got demolished by #21 again, 176.42 to 159.12. Three meetings, three losses, three times you bent over and said "thank you, sir, may I have another?"
The best part? You had $61 in waiver budget left (meaning you barely spent) but made 34 moves—second-most in the league—which tells me you were constantly tinkering with trash, hoping to turn it into treasure. You had 3 waiver pickups on your roster and still couldn't break .500. All Injured Reserve? More like All Injured Pride. You finished 5th, which is the fantasy football equivalent of getting a participation trophy. Fuck right off.
The Gap Between You and Competence Is a Fucking Canyon
Mind The Gap, you 6-8-0 train wreck. You finished with 1910.48 points for and 1972.94 points against, which means you were almost competitive—almost—but "almost" doesn't get you into the playoffs, does it? "Almost" is what you tell yourself when you're crying into your pillow at night.
Let's talk about your season: Week 4, #21 beat you 193.92 to 123.94, which is a 70-point ass-kicking. Then Week 13, #21 beat you AGAIN, 152.52 to 122.00. You couldn't even break 125 points against them twice. That's not a gap, that's a fucking chasm. Mind the gap? How about you mind getting your shit together?
You made 16 moves and had 6 waiver pickups, which is pretty conservative for a team that clearly needed major fucking surgery. You played it safe, you played it slow, and you played yourself right out of playoff contention. Your team name is a London Tube warning, and ironically, you got run over like you were standing on the tracks. 6-8-0 in 6th place—the most forgettable finish possible. Congratulations on being utterly unremarkable, you fucking muppet.
80 Inches of Disappointment
Oh, 80 inches of Mahomes, you magnificent fucking tease. You finished 7-7-0, made the playoffs as the 4th seed, and then got your dick absolutely demolished in the semifinals by #21, 206.76 to 198.98. You scored nearly 199 points and STILL lost. That's like bringing a knife to a gunfight and discovering the other guy brought a fucking tank.
Let's review your season: Week 8, #21 beat you 165.78 to 160.26, and Week 16 in the semifinals, #21 beat you 206.76 to 198.98. Both games were close, both games you lost, both games you went home thinking "what if?" Here's the answer: It doesn't fucking matter because you lost.
You had 2079.02 points for (solid) but gave up 2115.94 points against, which means your defense was softer than baby shit. You had $300 in waiver budget left—the most in the league—which means you basically didn't spend ANY money all season. You were hoarding that budget like a dragon hoards gold, except dragons don't finish 7-7 and lose in the fucking semifinals.
You made only 6 moves all season and had 10 waiver pickups, which tells me you were either incredibly confident or incredibly lazy. Probably both. 80 inches of Mahomes? More like 80 inches of wasted potential. You made the playoffs and got bounced immediately. That's not a successful season, that's blue balls in fantasy football form. Fuck you.
All Pro at Choking
Injured All Pros, you fucking pretenders. You finished 10-4-0 in second place during the regular season, earned a first-round bye, and then got your asshole blown out in the semifinals by The God Damn Batman, 179.26 to 169.82. You were supposed to be the challenger to #21's throne, and instead you laid an egg bigger than an ostrich in the playoffs.
Let's talk about your season: Week 1, you beat #21 (145.38 to 133.26), and Week 10, #21 got revenge (192.74 to 173.14). You went 1-1 against the champ, which probably made you think you had a shot at the title. Narrator: You didn't. When it mattered most—in the fucking semifinals—you choked harder than someone trying to swallow a watermelon whole.
You scored 2328.62 points (second in the league) and gave up 2018.72 points against, which means you were legitimately good all season. You had $219 in waiver budget, 7 waiver pickups, and made 62 moves—the MOST in the entire league. You were wheeling and dealing, making moves, playing 4D chess, and you STILL couldn't make it to the championship.
The difference between you and #21? They showed up in the playoffs. You showed up to the playoffs and promptly shit the bed. 10-4 means nothing if you can't finish. You're the fantasy football equivalent of the 2007 Dallas Cowboys—great regular season, epic postseason failure. Injured All Pros? More like Injured All Frauds. Congratulations on being the best loser in the league, you fucking disappointment.
The Dark Knight? More Like The Participation Trophy Knight
Oh, The God Damn Batman, you beautiful, overachieving bastard. You went 8-6-0 in the regular season, scraped into the playoffs as the 3rd seed, somehow beat Injured All Pros in the semifinals (179.26 to 169.82), and then got absolutely fucking destroyed in the championship by #21, 173.80 to 139.39. That's a 33-point annihilation. That's not a game, that's a public execution.
Let's recap your meetings with #21: Week 3, you lost 165.56 to 125.56 (40-point loss). Week 12, you lost 213.98 to 145.58 (68-point loss). Week 17 championship, you lost 173.80 to 139.38 (33-point loss). Three games, three losses. You didn't just lose to #21, you got fucking annihilated every single time like you were a practice squad.
You scored 2121.38 points (middle of the pack) and gave up 1941.90 points against—which is actually solid defense. You had $220 in waiver budget, only 1 waiver pickup, and made just 6 moves all season. You basically rode the same roster all year, which either makes you a genius or incredibly stubborn. Given that you got boat-raced in the championship, I'm going with stubborn.
Here's the thing about Batman: In the movies, he always wins. In your league, you're more like if Batman showed up to fight Bane and immediately got his back broken. You made it to the championship, which is commendable, but you got dick-slapped so hard in the finals that second place might as well be tenth place. The God Damn Batman? More like The God Damn Participant. You came in second, which means you're the first loser. Congratulations on your moral victory, you fucking runner-up. Now go sit in the Batcave and cry about it.
And now, we arrive at the throne. #21: 12-2-0 in the regular season. 2434.74 points for (HIGHEST in the league). First-round bye. Demolished 80 inches of Mahomes in the semis 206.76 to 198.98. Obliterated The God Damn Batman in the championship 173.80 to 122.62. This wasn't a championship run—this was a fucking coronation.
Let's talk about dominance: Of your 14 regular season games, you won 12 and lost only 2. You beat everyone who mattered when it mattered. Your two losses? Week 1 to Injured All Pros (145.38 to 133.26) and Week 6 to My Team Hath Perished (150.76 to 146.04)—both close games, both forgettable. After that? You went on an absolute fucking TEAR.
You averaged 173.91 points per game and made everyone else look like they were playing flag football while you were playing full-contact. You had 2 waiver pickups, made only 21 moves (showing restraint and confidence), and had $136 left in waiver budget because you didn't need to panic. You drafted well, you managed smart, and you executed perfectly.
The Lynn Trophy doesn't just sit on your shelf—it fucking BELONGS there. You earned every ounce of that hardware by being better than everyone else when it counted. While other teams were scrambling, you were dominating. While other teams were making excuses, you were making plays. While other teams were hoping for luck, you were creating your own destiny.
The 2025 season of “The Crew” has come to a close, and what’s left in its wake looks less like a league and more like a mass grave of bad decisions, broken lineups, and shattered confidence. Nine teams showed up thinking they had a shot; nine teams leave here today as the supporting cast in #21’s highlight reel. This wasn’t parity, this was a controlled demolition—and most of you brought the dynamite and the fucking matches yourselves.
So let’s bow our heads for the fallen. My Team Hath Perished never really lived, Country Road Take Mahomes took the long way to irrelevance, and Return of The Mack proved some comebacks should’ve stayed in the drafts folder. Injured All Pros and The God Damn Batman tried to play the part of worthy challengers, only to get smacked back into their place like they were running routes in crocs. You all had moments, sure—but mostly moments that will haunt your group memories like, “Remember when I thought this roster was good? What the fuck was I thinking?”
And then, at the center of all this chaos, stands #21, not just champion but undisputed executioner of hope. They didn’t squeak by; they stomped throats, cashed receipts, and treated the Lynn Trophy like it was pre‑ordained to be theirs. While the rest of you prayed for Monday miracles and waiver wire saviors, #21 calmly stacked wins, points, and your broken dreams in a neat little pile.
Today, the Lynn Trophy isn’t just awarded—it’s crowned, like a royal heir finally taking the throne that everyone else spent four months desperately pretending was up for grabs. This is a coronation for a team that drafted better, managed sharper, and refused to flinch when it mattered, and a eulogy for every poor bastard who had to watch RedZone knowing #21 was about to fuck up their Sunday yet again. Long live #21, the reigning menace of The Crew—may the rest of you use the offseason to heal, reflect, and maybe, just maybe, figure out how not to get your ass kicked so hard next year.