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What also stands out, with regard to the matter of dignity, is the paths these men took after baseball. Many a major leaguer has shown himself clueless in civilian life; one thinks of Mickey Mantle greeting customers at casinos in Atlantic City. Certainly Pete Rose is a model for a drifting, self-aggrandizing post-baseball gypsy, signing and selling off paraphernalia like an erstwhile P.T. Barnum. These Negro Leaguers stand in marked contrast. Several of them settled into jobs for decades: Bill Bethea and Scoop worked in the Parks and Recreation Departments of their respective cities for 24 and 41 years, respectively. Willie Lee worked at a factory in Grand Rapids, Michigan (my own hometown, where he also played semi-pro ball) for over twenty years, and another of the guys retired from the Detroit team and worked for Ford Motors for 40 years. Something about these post-baseball lives is significant, and this sense is only augmented by the presence, among the interviewees, of some men who went on for master's degrees, and at least one, Tom Johnson, who received a Ph.D. from the University of Maryland, taught in the medical school there, and later became a dean at Johns Hopkins. Here are pedigrees that are truly admirable, from men who often don't remember their own statistics (there are few record books for the barnstorming teams), and for whom the game, and not the numbers, was and is the point.

Now, the time has come for predictions, and, as usual, I respond first out of my pinstriped DNA. Yes, I am an unabashed lifelong Yankee fan, but before you drop the hammer on me, please realize that I'm more tortured by George Steinbrenner than any Yankee-hater could possibly be. The acquisition of A-Rod has left me scratching my head, lamenting the loss of Soriano, whose swing (despite his K-fest in last years post-season) I covet. The deal just seems too good—A-Rod willing to play third base in deference to his friend-rival shortstop Derek Jeter, two possible Hall of Fame shortstops playing side by side and batting together in the heart of the order. How can dissension stay out of the good old Bronx Zoo atmosphere that Joe Torre squelched but Steinbrenner seems set upon reasserting? The pitching staff looks ugly behind Mussina, and the lineup looks about two sluggers too crowded. Where are the table setters?

I must admit that the Red Sox, whom I've grown up scorning, have created a delicate balance, if their fragile arms stay healthy and fragile egos stay unbruised. But, hey, I picked them to go to the Series last year, and they collapsed, so I need to move on. The AL Central is filled with decent teams (and the Tigers—who will certainly be much better than they were last year), but no one seems an ominous contender. Out west, the Angels still have a World Series nucleus from two years ago, plus Vladimir Guerrero (I love his throwback bare-handed batting style)—so why don't they strike fear in the heart? Nor does Seattle—postseason soft—nor Oakland—postseason cursed. I'm coming back East and picking—no, not the retooled Orioles! I'm going north of the border, to pick the Blue Jays as the AL champs this year—a young hungry lineup, a sneaky-good pitching staff, and enough shrewdness to let the Yankees and Red Sox lose focus on the pennant race in their antipathy for one another.

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March (Web-only) 2004, Vol. 48