The Baseball Annual represents the height not only of baseballing analysis, but all known literature. The Odyssey? Never heard of it. Madame Bovary? More like Madame Boringry. Just as winter shows the first signs of breaking, The Baseball Annual appears — on the shelves of local bookstores, in our mailboxes — with hundreds of pages of analysis written almost exclusively by pale, bespectacled men. In its pages, we’re invited to celebrate Player X’s breakout potential, but cautioned against Player Y’s “old man skills.” We’re introduced to a glistening future, even as we’re asked to temper our expectations about its excellence. Like American poet Walt Whitman, The Baseball Annual asks, “Do I contradict myself?” And answers without shame: “Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large and most certainly contain multitudes.”

Nostradamus: One of the founding editors of Baseball Prospectus.

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