My wife and I attended our first game together at the new Nats Park — a great but cold time. Here we are, getting ready to head to the game:

It was a day of runs. In Chicago, the Cubs led by half-a-dozen before the defense imploded. The game went into extra innings before the sluggies won, almost by accident. Before it was over the Buccos plated eight, but it wasn’t enough. At least Ted didn’t throw his glove. The scoring outbreak reached league-wide proportions. In Arizona, the Assholes scored 9, while the White Sox (surprising out of the gate), scored 7. The Tigers continued their head-scratching swoon, a monumental collapse that will undoubtedly land Leyland in intensive care. They are now 0-7 and sinking like a stone. What did I say about Dontrelle? Huh? Huh? Huh?

But enough of the complaints. Despite the five game losing streak, it is good to see Mastings Lilledge hitting the ball, and I have to believe the “Learners” will straighten out the parking situation. Somehow. Now, then, on to the real focus of this entry — one of my favorite Nats’ coaches — Pat Corrales.

Pat wandered over near the first base line before the game

with Paul Lo Duca, coaching him on his throws to second. Corrales was a no-hit, great-gun catcher back when Johnny Bench defined the position. Corrales’ knees are gone, which was apparent during the pre-game intros when he came onto the field for opening day. In any event, Corrales is near-and-dear to my heart: I caught a foul ball he hit back in 1965 in Milwaukee County Stadium when he played for Philly. It was a cold day then too, and Corrales was subbing for Clay Dalrymple. My memory must be going, because I remembered him playing for Houston, but he never did — it was the Phillies and Cincinnati and Padres, and then a semi-distinguished managing career. I yelled at him from the first base line.

“Hey Pat.”

“Yeah.

“Hey Pat, I caught a ball you hit in Milwaukee County Stadium back in ’65 …”

He turned to me and smiled: “Must be worth about 25 cents.”

“No, no way.”

“You still got it?”

I shook my head: “I lost it. I was just a kid. I think I used it for a game.”

He nodded and turned back to Lo Duca and then turned back to me.

“Guess who I saw the other day?” he asked.

“Who?

Dick Allen.”“No kidding, how’s he doing?”

“He’s great.”

“He was a great, great hitter,” I said.

“He sure was.”

“Everytime he came up to the plate against the Cubs he hit it out,” I said.

“Yeah, he could hit.”

Dick Allen had to be one of the best pure hitters in the history of the game. Back in the mid-1970s, when he was at the end of his career, I would drive up to Philly to see him play. This was in ’74 and ’75 and he would still hit these towering home runs. I remember in one game (must have been in ’74), in the bottom of the ninth, Dave LaRoche (a Cubs reliever) set him up with one that ended up in the top row of the old Vet. Buckner, the Cubs first baseman, just couldn’t believe it: I am certain now, from the look that Buckner (God I loved Buckner — who had an overdue good day recently) gave to LaRoche, that Billy was convinced that LaRoche grooved one. Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen.

A similar thing, well — not similar, but you know — happened to me in Milwaukee in the mid 1960s, when I took a bus (I was all of 15 or so) to Milwaukee County Stadium for the sole purpose of seeing Eddie Mathews play. I just loved to watch him play, and this was in the days of daytime double-headers. So Mathews comes up in the first inning and gets a called strike on the first ball he sees and turned to the ump and tells him (and I could hear it): “are you out of your f —ing mind?” And bang, he’s out of the game. And I thought: “what the hell am I doing here? I came all this way on that damned bus and Eddie wanted the day off.”

So, anyway, back to Pat Corrales, who has to be one of the most noble characters in the game. I can just hear him in the dugout. Let’s say, one out and man on third and the pitcher up and the bottom of the eighth. And Manny turns to Corrales and says: “Squeeze him home?” And Corrales shakes his head, thinking, and says: “Well, I remember once back in ….”

I’d love to hear that.

When I was a kid I spent an inordinate amount of time each Spring assessing the relative worth of each team and its players and making predictions for the coming summer. It was easier then: there were only eight teams in each league — and only one league really mattered. Even so, my predictions were uncannily the same, year after year. This team always finished first. Now that I’m older (and here, by the way, is what I look like) …

… anyway, now that I’m older I’m more mature in my picks. That is to say, no matter what, I always pick these guys last. Why? Because after I assess VORP values and OBPs, and walks per inning, I come down to the same thing: I hate ‘em. And I mean, I really hate em. But it’s a mature hate: if it weren’t for this showboat I’d probably think the Arizona Assholes (and so, they will always be) are just alright.

Which is to say (as I told me droogs last week when we had our first organizational meeting — er, well, as I forgot to tell them), we should all take some time to make our predictions and then (because it’s really fun) see how we do at the end of the year. But we’ve decided to add a wrinkle. This year in addition to me and me droogs making predictions, we’re going to add another wholly fictional picker (we’ll call him Ernie, after this guy) who will make predictions at random — from a hat. And we’ll see who’s better: the three of us brilliant analysts, or Joe Shit the Ragman.

So I’ll start with the junior circuit, because it’s the junior circuit: it’s not really baseball over there (they have the DH), one of its franchises is call the Texas Rangers (I mean, who really gives a damn) and it doesn’t have your Washington Nationals as one of its premier teams. Now, you can follow along at home and make your own predictions, and because we have a comment box here, you can write in to tell me just how full of beans I am. Oh, and in case you think there’s no accountability here, you should know that there’s a column beside each team that gives the reason “why” the prediction was made as is — ooooohhhhhh.

So, as a bow to Igor hisself, here’s my annual Rite of Spring, for the American League:

American League West

[TABLE=1]

[TABLE=3]

American League Central

[TABLE=4]

American League East

[TABLE=5]

My sage comments?

This is pretty simple: the premier league in baseball is no more. After Boston, the Angels, Indians and Tigers, the rest of the league is either in a free-fall (like the White Sox) rebuilding (like the Royals), or still two pitchers away from contending (like Tampa Bay). The Mariners may squeeze into the top tier, but not by much — and they’re an injury (to this guy) from last place. That said, the Cleveland Indians are still the class of the league, if they can get over their PTSD from last year’s playoff collapse to the Red Sox. I just don’t see how anyone gets pass “C.C.” and Carmona — and then there’s Westbrook and a strong bullpen. I know, I know: Manny and Dave and Jacoby and that unbelievable line-up. Yeah, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. The Red Sox are a fricking hitting machine. But they’d better be, because their rotation is a mess. It’s Beckett and Dice-K and a prayer — and Beckett’s not healthy. And even with Dice-K it’s a prayer.

So, knowing this — why didn’t the Indians improve over the winter. Here’s my answer: they didn’t need to. If it weren’t for Vlad, the best player in the junior circuit might be Grady Sizemore, who could hit 40 home runs, easy. And Travis Hafner is no Jacoby Ellsbury: he’s better. A lot better. Hell, Travis hit 24 dingers last year and everyone was disappointed in his “off year.” Yeah? Trade him to the Nats. We’ll give ya Ryan Langerhans and a player to be named.

What about the Tigers? Well, what about them? Dontrelle can’t hit the strike zone, Ordonez has seen his best years, Bonderman is jittery, and Leland is a walk-with-the-bases-loaded away from a stroke. I love Polanco, the great untold story of the team, but he’s not a Jimmy Rollins and once you get past him and Granderson and a 280 pound (headed to about 340) very rich Miguel Cabrera you have a second place team. Even with Verlander. Hmmm. Still (granted) who wouldn’t want to have a second place team with the likes of these guys? As for the Yanks: these are not your Granddaddy’s Yanks, hell they’re not even your daddy’s Yanks. So that’s it: Vlad is the MVP, Gil Meche wins the Cy Young, and this time the Indians go to the Series — after sweeping the Red Sox.