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LOSING: THE VIRUS In a wonderful 1943 novel, "I Am Thinking of My Darling," by Vincent McHugh, New York City is invaded by a previously unknown tropical virus that quickly grows to epidemic proportions and afflicts the entire population. The hero is a young city official, who works day and night to control the thing, but then he himself is infected and becomes a victim. He stops work and spends his time making love. That’’s the virus; all the folks in town — cops and schoolteachers, subway motormen and lawyers and delicatessen owners and dental hygienists and bail bondsmen — forget whatever they’’re doing and start doing it, right out in the open. Everybody is in love. A huge celebratory parade is planned — all hands hurry to Fifth Avenue, with accompanying balloons and jazz bands, but in couples, so they can keep up the pairing and partying. Then the weather shifts, in mid-parade, with a cold snap blowing in from the west. The virus dies — it’’s run its course—and the happy men and women look at each other with a resumed seriousness and go home. It’’s over. This is pretty much what it was like up until the middle of last week, when the Yankees, who have been so single-minded about winning, were caught up in losing instead. For once, it didn’’t feel like their own doing, exactly, because almost nobody could hit the ball anymore or catch it much or always throw it to the right place; something had come over them. By Tuesday, the Bronx Steinbrenners had dropped four in a row and seven out of their last ten. They’’d lost three out of four games to the hated and feared Red Sox, up at Fenway Park, and a few days later were swept by the Bosox in a weekend series back at Yankee Stadium, scoring only four runs in three games. The Bombers’’ team batting average stood at . 217, the lowest in the league, and they had committed a league-worst nineteen errors. They were tied for third in their five-team division, four and a half behind the Red Sox—not a fatal handicap at this early stage of things but not at all what they or anyone else in the world had expected. This was miserable or delightful, depending on where your loyalties lay, but most of all it was weird. It was glorious. The Yankees, as we know, have finished first in the American League East for the past six years, and have played in the post-season for the past nine, picking up four World Championships along the way. They’’ve won thirty-nine pennants in all and twenty-six World Championships. A new Yankees promotion calls this the greatest record in all team sports, but what it also means, as every Yankee executive and coach and player and nine-year-old rooter knows, is "Win or Else. " To this end, the 2004 Yankees have amassed a record hundred-and-eighty-million-dollar payroll — more than the combined salaries of the Devil Rays, the Indians, the Tigers, and the Royals — and picked up last year’’s A. L. Most Valuable Player , Alex Rodriguez, to play third base. He can’’t play shortstop, his accustomed position, because the Yanks’’ captain and perennial favorite, Derek Jeter, holds prior lease on the property. They brought in two expensive new pitchers to replace the departed Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte. They did their homework, in short, and entered the long examination period of the regular season with the smug assurance of another A. There was no end of indignation and irritation, to be sure -- especially in Boston, where the powerful and almost great 2003 Red Sox team had fallen victim to the Yankees once again last fall, after a killing eleventh-inning home run in the final League Championship game — but Yankee spending and Bosox burning are standard ingredients of contemporary ball. Confirmation replaces expectation at these levels of sport, and fun feels prearranged. The Yankees’’ losing streak suspended all this, for a while at least, and what was refreshing about it was that the Yankees were suddenly so bad, at the plate and a field, that they seemed removed from the games, spooked or laid low not by the opposing pitcher or sluggers but by some cosmic change of terms. They were playing in a cartoon or on an asteroid landscape. Pitchers kept making throwing errors, and catcher Jorge Posada dropped or misplayed three foul balls in a single game. Bernie Williams (two hits for his last twenty-six at-bats) and Derek Jeter (oh for twenty-one, oh for twenty-five, oh for twenty-eight, etc. , as the games ticked by) and Jason Giambi (six for forty-two), among others, stepped up to the plate as if entering Jell or a time warp and shortly sat down again. The Yankees never panicked or blew up, and manager Joe Torre, speaking one day about Williams, seemed to sum it all up when he said, "He’’s caught up in what everyone else is caught up in, and that’’s trying to help the club do something it’’s had trouble doing.... I can’’t blame anybody. " Red Sox fans and local Yankee haters exulted but also shook their heads: geez, what’’s wrong with those guys You could blame injuries or age (the Yanks are the oldest team in the majors) or jet lag from the season — opening series against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays that was played in Tokyo, but it was the beautiful and eloquent unpredictability of baseball itself that was making this happen: the sport once again showing us that statistical unlikelihood can come in bursts and bunches, a virus from nowhere, and for a time sever the game and its players from all expectation. Think of Mel Gibson taking up the harp, President Bush being late for a Cabinet meeting while he finishes "The Ambassadors": this was better. The end of the losing arrived in a Yankee game against Oakland, when the Pinstripes, down by 8-4 in the eighth inning, were granted a succession of feeble singles, nubbed infield squigglers, three walks, and a two-run double, good for six runs and, in time, the win. The double, by pinch-hitter Ruben Sierra, curved sharply toward foul ground in deep left field but then changed its mind and hit the line instead — a big hit, and a smile at last from the great and enigmatically difficult game. The Yanks won again the next two nights, resuming their 2004"campaign with a three-game sweep. Derek Jeter was the last to leave the isolation ward of the April epidemic. Hitless in his previous thirty-two at-bats, he led off the Yankees’’ first inning of the Oakland finale by smashing Barry Zito’’s first pitch deep into the left-field stands, circled the bases, and touched home, restored at last to the humdrum. the Yanks’’ captain and perennial favorite
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Pessimistic on poverty The Economist argued that the World Bank has overstated the extent of absolute poverty in the world -- that there is less poverty than the Bank claims and that it is falling faster. A methodological debate lies at the heart of this claim. The Bank relies as much as possible on nationally representative household surveys, typically done by governmental statistics offices following international standards. The Bank’’s latest estimates draw on interviews with about 1. 1 million randomly sampled households in 100 developing countries, representing 93% of the population of the developing world. The Bank’’s method of measuring poverty from surveys follows long-standing practices. But it is not the only possible approach. The Economist points to an alternative method that ignores data on levels of income or consumption from surveys. Instead the poverty measures are anchored to national accounts data, using the surveys only to measure inequality -- the shares of total income accruing to different income groups. It is unclear why proponents of this approach think that surveys can be trusted for measuring inequality, but not levels of poverty. How much does the choice matter A striking graph in the issue of March 13th compares two sets of estimates, one from the Bank’’s researchers and one using this alternative method, namely the estimates made by Xavier Sala-i-Martin at Columbia U-niversity. His series shows a much steeper decline in absolute poverty and a much lower level in recent years than that found by the Bank’’s researchers. This month, the World Bank’’s numbers has shown there have been superseded: the series shown began only in the late 1980s, and cannot be properly compared with Mr Sala-i-Martin’’s estimates, which go further back. The period under consideration makes a big difference. The late 1980s and early 1990s were a difficult time for the world’’s poor. Using either a longer period or a shorter one changes the picture a lot. The Bank currently estimates that the world poverty rate fell from 33% in 1981 (about 1.5 billion people) to 18% in 2001 (1.1 billion), when judged by the frugal $1-a-day standard at 1993 purchasing-power parity. Compare this with Mr Sala-i-Martin’’s estimates. He finds that the global poverty rate fell from 13% to 7% (in 1998). Yes, the levels differ substantially. But by both methods, the global poverty rate almost halved. The two trends are also similar for the 1990s, once growth had been restored in China and India. Why are the Bank’’s poverty counts so much higher Mr. Sala-i-Martin uses GDP from national accounts to measure the average income per person of households. But GDP includes much more than household consumption; private investment and government spending, for example. This method must give lower poverty counts relative to a common poverty line. But why would one use the same poverty line for GDP as for household consumption The Bank’’s $1-a-day line is based on the poverty lines actually found in low-income countries, and those lines do not include allowances for investment and government spending; they typically include only the most basic food and other consumption needs. To compare Mr Sala-i-Martin’’s numbers with the Bank’’s, one should use a higher poverty line for the former. It is not clear how much higher Mr Sala-i-Martin’’s poverty line should be to assure comparability with the Bank’’s $1-a-day standard. However, a good guess might be that his poverty threshold should be doubled to reflect the other items that he has implicitly included in his measure of income. Then, in fact, the two series line up rather well. Good news, for some Despite the methodological differences, a similar trend of long-term reduction in poverty does emerge. That is certainly good news -- but no cause for complacency. The 400 million people who escaped absolute poverty by the $ 1-a-day standard over 1981-2001 are still poor even by the standards of middle-income developing countries. And the Bank’’s estimates indicate that the number living on less than $ 2 a day has risen from 2.4 billion to 2.7 billion. Nor has the aggregate progress for the very poorest been shared by all regions. The number of people who managed to jump the $1-a-day hurdle in China during this period was also about 400 million. So if one focuses on the developing world outside China, the number of poor has changed very little. Underlying this fact, it turns out that the composition of world poverty has changed noticeably. The number of poor has fallen in Asia, but risen elsewhere. It has roughly doubled in Africa. In the early 1980s, one in ten of the world’’s poorest lived in Africa; now the figure is about one in three. Yes, on the whole the poorest people in the world have been doing better. But the fight against poverty is far from won.
LOSING: THE VIRUS In a wonderful 1943 novel, "I Am Thinking of My Darling," by Vincent McHugh, New York City is invaded by a previously unknown tropical virus that quickly grows to epidemic proportions and afflicts the entire population. The hero is a young city official, who works day and night to control the thing, but then he himself is infected and becomes a victim. He stops work and spends his time making love. That’’s the virus; all the folks in town — cops and schoolteachers, subway motormen and lawyers and delicatessen owners and dental hygienists and bail bondsmen — forget whatever they’’re doing and start doing it, right out in the open. Everybody is in love. A huge celebratory parade is planned — all hands hurry to Fifth Avenue, with accompanying balloons and jazz bands, but in couples, so they can keep up the pairing and partying. Then the weather shifts, in mid-parade, with a cold snap blowing in from the west. The virus dies — it’’s run its course—and the happy men and women look at each other with a resumed seriousness and go home. It’’s over. This is pretty much what it was like up until the middle of last week, when the Yankees, who have been so single-minded about winning, were caught up in losing instead. For once, it didn’’t feel like their own doing, exactly, because almost nobody could hit the ball anymore or catch it much or always throw it to the right place; something had come over them. By Tuesday, the Bronx Steinbrenners had dropped four in a row and seven out of their last ten. They’’d lost three out of four games to the hated and feared Red Sox, up at Fenway Park, and a few days later were swept by the Bosox in a weekend series back at Yankee Stadium, scoring only four runs in three games. The Bombers’’ team batting average stood at . 217, the lowest in the league, and they had committed a league-worst nineteen errors. They were tied for third in their five-team division, four and a half behind the Red Sox—not a fatal handicap at this early stage of things but not at all what they or anyone else in the world had expected. This was miserable or delightful, depending on where your loyalties lay, but most of all it was weird. It was glorious. The Yankees, as we know, have finished first in the American League East for the past six years, and have played in the post-season for the past nine, picking up four World Championships along the way. They’’ve won thirty-nine pennants in all and twenty-six World Championships. A new Yankees promotion calls this the greatest record in all team sports, but what it also means, as every Yankee executive and coach and player and nine-year-old rooter knows, is "Win or Else. " To this end, the 2004 Yankees have amassed a record hundred-and-eighty-million-dollar payroll — more than the combined salaries of the Devil Rays, the Indians, the Tigers, and the Royals — and picked up last year’’s A. L. Most Valuable Player , Alex Rodriguez, to play third base. He can’’t play shortstop, his accustomed position, because the Yanks’’ captain and perennial favorite, Derek Jeter, holds prior lease on the property. They brought in two expensive new pitchers to replace the departed Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte. They did their homework, in short, and entered the long examination period of the regular season with the smug assurance of another A. There was no end of indignation and irritation, to be sure -- especially in Boston, where the powerful and almost great 2003 Red Sox team had fallen victim to the Yankees once again last fall, after a killing eleventh-inning home run in the final League Championship game — but Yankee spending and Bosox burning are standard ingredients of contemporary ball. Confirmation replaces expectation at these levels of sport, and fun feels prearranged. The Yankees’’ losing streak suspended all this, for a while at least, and what was refreshing about it was that the Yankees were suddenly so bad, at the plate and a field, that they seemed removed from the games, spooked or laid low not by the opposing pitcher or sluggers but by some cosmic change of terms. They were playing in a cartoon or on an asteroid landscape. Pitchers kept making throwing errors, and catcher Jorge Posada dropped or misplayed three foul balls in a single game. Bernie Williams (two hits for his last twenty-six at-bats) and Derek Jeter (oh for twenty-one, oh for twenty-five, oh for twenty-eight, etc. , as the games ticked by) and Jason Giambi (six for forty-two), among others, stepped up to the plate as if entering Jell or a time warp and shortly sat down again. The Yankees never panicked or blew up, and manager Joe Torre, speaking one day about Williams, seemed to sum it all up when he said, "He’’s caught up in what everyone else is caught up in, and that’’s trying to help the club do something it’’s had trouble doing.... I can’’t blame anybody. " Red Sox fans and local Yankee haters exulted but also shook their heads: geez, what’’s wrong with those guys You could blame injuries or age (the Yanks are the oldest team in the majors) or jet lag from the season — opening series against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays that was played in Tokyo, but it was the beautiful and eloquent unpredictability of baseball itself that was making this happen: the sport once again showing us that statistical unlikelihood can come in bursts and bunches, a virus from nowhere, and for a time sever the game and its players from all expectation. Think of Mel Gibson taking up the harp, President Bush being late for a Cabinet meeting while he finishes "The Ambassadors": this was better. The end of the losing arrived in a Yankee game against Oakland, when the Pinstripes, down by 8-4 in the eighth inning, were granted a succession of feeble singles, nubbed infield squigglers, three walks, and a two-run double, good for six runs and, in time, the win. The double, by pinch-hitter Ruben Sierra, curved sharply toward foul ground in deep left field but then changed its mind and hit the line instead — a big hit, and a smile at last from the great and enigmatically difficult game. The Yanks won again the next two nights, resuming their 2004"campaign with a three-game sweep. Derek Jeter was the last to leave the isolation ward of the April epidemic. Hitless in his previous thirty-two at-bats, he led off the Yankees’’ first inning of the Oakland finale by smashing Barry Zito’’s first pitch deep into the left-field stands, circled the bases, and touched home, restored at last to the humdrum. had dropped four in a row
LOSING: THE VIRUS In a wonderful 1943 novel, "I Am Thinking of My Darling," by Vincent McHugh, New York City is invaded by a previously unknown tropical virus that quickly grows to epidemic proportions and afflicts the entire population. The hero is a young city official, who works day and night to control the thing, but then he himself is infected and becomes a victim. He stops work and spends his time making love. That’’s the virus; all the folks in town — cops and schoolteachers, subway motormen and lawyers and delicatessen owners and dental hygienists and bail bondsmen — forget whatever they’’re doing and start doing it, right out in the open. Everybody is in love. A huge celebratory parade is planned — all hands hurry to Fifth Avenue, with accompanying balloons and jazz bands, but in couples, so they can keep up the pairing and partying. Then the weather shifts, in mid-parade, with a cold snap blowing in from the west. The virus dies — it’’s run its course—and the happy men and women look at each other with a resumed seriousness and go home. It’’s over. This is pretty much what it was like up until the middle of last week, when the Yankees, who have been so single-minded about winning, were caught up in losing instead. For once, it didn’’t feel like their own doing, exactly, because almost nobody could hit the ball anymore or catch it much or always throw it to the right place; something had come over them. By Tuesday, the Bronx Steinbrenners had dropped four in a row and seven out of their last ten. They’’d lost three out of four games to the hated and feared Red Sox, up at Fenway Park, and a few days later were swept by the Bosox in a weekend series back at Yankee Stadium, scoring only four runs in three games. The Bombers’’ team batting average stood at . 217, the lowest in the league, and they had committed a league-worst nineteen errors. They were tied for third in their five-team division, four and a half behind the Red Sox—not a fatal handicap at this early stage of things but not at all what they or anyone else in the world had expected. This was miserable or delightful, depending on where your loyalties lay, but most of all it was weird. It was glorious. The Yankees, as we know, have finished first in the American League East for the past six years, and have played in the post-season for the past nine, picking up four World Championships along the way. They’’ve won thirty-nine pennants in all and twenty-six World Championships. A new Yankees promotion calls this the greatest record in all team sports, but what it also means, as every Yankee executive and coach and player and nine-year-old rooter knows, is "Win or Else. " To this end, the 2004 Yankees have amassed a record hundred-and-eighty-million-dollar payroll — more than the combined salaries of the Devil Rays, the Indians, the Tigers, and the Royals — and picked up last year’’s A. L. Most Valuable Player , Alex Rodriguez, to play third base. He can’’t play shortstop, his accustomed position, because the Yanks’’ captain and perennial favorite, Derek Jeter, holds prior lease on the property. They brought in two expensive new pitchers to replace the departed Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte. They did their homework, in short, and entered the long examination period of the regular season with the smug assurance of another A. There was no end of indignation and irritation, to be sure -- especially in Boston, where the powerful and almost great 2003 Red Sox team had fallen victim to the Yankees once again last fall, after a killing eleventh-inning home run in the final League Championship game — but Yankee spending and Bosox burning are standard ingredients of contemporary ball. Confirmation replaces expectation at these levels of sport, and fun feels prearranged. The Yankees’’ losing streak suspended all this, for a while at least, and what was refreshing about it was that the Yankees were suddenly so bad, at the plate and a field, that they seemed removed from the games, spooked or laid low not by the opposing pitcher or sluggers but by some cosmic change of terms. They were playing in a cartoon or on an asteroid landscape. Pitchers kept making throwing errors, and catcher Jorge Posada dropped or misplayed three foul balls in a single game. Bernie Williams (two hits for his last twenty-six at-bats) and Derek Jeter (oh for twenty-one, oh for twenty-five, oh for twenty-eight, etc. , as the games ticked by) and Jason Giambi (six for forty-two), among others, stepped up to the plate as if entering Jell or a time warp and shortly sat down again. The Yankees never panicked or blew up, and manager Joe Torre, speaking one day about Williams, seemed to sum it all up when he said, "He’’s caught up in what everyone else is caught up in, and that’’s trying to help the club do something it’’s had trouble doing.... I can’’t blame anybody. " Red Sox fans and local Yankee haters exulted but also shook their heads: geez, what’’s wrong with those guys You could blame injuries or age (the Yanks are the oldest team in the majors) or jet lag from the season — opening series against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays that was played in Tokyo, but it was the beautiful and eloquent unpredictability of baseball itself that was making this happen: the sport once again showing us that statistical unlikelihood can come in bursts and bunches, a virus from nowhere, and for a time sever the game and its players from all expectation. Think of Mel Gibson taking up the harp, President Bush being late for a Cabinet meeting while he finishes "The Ambassadors": this was better. The end of the losing arrived in a Yankee game against Oakland, when the Pinstripes, down by 8-4 in the eighth inning, were granted a succession of feeble singles, nubbed infield squigglers, three walks, and a two-run double, good for six runs and, in time, the win. The double, by pinch-hitter Ruben Sierra, curved sharply toward foul ground in deep left field but then changed its mind and hit the line instead — a big hit, and a smile at last from the great and enigmatically difficult game. The Yanks won again the next two nights, resuming their 2004"campaign with a three-game sweep. Derek Jeter was the last to leave the isolation ward of the April epidemic. Hitless in his previous thirty-two at-bats, he led off the Yankees’’ first inning of the Oakland finale by smashing Barry Zito’’s first pitch deep into the left-field stands, circled the bases, and touched home, restored at last to the humdrum. Baseball can’’t showing us that statistical unlikelihood can come in bursts and bunches.
LOSING: THE VIRUS In a wonderful 1943 novel, "I Am Thinking of My Darling," by Vincent McHugh, New York City is invaded by a previously unknown tropical virus that quickly grows to epidemic proportions and afflicts the entire population. The hero is a young city official, who works day and night to control the thing, but then he himself is infected and becomes a victim. He stops work and spends his time making love. That’’s the virus; all the folks in town — cops and schoolteachers, subway motormen and lawyers and delicatessen owners and dental hygienists and bail bondsmen — forget whatever they’’re doing and start doing it, right out in the open. Everybody is in love. A huge celebratory parade is planned — all hands hurry to Fifth Avenue, with accompanying balloons and jazz bands, but in couples, so they can keep up the pairing and partying. Then the weather shifts, in mid-parade, with a cold snap blowing in from the west. The virus dies — it’’s run its course—and the happy men and women look at each other with a resumed seriousness and go home. It’’s over. This is pretty much what it was like up until the middle of last week, when the Yankees, who have been so single-minded about winning, were caught up in losing instead. For once, it didn’’t feel like their own doing, exactly, because almost nobody could hit the ball anymore or catch it much or always throw it to the right place; something had come over them. By Tuesday, the Bronx Steinbrenners had dropped four in a row and seven out of their last ten. They’’d lost three out of four games to the hated and feared Red Sox, up at Fenway Park, and a few days later were swept by the Bosox in a weekend series back at Yankee Stadium, scoring only four runs in three games. The Bombers’’ team batting average stood at . 217, the lowest in the league, and they had committed a league-worst nineteen errors. They were tied for third in their five-team division, four and a half behind the Red Sox—not a fatal handicap at this early stage of things but not at all what they or anyone else in the world had expected. This was miserable or delightful, depending on where your loyalties lay, but most of all it was weird. It was glorious. The Yankees, as we know, have finished first in the American League East for the past six years, and have played in the post-season for the past nine, picking up four World Championships along the way. They’’ve won thirty-nine pennants in all and twenty-six World Championships. A new Yankees promotion calls this the greatest record in all team sports, but what it also means, as every Yankee executive and coach and player and nine-year-old rooter knows, is "Win or Else. " To this end, the 2004 Yankees have amassed a record hundred-and-eighty-million-dollar payroll — more than the combined salaries of the Devil Rays, the Indians, the Tigers, and the Royals — and picked up last year’’s A. L. Most Valuable Player , Alex Rodriguez, to play third base. He can’’t play shortstop, his accustomed position, because the Yanks’’ captain and perennial favorite, Derek Jeter, holds prior lease on the property. They brought in two expensive new pitchers to replace the departed Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte. They did their homework, in short, and entered the long examination period of the regular season with the smug assurance of another A. There was no end of indignation and irritation, to be sure -- especially in Boston, where the powerful and almost great 2003 Red Sox team had fallen victim to the Yankees once again last fall, after a killing eleventh-inning home run in the final League Championship game — but Yankee spending and Bosox burning are standard ingredients of contemporary ball. Confirmation replaces expectation at these levels of sport, and fun feels prearranged. The Yankees’’ losing streak suspended all this, for a while at least, and what was refreshing about it was that the Yankees were suddenly so bad, at the plate and a field, that they seemed removed from the games, spooked or laid low not by the opposing pitcher or sluggers but by some cosmic change of terms. They were playing in a cartoon or on an asteroid landscape. Pitchers kept making throwing errors, and catcher Jorge Posada dropped or misplayed three foul balls in a single game. Bernie Williams (two hits for his last twenty-six at-bats) and Derek Jeter (oh for twenty-one, oh for twenty-five, oh for twenty-eight, etc. , as the games ticked by) and Jason Giambi (six for forty-two), among others, stepped up to the plate as if entering Jell or a time warp and shortly sat down again. The Yankees never panicked or blew up, and manager Joe Torre, speaking one day about Williams, seemed to sum it all up when he said, "He’’s caught up in what everyone else is caught up in, and that’’s trying to help the club do something it’’s had trouble doing.... I can’’t blame anybody. " Red Sox fans and local Yankee haters exulted but also shook their heads: geez, what’’s wrong with those guys You could blame injuries or age (the Yanks are the oldest team in the majors) or jet lag from the season — opening series against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays that was played in Tokyo, but it was the beautiful and eloquent unpredictability of baseball itself that was making this happen: the sport once again showing us that statistical unlikelihood can come in bursts and bunches, a virus from nowhere, and for a time sever the game and its players from all expectation. Think of Mel Gibson taking up the harp, President Bush being late for a Cabinet meeting while he finishes "The Ambassadors": this was better. The end of the losing arrived in a Yankee game against Oakland, when the Pinstripes, down by 8-4 in the eighth inning, were granted a succession of feeble singles, nubbed infield squigglers, three walks, and a two-run double, good for six runs and, in time, the win. The double, by pinch-hitter Ruben Sierra, curved sharply toward foul ground in deep left field but then changed its mind and hit the line instead — a big hit, and a smile at last from the great and enigmatically difficult game. The Yanks won again the next two nights, resuming their 2004"campaign with a three-game sweep. Derek Jeter was the last to leave the isolation ward of the April epidemic. Hitless in his previous thirty-two at-bats, he led off the Yankees’’ first inning of the Oakland finale by smashing Barry Zito’’s first pitch deep into the left-field stands, circled the bases, and touched home, restored at last to the humdrum. The Yankees have played in the post-season for the past nine, picking up five World Championships along the way.
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