I know that baseball is over for the year (*sob*). Until the winter manager meetings, I won’t even bother to read the sports section. For now, my baseball reading will be limited to perusing my cousin Jay’s postings at Futility Infielder and his work at the Baseball Prospectus (note of warning: he’s a Dodgers fan; being a blood-relative, I’m forced to forgive him).

Baseball isn’t a new interest to me. I remember going to minor league games of the San Jose Bees as a very young child, as well as to San Francisco Giants and Oakland A’s games in the days of Say Hey Willie Mays (the former) and “Roadrunner” shortstop Campy Campaneris (the latter) — I actually used to write fan letters to Campy. I loved him for his speed like I love Edgar Martinez for his hitting prowess, in an awestruck, innocent way.

My brother was not much of a reader, but could always be coaxed into reading if the subject was baseball. I remember taking the autobiography of Satchel Paige, Maybe I’ll Pitch Forever from his shelves as a child and wanting to know more about him, wishing I could have seen him play myself.

My son, at 12, is as much of a reader as my brother was at that age, so I thought I could entice him with a baseball book. He’s a fan of the game, too, like his mother and grandfather before him. He’d shown an interest in graphic novels, and there was a relatively new one out about Paige, Satchel Paige: Striking Out Jim Crow. Of course, I read it first.

The book includes a great introduction and afterward that talk about the Negro Leagues, but the graphic novel portion is a fictional tale that includes Satchel Paige, but isn’t about him. It engaged my son, which was good, but it wasn’t the story of Satchel Paige. So I purchased that old autobiography for a reread.

Paige certainly had a healthy ego, but by all accounts, the rangy pitcher deserved it, at least for what he could do on the field. I’ve read and heard stories about his speed and prowess on the field, but have yet to find good film of him at work. I can’t believe that a man who pitched professionally in five different decades isn’t on film more. There are a couple of YouTube videos, but neither shows much of him that gives you a real sense of what it looked like to face down a guy who by all accounts could easily toss a ball over 100 miles per hour.

The autobiography covers Paige’s childhood, his time in the Negro Leagues — and how he would follow the money from team to team, country to country. He talks about his bitter disappointment at not being the first black man to play in the Major Leagues. Given his temper and temperament, it probably was better to choose Jackie Robinson. And the book chronicles his eventual move to the Big Leagues — at the age of 42 — where despite his age he managed to make a positive impact on his team.

My reread of the autobiography coincided with the publication of a new biography by Larry Tye, Satchel: The Life and Times of an American Legend. While it offered a more objective voice, Tye’s book didn’t add much to what I already knew and had already read: indeed many of the stories were quoted from the autobiography. I wanted more new. Redemption did come with the large number of previously unseen photos of Paige’s life, early and late.

It also adds tables of some of the extraordinary numbers Paige posted as a pitcher — 103-61 in the Negro Leagues between 1927 and 1947, a less impressive 27-31 in the majors (although if you take away a miserable year in 1953, he’s a more impressive 24-22. Even with the 3-9 year, he had 288 strikeouts to 180 base on balls for his major league career, and a 3.29 ERA. In 1965, at the age of 59, he pitched three scoreless innings — in what was something of a stunt — for the Kansas City A’s (he’d spent the previous several years in the minors). He struck out one.

I’m still intrigued with the guy. He was born into extreme poverty and could very well have ended up in jail or dead. But he used his talent to become the highest paid ball player in the country — making more than even his white counterparts while he was in the Negro leagues. He pitched professionally in every decade from the 1920s to the 60s and was finally — belatedly — admitted to the baseball Hall of Fame in 1971. Sadly, Paige didn’t manage his money well and died in relative obscurity in 1982.

And you know what? I bet if you gave him a ball when he was ill and old and had him give it a throw, you’d Paige throw a ball harder than a sick 76-year-old man should be able to throw. At least that’s what I’d like to think.