Sports, especially baseball, allow the casual fan and casual writer to indulge in the predictive nature. A substantial cottage industry has emerged like weeds around my compost bin that will tell the curious just how their favorite or least favorite Boston Red Sox player will do in the coming season.
I most certainly throw my money to the winds and do what I pledge each season never to do and eventually, like the rum raisin ice cream addict I am, I succumb. I could give extended details on which nationally known statistical bible I use, but will avoid advertising BP.