A widower, Lacy lives alone in an apartment in northeast Washington. His office is about an hour away, but he makes the drive alone three days a week. And then he mounts those 36 stairs. He has to. "I've stayed here so long," he says, "because they gave me an opportunity when no other paper in America would. Loyalty is worth more than money." Besides, there's more to be done, he says: Black businessmen have to take a more active part in sports; baseball needs more black executives.
Back in his apartment, Lacy is thumbing through scrapbooks filled with memorabilia. "I told you my father was a dyed-in-the-wool fan," he says. "Well, that he was, right up to the age of 79. Back then, there was always a parade of players to the ballpark on Opening Day. Fans like my father would line up for hours to watch their heroes pass by. And so there he was, age 79, out there cheering with the rest of them, calling all the players by name, just happy to be there. And then it happened. One of the white players—I won't say which one—just gave him this nasty look and, as he passed by, spat right in his face. Right in that nice old man's face. That hurt my father terribly. And you know, as big a fan as he had been, he never went to another game as long as he lived, which was seven more years. Oh, we've come a long way since then. But we've still got a long way to go."