J.A. Happ, Ray Chapman, and a killing tide of liquid sugar
Time is not an arrow, but a snake. Ballplayers are as vulnerable
as they ever were, and so are we.  Often it seems that time is
not an arrow, steadily progressing in a straight line away from
a distant starting point, but rather a snake coiled in an
endless series of S-like curves, so that our stories exist in
parallel to some seemingly strange and distant time that is,
upon closer examination, much like our own. We stage ancient
plays in modern dress and tell ourselves the experience is new.
Last night, when Desmond Jennings hit the almost-literal bullet
that sent pitcher J.A. Happ to the hospital, the ball caromed of
his head with such force that it went into foul territory down
the right field line and Jennings was able to run to third base.
When Carl Mays threw the pitch that ultimately killed Ray
Chapman, the ball bounced back to him with such force that the
pitcher thought he had heard the crack of the bat rather than
the crack of Chapman's s