Baseball Can Be A Dangerous Game
I was thumbing through a recent addition to my baseball library -- The Baseball Anthology: 125 Years, edited by Joseph Wallace -- and came across a couple of pages devoted to the tragic death of Ray Chapman in 1920. A common misconception is that Chapman was killed right there on the field of play. According to David Nemec and Peter Palmer in 1001 Fascinating Baseball Facts, he was "the only on-field fatality in major league history." According to at least one eyewitness, though, he died not on the field but in a hospital several hours after the event. And I can think of several ballplayers who died in similar fashion. James Creighton, the 19th-century pitching phenom, comes immediately to mind.
The Kentucky-born Chapman played for the Cleveland Indians/Naps from 1912 to 1920, primarily as a shortstop. He was an average fielder for the time, and a good hitter -- a .278 career batting average. He was best known as a base stealer, collecting 233 base thefts in his nine seasons. Well, make that eight-and-a-half. Because, on August 16, 1920, Chapman played his last game. He and his first-place Indians were visiting the Polo Grounds to take on the Yankees. Pitching for New York was one Carl Mays, who used an underhanded delivery that was, they say, difficult to pick up in the best of conditions. That day, though, was foggy and drizzling, and one assumes that Chapman, who was leading off the fifth inning, did not see the ball in time. It struck him in the temple, and killed him.
Fred Lieb was sitting in the downstairs press box, fifty feet behind the umpire. "I had a perfect view of the action," wrote Lieb. "A right-handed hitter, Chapman crouched over the plate more than any other batter of his era. I saw May's 'submarine' pitch rise, from the near-ground level where it was delivered, on a straight line towards Chapman's head. A batter has about a half second to react to a ball that may hit him. As soon as he was hit I thought, 'Why didn't he react, duck, throw himself to the ground?' But he didn't. He froze.
"There was a sickening thud as the ball hit the left side of Chapman's head at the temple. He got up after a few seconds, and I could see the left eye hanging from its socket. With a ball player's instinct, he took two steps toward first, then fell in a heap. He never regained consciousness. Cleveland players carried him to the center-field clubhouse, and from there he was rushed to a downtown hospital. He died at 3:30 A.M. the next morning, the only big leaguer to be a fatal victim of a pitched ball."
May was exonerated from any wrongdoing. F.C. Lane, in his 1925 book, Batting, wrote: "What added to the tragedy was the maze of rumor and criticism which sought to hold Mays responsible for the affair. Mays himself explained his part in the proceeding. He said ... 'It is an episode that I shall always regret more than anything else that ever happened to me. And yet, I can look into my own conscience and feel absolved from all sense of guilt. The most amazing thing about it was the fact that some people seemed to believe I did this thing deliberately. Now I am a pitcher and I know some of the things a pitcher can do and some he cannot do .... [T]o kill a man it is not enough even to hit him on the head. Walter Johnson, with all his terrific speed, has hit batters on the head and yet they did not die. There is only one spot on a player's skull where a pitched ball would do him fatal injury. That is a spot about his temple which isn't half as large as the palm of my hand. Suppose a pitcher were moral monster enough to want to kill a batter .... Christy Mathewson in the days of his most perfect control couldn't have hit a batter in the temple once in a thousand tries.'"
Two days after the tragedy, the New York Times chimed in: "Headgear for ball players, to use while batting, is being considered by club owners and players as a result of the unfortunate accident which resulted in the death of Ray Chapman this week and it will not be surprising if batsmen of the future go to the plate with a covering on that side of the head that is nearest to the opposing pitcher."
Organized baseball took other measures. Dirty or scuffed balls would be immediately removed from play. Patrons would no longer be able to sit in centerfield bleachers because as a backdrop they might obscure the ball from the batter's view. And the spitball and other "freak" pitches would soon be banned. (Although, as we know, there were spitballers into the Sixties. More on spitballs and baseball-related fatalities in the next couple of posts.)
On occasion, pitchers intentionally try to hit batters. There is a long baseball tradition involved, in some cases, that has to do with avenging some prior wrongdoing. And then there is the case of Houston's Russ Springer, who plunked Barry Bonds on May 16, 2006. Springer threw five straight inside pitches at Bonds, was issued a warning by the umpire, and ejected from the game when he finally accomplished his goal. The Houston crowd gave Springer a standing ovation, which speaks volumes about the disgust many baseball fans feel where Barry "Asterick" Bonds is concerned. Apparently, though, Springer wasn't targeting Bonds because of what the latter has done to the game, but rather because of something more personal. Back in 1998 Bonds hit a home run off Springer and, instead of just rounding the bases like a professional, Bonds did some dancing and celebrating, rubbing it in Springer's face.
My first reaction to the plunking of Bonds was to give kudos to Springer. (I don't like cheaters.) But later I thought about Ray Chapman -- and felt ashamed. Baseball can be a dangerous game. We shouldn't tolerate -- much less cheer -- those who willfully make it more dangerous than it already is.
The Kentucky-born Chapman played for the Cleveland Indians/Naps from 1912 to 1920, primarily as a shortstop. He was an average fielder for the time, and a good hitter -- a .278 career batting average. He was best known as a base stealer, collecting 233 base thefts in his nine seasons. Well, make that eight-and-a-half. Because, on August 16, 1920, Chapman played his last game. He and his first-place Indians were visiting the Polo Grounds to take on the Yankees. Pitching for New York was one Carl Mays, who used an underhanded delivery that was, they say, difficult to pick up in the best of conditions. That day, though, was foggy and drizzling, and one assumes that Chapman, who was leading off the fifth inning, did not see the ball in time. It struck him in the temple, and killed him.
Fred Lieb was sitting in the downstairs press box, fifty feet behind the umpire. "I had a perfect view of the action," wrote Lieb. "A right-handed hitter, Chapman crouched over the plate more than any other batter of his era. I saw May's 'submarine' pitch rise, from the near-ground level where it was delivered, on a straight line towards Chapman's head. A batter has about a half second to react to a ball that may hit him. As soon as he was hit I thought, 'Why didn't he react, duck, throw himself to the ground?' But he didn't. He froze.
"There was a sickening thud as the ball hit the left side of Chapman's head at the temple. He got up after a few seconds, and I could see the left eye hanging from its socket. With a ball player's instinct, he took two steps toward first, then fell in a heap. He never regained consciousness. Cleveland players carried him to the center-field clubhouse, and from there he was rushed to a downtown hospital. He died at 3:30 A.M. the next morning, the only big leaguer to be a fatal victim of a pitched ball."
May was exonerated from any wrongdoing. F.C. Lane, in his 1925 book, Batting, wrote: "What added to the tragedy was the maze of rumor and criticism which sought to hold Mays responsible for the affair. Mays himself explained his part in the proceeding. He said ... 'It is an episode that I shall always regret more than anything else that ever happened to me. And yet, I can look into my own conscience and feel absolved from all sense of guilt. The most amazing thing about it was the fact that some people seemed to believe I did this thing deliberately. Now I am a pitcher and I know some of the things a pitcher can do and some he cannot do .... [T]o kill a man it is not enough even to hit him on the head. Walter Johnson, with all his terrific speed, has hit batters on the head and yet they did not die. There is only one spot on a player's skull where a pitched ball would do him fatal injury. That is a spot about his temple which isn't half as large as the palm of my hand. Suppose a pitcher were moral monster enough to want to kill a batter .... Christy Mathewson in the days of his most perfect control couldn't have hit a batter in the temple once in a thousand tries.'"
Two days after the tragedy, the New York Times chimed in: "Headgear for ball players, to use while batting, is being considered by club owners and players as a result of the unfortunate accident which resulted in the death of Ray Chapman this week and it will not be surprising if batsmen of the future go to the plate with a covering on that side of the head that is nearest to the opposing pitcher."
Organized baseball took other measures. Dirty or scuffed balls would be immediately removed from play. Patrons would no longer be able to sit in centerfield bleachers because as a backdrop they might obscure the ball from the batter's view. And the spitball and other "freak" pitches would soon be banned. (Although, as we know, there were spitballers into the Sixties. More on spitballs and baseball-related fatalities in the next couple of posts.)
On occasion, pitchers intentionally try to hit batters. There is a long baseball tradition involved, in some cases, that has to do with avenging some prior wrongdoing. And then there is the case of Houston's Russ Springer, who plunked Barry Bonds on May 16, 2006. Springer threw five straight inside pitches at Bonds, was issued a warning by the umpire, and ejected from the game when he finally accomplished his goal. The Houston crowd gave Springer a standing ovation, which speaks volumes about the disgust many baseball fans feel where Barry "Asterick" Bonds is concerned. Apparently, though, Springer wasn't targeting Bonds because of what the latter has done to the game, but rather because of something more personal. Back in 1998 Bonds hit a home run off Springer and, instead of just rounding the bases like a professional, Bonds did some dancing and celebrating, rubbing it in Springer's face.
My first reaction to the plunking of Bonds was to give kudos to Springer. (I don't like cheaters.) But later I thought about Ray Chapman -- and felt ashamed. Baseball can be a dangerous game. We shouldn't tolerate -- much less cheer -- those who willfully make it more dangerous than it already is.
posted by Jakemann on Sunday, November 12, 2006
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home