You think this sounds grim? I haven't even touched upon the truly tragic. Like the Indians' Ray Chapman, the only major leaguer ever to be killed in a game. He was fatally beaned by the Yankees' Carl Mays in 1920. Or Herb Score, who won 20 games in 1956, averaging more than one strikeout per inning, and then caught a Gil McDougald line drive in the eye in '57. He retired six years later with just 55 lifetime wins.
Through it all, my loyalty remains undaunted. It takes something very special to be a Cleveland fan—and I don't mean an iron stomach. While the carrot has dangled for what seems like an eternity, we Clevelanders still salivate just as voraciously as if it were Day 1. Besides, we have our own brand of consolation. You know the kind—like telling ourselves that we couldn't afford Super Bowl tickets, anyway.