Vikings’ Stringer joins another well-liked athlete who died young

"I was more frightened than pleased, but as I traveled north I made up my mind that when I took the field in a Cleveland uniform I would forget that I was Joe Sewell and imagine I was (Ray) Chapman, fighting to bring honor and glory to Cleveland."

– Indian shortstop Joe Sewell, 1920

One of the things that made the premature death of Minnesota Vikings’ offensive lineman Korey Stringer that much more difficult to accept and understand was the fact that he was so well liked in the lockerroom.

One after another, his Minnesota teammates have portrayed Stringer, only 27, as someone who was more than a football player; more than an athlete; he was a person who made every day on and off the field a little more enjoyable with his good nature and sense of humor.

Very few professional athletes have died due to injury or illness incurred while playing a game or during a practice. While several players have reportedly been killed by pitched baseballs in the minor leagues, only one Major League baseball player ever endured such a fate.

Eighty-one years ago today (Aug. 16, 1920) Cleveland Indian star shortstop Ray Chapman was hit in the head by a pitch thrown by the sidearm-specialist of the New York Yankees, Carl Mays. Fifteen hours after being hit, Chapman, 29, was dead, having never fully regained consciousness after having initially stumbled out of the batter’s box and heading to first base.

In that both players were beloved members of their respective pro teams, Stringer and Chapman now share a legacy.

Joe Sewell, who would be called upon to replace Chapman–earlier than expected and at least a season if not two before he thought he was ready for the majors–went on to star at shortstop late in the summer for the Cleveland Indians.

Sewell helped Cleveland right themselves and hold on to win a pennant despite the tragedy (or maybe because of it) and later the World Series vs. the Brooklyn Dodgers. Eventually Sewell would go on to become a hall-of-famer (voted in, in 1977 at age 78), a status neither Chapman nor Mays ever achieved.

Because of Chapman’s noble character in the clubhouse and throughout the league, and because he was one of the better shortstops of his day, one might find it a little surprising that Chapman hasn’t garnered more support as a hall-of-fame shortstop. Sentimentality is certainly on his side.

But Chapman only played nine major league seasons, not the required 10 (exceptions can be made to the 10-year-rule) and neither his statistics, a .278-career batting clip nor his above-average ability in the field were deemed good enough for the Hall.

Mays, on the other hand, had stats that to this day are worthy of serious consideration as a Hall-of-Fame-candidate. In 15 years as a Major League pitcher, Mays’ won-loss record was 208-126, a lofty .623 winning percentage (he was 26-11 in 1920) and his career ERA was 2.92.

Mays threw submarine-style sidearm, a delivery prone to balls tailing back into right-hand batters. Mays never truly intended to hit anybody but he did admit to trying to intimidate hitters by throwing high and tight.

If his"purpose pitches," weren’t supposed to hurt an opposing player, Mays still earned the reputation as a guy comfortable throwing "upstairs," so that some considered him a headhunter even before throwing the pitch that killed Ray Chapman.

In the end, it may have been Mays’ lack of remorse—he showed some, but not as much as some thought he should—coupled with his surly-nature (second maybe only to Ty Cobb in the gruffness department of their day) that has and forever will keep him from getting recognition for the pitcher he was.

If Carl Mays wasn’t a hall-of-famer, he was close. But have you ever heard of him?

The story of Sewell’s virtually paralyzing unease taking Chapman’s place at shortstop and the metamorphous that followed once he found a way to replace and pay homage to Chapman all at once makes for compelling reading in the book, "The Pitch That Killed," written in 1989 by Mike Sowell.

The dramatic conflict of the 21-year-old Sewell, thrown into the cauldron of a pennant-race, albeit with a team grief-stricken by a horrible fatal injury of a cherished teammate, is well told by Sowell.

Only by playing as the incarnate of Ray Chapman–he living embodiment of the player–could Sewell overcome his doubts that at first threatened to make his 1920 Major League season a short, nightmarish experience.

One only hopes that Chris Liwienski, a third-year player out of Indiana University who started in place of Korey Stringer on the offensive line in the Minnesota Vikings first preseason game, finds a similar spiritual connection between himself and the fallen Viking that Sewell discovered between himself and Ray Chapman.