This Voodoo Bobby stuff is nonsense.
The real explanation is that Chris Sale was some sort of Passively Active Green Mile Bad Juju Lightning Rod.
Imagine you're Chris Sale. You're riding a bicycle. All of a sudden, you experience an intense flash and are whisked away from reality. In your mind's eye you see Rafael Devers take a fastball on the wrist. Raffy goes down, writhing in agony. And it's all so real. You see it. You hear the crowd. It's as if you're riding your bicycle across the infield at Fenway Park as this all unfolds. And then everything around you freezes. And it plays back, in reverse. Raffy rises, the ball rolls towards him, leaps in the air, ricochets off his wrist, and back into the pitcher's hand. And it all fades away. You're Chris Sale. You know what happens next. A bird flies by, startling a pedestrian. The pedestrian sprawls backwards, knocking over a nearby ladder. The ladder falls, striking a potted plant on someone's window sill. The potted plant startles a cat, which runs in front of your bicycle. You swerve, hit a pothole, and fall off the bike. You land on your wrist, and hear a loud crack. And then pain. Horrible pain.
The news reaches SoSH, and folks are incredulous. Some are angry with you for riding the bicycle. Some curse Dombrowski for signing you to that extension. But you know the truth. Dombrowski knew too.
That night, Rafael Devers starts at third base. He's brushed back a bit on a fastball just under his wrists. But he's just fine. It's a thankless job being Chris Sale.
That's what we had. That's what we traded away.
And now, no one is untouchable.
