The story of Mickey Owen caught my eye. He was a catcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers, who allowed a passed ball in the 1941 World Series that let the Yankees come back and take a three games to one lead and eventually win the championship.  Even though he was a good player, that one fateful event defined his baseball life:

Owen played for 13 seasons in the major leagues and was an outstanding catcher with a strong, accurate arm. But he has been linked in baseball history with figures like Fred Merkle, Ralph Branca and Bill Buckner, all outstanding players defined by a single moment of misfortune.

     He himself recognized the irony of infamy:

I would’ve been completely forgotten if I hadn’t missed that pitch.

  Brings to mind the Tao Te Ching and the general fatalism of Taoism:

Longing to take hold of all beneath heaven and improve it…
I’ve seen such dreams invariably fail.

All beneath heaven is a sacred vessel
something beyond all improvement
Try to improve it and you ruin it
Try to hold it and you lose it.

For things sometimes lead and sometimes follow,
sometimes sigh and sometimes storm,
sometimes strengthen and sometimes weaken,
sometimes kill and sometimes die.

And so the sage steers clear of extremes
clear of extravagance,
clear of exultation.

     No matter how hard Owen worked to be a great ballplayer, no matter how much it seemed like he had mastered the game, held it and improved it ("He handled 476 consecutive chances without an error in 1941, setting a single-season National League record for catchers…"), a curve that broke more than expected became the defining moment of his career. 

     As the old Saturday Night Live line used to go: "Don’t you just hate that…"