That’s it, Carlos Quentin. You are dead to me. Following your inevitable suspension, the next time you come to bat or take the field, I will see nothing. I will see air. You have become an apparition. Like the ships of Columbus set down on the shores of the New World, unseen by the bewildered eyes of the native peoples, your visage to me will be invisible, incomprehensible. For you are dead to me, or even more than dead, you are a void, a blank line. Erased. Never existed. Your father’s seed never swum, your mother’s womb never blossomed. You were never conceived nor nurtured nor birthed. You are dead to me, Carlos Quentin, or even more than dead. No one fucks with my Zack.