WASHINGTON - Three hours before game time in the nation's capital, and the ballpark seems consumed by martial law. There are bomb-sniffing dogs, metal detectors, ominous-looking guns and badges hooked to the hips of ominous-looking men and women, eyeing every passerby as not just a reporter or vendor or patron, but as a potential security threat.
Inside the visitors' clubhouse, however, there is peace. In fact, if a bomb did go off, somebody might have to tap Roy Halladay on the shoulder and let him know. He is sitting in a folding chair, an MP3 player streaming music into his ears, a look in his eyes that suggests he has entered a place that nobody is welcome to visit. Everything around him - the teammates and reporters and clubhouse staff - seems to exist in a mystical realm where objects are transparent and humans do not speak. He is staring at his right hand, which at the moment is gripping a baseball on one of the seams, his index and middle fingers pressed together like he is preparing to deliver a pitch.