It’s oranges and reds tangling with clouds
as gentle ripples of rhythm push against the shoreline.
It’s your arm around her waist, silence sitting against a backdrop of blessing.
It’s perfect.
drawing subtly from a pan-roasted salmon.
It’s spring asparagus kindly bathed in lemon butter,
yellow squash and zucchini on the side.
It’s the sweet edge of the Pinot
pulling you to the glass.
It’s cross-table-eyes caught in candlelight.
It’s perfect.
It’s an unnoticed tear slipping from
a cheek onto a program in a lap.
It’s the moment when the last tumbling note
has reached the roof, every bow held stiff above violin string,
the conductor’s baton suspends eternity,
whispered breath being held on the edge of eruption.
It’s perfect.
Eighteen batters had stepped up – eighteen batters were sent down.
Three zeros, beauty in symmetry, lined the top of the scoreboard.
No runs. No hits. No errors.
No Cleveland Indian had yet to take up residence beyond the batter’s box. Almost effortlessly the game seemed to be moving towards perfection.
Perfection – the greatest of all rarities. Less than two-dozen occurrences in the entirety of the game’s history and it appeared that perhaps a young Venezuelan pitcher named Armando Galarraga was ushering us to the outer edges of the record book.
Perfection was taking shape before our eyes.
But no one dared speak such hope aloud.
At least not yet.
You don’t ever want to be the one responsible for messing with perfection.
Perfection was taking shape before our eyes.
But no one dared speak such hope aloud.
At least not yet.
You don’t ever want to be the one responsible for messing with perfection.
Fast-forward.
Two innings later.
Six more up and six more down.
Triplet zeros still lined up so nice and pretty.
Now it was all we could talk about.
Detroiters, as much in need of a moment as anyone, held our collective breath as our foreign-born, native son found himself standing just three outs from perfection, and when Tiger centerfielder Austin Jackson chased down a long drive to the deepest part of the outfield, checking off the requisite defensive gem from the list of perfect game ingredients, it appeared that the planets were all aligning.
A new name was about to be etched in the annals of America’s pastime.
Two innings later.
Six more up and six more down.
Triplet zeros still lined up so nice and pretty.
Now it was all we could talk about.
Detroiters, as much in need of a moment as anyone, held our collective breath as our foreign-born, native son found himself standing just three outs from perfection, and when Tiger centerfielder Austin Jackson chased down a long drive to the deepest part of the outfield, checking off the requisite defensive gem from the list of perfect game ingredients, it appeared that the planets were all aligning.
A new name was about to be etched in the annals of America’s pastime.
There he stood, twenty-six straight outs notched on his belt, looking eye-to-eye with baseball immortality. The only thing that stood in perfection’s way was rookie shortstop Jason Donald, dragging his.235 batting average behind him. Donald preceded to hit a slow roller that was scooped up by the first basemen and with Galarraga going over to cover the bag, the entire stadium stood poised to explode into celebration.
The scoop, the toss, the cover, the catch. It was a done deal. Perfection!
The scoop, the toss, the cover, the catch. It was a done deal. Perfection!
First base umpire Jim Joyce signaled the runner safe.
The dream was gone
crushed like a plastic beer cup.
After almost two hours of perfect baseball the number one would become the single blemish between two zeros.
The dream was gone
crushed like a plastic beer cup.
After almost two hours of perfect baseball the number one would become the single blemish between two zeros.
A one hit shutout.
Any other night it would have been heralded as the pitching performance of a lifetime – but not tonight. Tonight all it could do was leave us heartbroken.
Then it went from bad to worse.
Instant replay showed that Joyce had blown the call.
The runner was out.
It wasn’t even that close.
Heartbreak suddenly turned to outrage.
It’s one thing to lose a perfect game on the last at bat–
it’s another to it have stolen right out from under you.
It felt like all hell was about to break lose.
A giant flock of “Boo birds” started circling the stadium.
The benches cleared.
The Tiger manager was letting the errant umpire have it.
There would be demands to reverse the calls.
There would be a push forJoyce to lose his job.
One had to wonder if he would be ale to leave the field that night unharmed.
Instant replay showed that Joyce had blown the call.
The runner was out.
It wasn’t even that close.
Heartbreak suddenly turned to outrage.
It’s one thing to lose a perfect game on the last at bat–
it’s another to it have stolen right out from under you.
It felt like all hell was about to break lose.
A giant flock of “Boo birds” started circling the stadium.
The benches cleared.
The Tiger manager was letting the errant umpire have it.
There would be demands to reverse the calls.
There would be a push forJoyce to lose his job.
One had to wonder if he would be ale to leave the field that night unharmed.
Perfection is elusive.
Gone the moment you think you’ve grasped it.
Maybe that’s what made us most mad.
You do all the right things.
Invest in all the right things.
Go to the right school.
Pay all your bills.
Go to church.
Put your money in the collection plate.
Do everything that is expected of you expecting the perfect life in return.
And here we were getting ripped off again.
This had gone too far.
We were fed up and we were not going to take this anymore!
Gone the moment you think you’ve grasped it.
Maybe that’s what made us most mad.
You do all the right things.
Invest in all the right things.
Go to the right school.
Pay all your bills.
Go to church.
Put your money in the collection plate.
Do everything that is expected of you expecting the perfect life in return.
And here we were getting ripped off again.
This had gone too far.
We were fed up and we were not going to take this anymore!
And just as an umpire in effigy was about to be set a flame three things happened:
An apology.
An acceptance.
And a moment of grace.
A teary-eyed Joyce admitted he blew the call.
In the post game press conference, Galaragga,
who had every right to be resentful and bitter,
was humble and grateful.
And when these two men met at home plate the next day to shake hands,
the hometown crowd stood and cheered.
It was perfect.
In the post game press conference, Galaragga,
who had every right to be resentful and bitter,
was humble and grateful.
And when these two men met at home plate the next day to shake hands,
the hometown crowd stood and cheered.
It was perfect.
Now there is one for the book*.
Such grace! Grace on the part of Galaragga. Grace on the part of Joyce. A moment of grace for all of us to learn from. Thanks for sharing that with us, Jeff.
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