Here is a little story about America's game... Baseball.


Perfection

“Folks, this has been an amazing day, let me tell you. Yessiree, an amazing day. Zane Adams has to throw only six more strikes, that’s right, only six more strikes to cap off the most amazing pitching performance this radio announcer has ever been witness to. I know I keep using the word amazing, but that is what it is, simply amazing! Zane Adams is only six; count them, six strikes away from a perfect game. Not just a perfect game, mind you, but an absolute perfect game. Not only has no one gotten on base, not only has nobody walked, not only has nobody gotten a whiff of a piece of wood on the ball, but Zane hasn’t even thrown a ball. That’s right, not one errant throw. Well, I take that back, there was that one pitch that seemed a little outside, but it was close enough for the batter, Doug Warburton, to take a half-hearted swing at it for a third strike. Nine pitches an inning for the last eight and a third innings! Seventy-five straight strikes. Folks, this game is setting all sorts of records, let me tell you. Not to take anything away from the opposing pitcher, Jimbo Hammacker, but today doesn’t seem to be in the cards for him. Nosiree, Jimbo has pitched what would normally be considered an excellent game, a three hitter with only one run against him, but nobody, nobody in the world could imagine this kind of game from the likes of Zane Adams, not in a million years. In all my years, and I’ve seen more than my share, games that is, not years, I have never seen…”

It started out rather simply. My team, the Portland Penguins, the newest team in the American League, named me as the starting pitcher for the third game of the year. I‘m not what you would call the “star” of the rotation, more like one of the middlemen, the ones who face the “no-stars” on the other team. This has been my role for several years now.

“Another strike, this one a called strike on the inside corner. There’s no question about that one. It was a waist high fastball with a little “hello mama” on it! Zane appears to be still in full command out there, folks, with that spheroid hitting right where he wants it. I know I have seen pitchers throw more pitches by the third inning than Zane has thrown all day today. It’s like he has the batters mesmerized, the umpires, too.”

I felt fine before the game, you know, but nothing special. I didn’t go up to the coach and say “I can feel it in my bones that this is going to be special day.” Nope, none of that. There wasn’t some sick kid in a hospital telling me to “Strike ‘em all out”, either. There weren’t any premonitions about what was going to happen. I just wanted to pitch my best, like every other time I went to the mound.

“Strike two! Wade Emerson sat there with his bat on his shoulder. Not that I blame him, that curve came from nowhere, starting way outside and breaking right across the plate like a fly after leftovers. Only four more strikes and we can close the books on the most awesome spectacle I have ever witnessed. People, if you could only see through the radio what I am seeing now.”

I knew after the first inning that things were different. I was in a groove. I could feel it. By the third inning the guys in the dugout were becoming subdued, no horsing around, nobody leaving to get a drink of water. They avoided me, in fear that they would be the one to break the spell, jinx me. I don’t know, I don’t think anything could have stopped what happened out there.

“I’m having heart palpitations on top of my heart palpitations, here, folks! Wade Emerson gave it a mighty big swing, but it was if the ball had radar or something. He missed by a mile. Strike three, yer out! Coming up is what just might be the last man to face Mr. Adams tonight, the D.H., Gary Dillman. Everybody knows that the D.H. stands for Designated Hitter, but tonight it may as well be D.W. which stands for Designated Whiffer.”

By the time I came out for the seventh inning, even the most obnoxious fans had quieted down. Everybody realized what was going on, from Marty, my catcher, to the guy third from the top row in right field. Maybe even the Penguin mascot.

“This game is going down in history. Speaking of history, I will bet you are wondering about the history of this amazing pitcher, Zane Adams. Well, to be honest with you, there isn’t much history there. He came into the league six years ago with the Nashville Nuggets. He did not have an astounding year, only sixty-nine strikeouts and a five and eight record, just an “Average Joe” type of pitcher. Even last year was nothing spectacular. Nothing like what we are seeing here.”

Everything was working for me. My fastball was sharp, my splitter was crisp, my changeup kept them guessing, and my overhand curve froze them in their tracks. Only in my dreams could a game like this take place, only in my dreams.

“You might as well call me a pony, folks, because I’m a little hoarse from all this screaming. Zane Adams put the first one across the plate right at the knees-- a scorching fastball with lightning on it. Dillman just watched it go by, if he even saw it. The ump saw it, though. Strike one. Seventy-nine straight strikes, only two more to go, only two more. Here’s the next pitch...”

When Dillman hit that pitch in the ninth, I had two sensations. The first one was almost a sense of relief, a relief that this was all over; it wouldn’t be the “Perfect Game”. I could fade into obscurity as the pitcher that “almost” did it. Then, as the ball started going foul, I wasn’t sure if I was rooting for…foul ball and another chance for a strike; fly out and the fame was over, still a perfect game but not “The” perfect game; or maybe we all quit and go home. The other sensation was a very sharp pain radiating from my shoulder to my wrist.

“He called time out, he called time out! How can he do this to me? Oh, the humanity! Zane Adams has one strike to go, only one, and this game is over, this game is History. The coach, Murph “The Smurf” Walker, slowly proceeds to the mound. I wonder what is going through his mind. I would Pay to be a gnat on that mound right now. Gary Dillman is the only batter to get any wood at all on the ball, and that was a little pop foul for his second strike. That bloop foul was just out of the reach of the third baseman, Ricky Price. And then Zane Adams, trying to give me a heart attack here, calls for a time out to talk to his coach. All ya got to do, Zane, is to throw one more strike!”

Murph had a puzzled look on his face when I called for him. You could tell that the last thing he wanted to do was break my rhythm, to interrupt the flow of the game. What he didn’t notice was that I waved him over with my left arm.

“The conference at the mound looks serious, folks. Murph “The Smurf” doesn’t look too happy, not that he ever does. Let me recap this game for you, in case you’ve just tuned in to the most amazing pitching exposition I have ever seen. You have missed the game of the century. Forget that, the game of All Time. Zane Adams is one strike away from the most perfect game ever. Eighty pitches, every one of them a strike! One more strike, one more pitch between the knees and the letters, one more pitch over that plate right down there and it is all over but the shouting. Gary Dillman has to have nerves of steel to wait as patiently as he is right now. There goes the ump to break up the little coffee klatch.”

Murph stood there a minute, looking at me, not sure what to say. “Enjoying yourself out here, kid?”
“Murph, I can’t lift my arm. Something snapped on that last pitch”
“Well, kid, you’re already in the record book. Eighty straight strikes. You can go into the dugout with your head held high. You pitched the best game I have ever seen, ever will see. But if it were me, I’d throw it underarm, I’d throw it left handed, I’d push it over the plate with my nose, anything to get one more strike. Here comes the ump, I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I don’t know what they said out there on that mound, but I do know this: Walker is going back to the dugout, the ump is back behind the plate, and Zane Adams, a name that will go down in history with the likes of Ford, Dean, Ryan, Larson and Johnson, is ready to throw what will hopefully be the last strike. What a ballgame we are having here! You could cut the tension with a knife. Yessiree, I’ll never see another ballgame like this as long as I live. The crowd is standing up but not a peep can be heard. It’s as quiet as a church on Tuesday. Even the peanut man is standing up and waiting for this pitch.”

I threw that last pitch with all I had. Pain shot through my shoulder with an intense flash of heat. The ball went up in the air over twenty feet, arced towards home and bounced four feet from the front of the plate. Why Dillman swung at that pitch, I’ll probably never know. Maybe he swung automatically, hypnotized by the loft of the ball; maybe he didn’t want to go down in history as the man who ruined the “Perfect Game”; maybe he wanted to be a part of something special, someone to be talked about for years to come. I don’t know his reason, but someday I’ll ask him. Maybe…when I can pitch again.

“Here’s the pitch, it’s a high looping…a lob…I don’t know what to call it. It bounces in front of the plate for a ball…no, Dillman swung! Dillman swung at the pitch, it’s a strike, it’s a strike! Strike three! Wait, the ball hit the ground, it’s still alive. Dillman is running to first. Marty Beelman picks up the ball, steps in from of home plate, and throws him out at first. Dillman is out, strike three, the ballgame is over, the ballgame is over! The Perfect Game, the Absolute Perfect Game is over! Oh, I just wet my pants.”