Almost Perfect

 "Almost Perfect" was the headline in the San Francisco Chronicle's Sporting Green this past Saturday. My entire weekend was, in fact, almost perfect. Don't go getting all negative on me and focus on the "almost" qualifier; that would peg you, dear reader, as the skeptic you just might be. It was a wise woman who once told me, "If perfection was our goal, we'd better have Plan B ready to go..." It's somewhat of the old "Is your glass half-empty, or is it half-full?" concept.

Perfection is a suspect state of achievement, it's a monologue. Tell your friends that you've found "the perfect man (or woman)," and they will smile through their supportive platitudes: "How nice, " Good for you," or even "That's fantastic! Tell me all about it.'.." You do realize what they're really thinking: "Good ahead, tell me more; I'll prick your balloon, if you'll just give me some ammo to do the job..."

"Almost perfect" is a more tantalyzing concept which creates a convivial dialogue. It's an invitation for your confidant to participate, using their own imagination for alternate scenarios that aspire to the ever-elusive concept known as perfection. Tell someone that your day was perfect, and their body language is some variation on "How nice...for you." Share a tale of how it was almost perfect, and they respond "I know what you mean..." or "that reminds me of the time..."

That particular Chronicle headline referred to a San Francisco Giants baseball game last Friday night. An unheralded pitcher with a very thin resume, Yusmeiro Petit, was on the mound for the home team. Our defending World Champion Giants have fallen far from grace this season, but thanks to an extremely high number of season ticket holders like me, they still sell out every single game.  The atmosphere is always festive. With a revolving cast of 41,000-plus San Francisco personalities, how could it not?

I was there with my lovely bride Melissa, and one of my favorite couples in the world, Barbara and Don. They are an almost perfect couple, smart, attractive, witty, charming--the epitome of grace blended with a wry sense of humor. Barbara was my German teacher more than forty years ago, Don has been been her almost-perfect husband for nearly a decade longer. I smile every moment we're together, often laughing to the point of tears many times over.

Time flies when we're together; it was the end of the fifth inning before I realized I hadn't even gotten my Crazy Crab sandwich yet --or realized that no Diamondback batter had safely reached first base, not even once. Could we be on the verge of a no-hitter or even--dare I think it--a perfect game? It was 78 degrees at nine p.m. on the shores of San Francisco Bay--so anything seemed possible.

A no-hitter in baseball is not quite as rare as it used to be. Tim Lincecum is the Giants two-time Cy Young Award-winner now in his third straight disappointing season--yet he summoned the old magic to throw his first no-hitter just this past July in San Diego. It was the Giants' fourth no-hitter in their 56 years in San Francisco. I had penciled-in plans to be at that game, too, before we settled on a Giants-Padre game in May instead. I was almost there...

A perfect game remains a very rare instance in baseball, there have only been fourteen in all of major league history. The pitcher must face only three batters each of his nine innings. Not one hit, not one walk, no errors by his supporting team members. Twenty-seven at bats, twenty-seven outs. Perfection. The other eight players behind the pitcher must also perform perfectly, which usually means a diving catch or three, perhaps an incredible throw to get a batter in the nick of time, and often the victor benefits from many close calls by the umpire. As the innings grind on, tension builds in AT&T Park, the cheering and applause reach a tremendous crescendo, amazingly greater with each out in the ninth inning as the elusive prospect of perfection nears. A smattering of the competition's fans are thinking "Oh, no...." but even those precious few among the tens of thousands of patrons feel their stomachs tighten with the realization that they are in the presence of history being made. I know; I was there.

The San Francisco Giants have only ever had one perfect game. It happened at AT&T Park, Giants vs. the Houston Astros on June 13, 2012, just last year. My wife had to work, so I brought three of my very best friends, Mike, Keith and Jesus. They are arguably the most ardent Giants fans among my acquaintances. Matt Cain, a long-time Giants stalwart sometimes called "the horse," was on the mound. Cain is a solid pitcher with tremendous potential and many nearly-great seasons at the stadium by the Bay. But on that June evening, he was simply perfect.

"Oh, how nice (for you)" is what most of my family and friends said (and thought) when I shared my good fortune. "I was almost at that game, too" was a common response, as my listeners reached to connect with my experience, which is truly the point. The joy of spectator sports is not (with no apologies to Vince Lombardi) winning, or achieving perfection. It is the shared experience of a plethora of fellow humans, friends and strangers alike, sharing the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. The many become amost one. Cheering, slapping high fives with that loud jerk behind you, getting hugged by the old lady who spilled your beer in the third inning. Massive, unified human joy; it is truly almost perfect.

On a very warm night last Friday, a somewhat anonymous young pitcher named Petit filled in for an injured Matt Cain and almost made history. After eight innings of play, he had faced only twenty-four batters; the Arizona Diamondbacks had made twenty-four consecutive outs. There were scintillating strikeouts, spectacular catches, close plays and tremendous efforts by every player pursuing victory. The frustrated Diamondbacks were intense in their efforts to stave off a humiliating defeat. The entire crowd stood for the ninth inning, cheering every strike, groaning at every called ball. The twenty-fifth batter failed to reach base, as did he twenty-sixth. Then the final batter, the twenty-seventh, stepped to the plate.

It was a pinch-batter, Eric Chavez, former Oakland A, a man familiar to many of these Bay Area sports fans, a fresh hitter. We all hung on each and every pitch; cameras flashed, people chanted "Let's go, Gi-ants!" On a 1-2 pitch, Petit fired a gem--strike three! But no, the umpire called ball two. Who could blame him? To end a perfect game on a borderline called third strike? Not kosher. Petit took the ball and fired again--ball three! It was now a full count, three balls and two strikes with two men out. The next pitch could be a heart-breaking hit, or an ignoble ball four to end the streak--or perhaps, perfection. The din was now deafening, the fan to my right grabbed my arm in a panic, the stadium crowd hung in the balance between utter elation and bitter disappointment. Petit reared and fired, the batter swung and connected--and the ball trickled foul.

Barbara clutched my other arm. My wife's face was ashen, Don clapped resolutely. Feet stomped, screams, whistles and chants reached yet another crescendo; Petit fired, Chavez swung, the ball cracked off the bat and sailed toward right field, then fell precipitously; Hunter Pence, our steady right fielder dashed forward in an all-out  sprint, and dove...the crowd roared as he tumbled--the ball was in his mitt! But those of us along the third base line had seen the ball bounce into Pence's glove, it had been an almost-perfect catch, the batter was safe on first.

Petit easily retired the twenty-eighth batter and the 3-0 victory was ours, a glorious one-hitter. The fountains sprayed, the fans gave the team a standing ovation, and the sound of Tony Bennett's recorded voice warbled "I Left My Heart in San Francisco" over the loudspeakers just as it does with every other win.

My buddy Mike texted me from his Man Room: The odds of being @ two perfectos seemed just too ridiculous. So close. Who is this guy?

Strangers greeted me as we climbed the stairs, singing along with Tony Bennett, slapping high fives, "We almost had it!" "Wasn't that awesome?"

It was. it was almost perfect.

~

I'd love to hear your your stories about the joys of almost-perfect experiences--let me know!