A perfect situation

The sports world is abuzz about the blown call at first base that denied a perfect game by Detroit pitcher Armando Gallaraga the other night.

It’s a fascinating little situation – a microcosm of human failure (ironically, within the context of something we call perfection), an exercise in forgiveness, and a couple fine examples of human dignity in the face of our predilection for failure.

One angle that I find surprising: the wide cry for making the situation “right” by “awarding” Galarraga a perfect game or by “officially” saying that the runner was out.  Mike Greenberg on ESPN’s Mike and Mike in the Morning was arguing for this pretty vehemently. Keith Olberman suggested the commissioner should step in immediately and “give” Galaragga a perfect game.  Let’s reverse the call!  The commissioner should declare that the runner was out!  Let’s give the guy a perfect game!  He was robbed!  We have “negated his place in baseball history”!

But here’s what I wonder: while the call was wrong, how would retroactively changing the call or “awarding” the guy a perfect game now do anything to change what happened?  Because here’s the thing: the stuff that happened has already happened. Umpire Jim Joyce already made a mistake; calling the runner out now won’t change the fact that he did.  He’s owned up to it, he’s made amends with Galarraga, and he should be forgiven.  Great!

And Galaraga already pitched well enough and his defense played well enough that if the umpire had made a proper call, he would have record a perfect game.  That’s been pretty clearly established.  Changing the official record won’t make it more or less true.

So what is it that we want changed?  Do we just want to say that the guy threw a perfect game?  Fine: every one of us can go ahead and say it.  We all know what happened.  Calling it an “official” perfect game will do absolutely nothing to change what happened or how we remember what happened.

As for memories, as for a place in history: I’d say this game is now actually more memorable, more historically significant than most other “ordinary” perfect games, because of these circumstances. It’s like the Harvey Haddix game: a game that baseball history will remember well, no matter what we call it.  Because at this point, anything MLB would do is mere clerical work, which will neither affect what actually happened, nor affect the future of anyone involved.

No, I think we should stop worrying about trying to somehow make it a perfect game, retroactively.  Instead, let’s worry about telling the story properly.  When we describe the history of perfect games in baseball, there’s no reason we can’t say “And on June 2, 2010, less than a month after Dallas Braden and Roy Halladay pitched perfect games of their own, Armando Galarraga pitched a game in which the only runner who reached base did so with 2 outs in the ninth inning on a blown call by the first base umpire.  Galarraga promptly retired the following batter– in effect pitching a 28-out perfect game.”

Isn’t that reasonable?  Isn’t that easy?    Didn’t I in fact just do that, in two quick sentences?

Purple, Like a Bruise

Rationally, I know a professional football game doesn’t actually matter. Rationally, I know that my wonderful wife, my happy kids, my satisfying career, and the abundance of love and opportunity that fill my days mean I don’t know real misery from a Mr. Misty.  The long list of sorrows in this world features Haitian babies left parentless, not the results of professional football games. Yeah, rationally, I get this. And so I spend 95% of my life gliding along in thankfulness, optimism, and patience. I’m a blessed guy, I know it, and (usually) I act like it.

But rationality is the last thing on my mind on Sunday afternoons in the fall and winter, when the Minnesota Vikings take the field.  Those hours are the full-moon, funhouse 5% of my time, when my brain careens toward the irrational, when I turn impatient and childish, and when my priorities reset themselves in ways even I don’t expect.  The swings of emotion I feel during these games are uncomfortably broad, like I’m a toddler or a dog.  A great play shoots me to the ceiling; a turnover crumbles me in my chair.  The Vikes beating Dallas last week mattered to me, in a way it rationally shouldn’t.  And the Vikes losing to New Orleans on Sunday mattered to me, in a way it rationally shouldn’t.

The first Vikings game I remember watching was the Super Bowl against the Raiders in January of 1977.  I was 6 years old.  They lost; I cried.  With that loss, I was initiated into a tradition of trying but not quite succeeding, of striving but not quite reaching. Of failure. I’ve cared about so many players since then. Some are superstars; some aren’t. None have celebrated a championship for the Vikings.  I remember getting an autograph from Rickey Young at a mall in the late 1970s: he briefly became my favorite player.  I have cheered for Matt Blair and Matt Birk. For both McDaniels, Ed and Randall. For Leo and Greg Lewis, for Anthony and Cris (and even Tyrone) Carter, and for speedy receivers like Terry LeCount, Hassan Jones, Qadry Ismail, and Matthew Hatchette (though never for Troy Williamson).  I’ve watched Scott Studwell beget Jack Del Rio beget Ed McDaniel beget EJ Henderson.  Other favorites: Tommy Kramer. Sammy White. Chris Doleman. John Randle. Randy Moss. Gulp: Korey Stringer. These people have mattered to me, even though they are people to whom I do not matter.

In recent years, since suffering the deep puncture wound of the 1998 season and the 41-donut game of the 2000 season, I have taken to saying, proudly, “the Vikings have run out of ways to break my heart.”  I thought maturity had inoculated me against their pointless pain; I thought I had outfoxed them by outgrowing them.  I’ve still watched every game and followed every offseason move, of course, but for the last several years I had let the burdens and pleasures of my mature life put some distance between the Vikings and my heart.

And so it proceeded until this season, when the Vikes enacted a genius ploy: they convinced an archenemy, Brett Favre, to become their hero.  Brilliant!  Subversive!  Favre had been to two superbowls and won one as our rival.  He was a player Minnesotans all privately admired and publicly loathed.  And now we would make him ours?  What a phenomenal idea!  He was untainted by our losses, was beyond our purple stink, had years of experience being the unViking.  Again: How brilliant!  Favre, a gunslinger from titletown, might have the silver bullet which could break our curse.  And when Favre led our purple to victory over his old Packers twice, I found myself again wearing my lucky, dirty Vikes hat, and I consciously plunged in for the rest of this season: if this was the year they finally slew the beast, I wanted to be fully a part of it.

Then came Sunday’s championship game against the Saints, four hours of bayou madness. This game unfolded as a tempting smile, followed by a ruthless punch to the gut, followed by a traitor’s kiss, ending with a knockout club to the brain and a 40-yard stake through the heart. I don’t know if it was worse than the Atlanta game 11 years ago, but it was definitely less rational.   It felt like chaos, in the old, Greek sense of an ancient time and place devoid of order.  Nothing made sense. Moving the ball down the field resulted in turnovers rather than touchdowns.  Recovering a muffed punt near the goal line preceded heartbreak, not glory.  The pretty stat line of our superman (Peterson had three touchdowns and 120 yards: isn’t that exactly what we wanted?) only made his fumbles seem a more potent kryptonite. And the final drive towards the game winning field goal was negated by the dumbest penalty imaginable followed by the hero’s dumbest throw imaginable.  As for the overtime: screw effort and talent; we’ll let a coin toss, some uncertain video replays, and the leg of a slacker kicker decide our fate.  If that all sounds senseless, it’s because it all was senseless.

The kids just before Sunday's heartbreak.

The kids just before Sunday’s heartbreak.

I watched the game at my sister’s house, with 13 other members of my family, while keeping in touch with other friends and family via phone, text message, twitter, and facebook.  Any outsider would laugh at the way our purple-clad band really tried to participate in the outcome, through a combination of celebration, a delicious nacho bar, social networking, and voodoo.  My brother coordinated the seating positions of his nieces to ensure the best luck. My 13-year old daughter entwined her own blond hair with the yellow yarn of her Helga horns.  Another daughter turned her jersey turned inside out in rally jersey mode.  At one point I got this text message from my brother in Chicago: “I’m about to pass out; my vision is starting to get blurry.”  The Scherschligts are a family of faith and reason, Lutherans to the core, with enough diplomas to wallpaper the Superdome, and yet we turned to witchcraft and hexes in order to influence the outcome of a game taking place 1200 miles down the river.  None of this magic worked; of course it didn’t.

This championship game dealt a blow to the funhouse brain, proving what the rational brain knows at any time but on Sunday afternoons: that none of this actually matters, and the pleasure and the pain of professional sports are ephemeral.  Purple is not only the color of royalty and the Vikings, it’s the color of a bruise, spreading and diseased, like the one I imagine is now covering Favre’s ankle. (Seriously: how was that high-low hit on him legal?  Isn’t diving at the QB’s lower legs exactly what the new Tom Brady rule was supposed to outlaw?)  It’s tempting to talk about a curse, but that’s the opposite of the truth.  There isn’t a curse.  Rally jerseys don’t work.  Wearing the same socks from one week to another does nothing but entertain the kids.  Tails and heads are random outcomes.  Heck, I wish there were a curse — curses can be broken by the right counter-spell.  This has no counter-spell.  This was just another small failure in a large universe that doesn’t care about football.

My own son – who loves the Vikings — is almost 6, about the same age I was when the Vikes last appeared in a Super Bowl, that first game I can remember watching. He watched this week’s game while wearing his Adrian Peterson t-shirt and playing with his cousins.  He was sad that they lost, but certainly not crushed.

I hope that means this won’t become the first game he remembers.  I hope he forgets this one.

I wish I could.