Almost Famous: Armando Galarraga’s Perfect Game*

Will you go safe with me? I mean out. Will you go out with me?

Last Wednesday, June 2, 2010, Armando Galarraga of the Detroit Tigers made baseball history. He retired 27 batters in a row without allowing so much as a single or a walk. This feat is known as a ‘perfect game,’ and is among the most rare occurrences in baseball, with Galarraga being only the 21st in history to do so. The problem is, Galarraga wasn’t given credit for his perfect game. On what would have been the 27th and final out of the game, first base umpire Jim Joyce called Cleveland Indian’s shortstop Jason Donald safe. Replays show that the play wasn’t even close enough to be considered bang-bang. Donald was out, as they say, by a mile. Unfortunately, baseball doesn’t rely upon video replay except in order to verify home runs. And so, despite what the Tigers players, the Tigers fans, the broadcasters, the other umpires, the entire television audience, and even Donald who seemed to know Galarraga had been robbed, saw, Joyce’s call is the only one that counts.

For his part, Galarraga has behaved admirably. From the moment the call occurred and Galarraga’s chance at perfection was taken away from him, he didn’t yell or argue or hop up and down in Joyce’s face. He actually smiled. No doubt he was in shock. His look betrays a feeling of disbelief, as if to say, ‘You aren’t really going to do this to me, are you?’ But that was it. He was forced to pitch to one more batter, whom he retired to finish what is in the books as a complete game one-hitter.

Joyce too has acted professionally, apologizing to Galarraga, admitting he was wrong, and even shedding tears for costing a young man a chance to go down in history.

It’s odd to think an umpire would feel pressured, that the weight of a situation might get the better of them, but that seems to be what happened. Afterwards Joyce referred to it as ‘the biggest call of [his] career.’ I never thought of it that way before, but it makes sense that umpires, who are baseball fans like any of us, would feel nervous about witnessing history and would consider it a huge deal to be part of a perfect game. What can one do but feel sorry for both Galarraga and Joyce?

Even without the perfect game, history was made. At least for now, Galarraga will be remembered for falling victim to what some journalists have deemed ‘the worst call ever.’ That the perfect game was lost on a botched call is bad enough. That the call occurred on what would have been the final out of the game is heartbreaking.

The aftermath has set off a debate about whether baseball ought to incorporate the use of instant replay to prevent this from happening again. It’s also been suggested that Commissioner Bud Selig overturn the call, nullifying Donald’s hit and the ensuing at-bat and crediting Galarraga with perfection. Frankly I don’t like either of those options. I have another idea—just call it a perfect game anyway.

Over the years the asterisk has been used in MLB record books as a way to differentiate how players’ stats are a reflection of changes in the game. Most famously, Roger Maris’ single-season record of 61 home runs bore this mark because it took Maris 162 games to accomplish what Babe Ruth did in 154.

In 2007, the asterisk was again brought into the public discourse, again concerning a home run, when Barry Bonds slugged number 756 to break the all-time record. The ball was purchased by Mark Ecko and subsequently branded with a red asterisk—a reflection of his belief that Bonds’ had cheated through his alleged steroid use. (It should be noted that Ecko’s actions were not sanctioned by MLB, which had the good sense to distance itself from this spectacle).

An asterisk is typically employed in a text to reflect a word or a number that requires further explanation—in these cases the longer season and the use of steroids respectively. It is used to single out what is viewed as anomalous. By definition, the asterisk usage in both cases is correct. However, I dislike the negative connotation of its denotation. These examples demonstrate what may be termed ‘the asterisk notion,’ that is, by placing the mark next to these statistics the reader is led to believe that they are invalid, that although they may sit atop the list they are not fully recognized as such. In baseball, the asterisk is applied punitively.

Eventually Maris’ asterisk was removed like an ugly mole, but not before he died no doubt believing his accomplishment was never taken seriously as the record. (The fact that it was removed would seem to indicate an admission of guilt on the part of MLB).

However, rather than a way to suggest perceived inferiority, the asterisk has the potential to simply clarify a statistical aberration. I can see how the asterisk might be used to right a wrong, in this instance to award Galarraga his unusual perfect game.

The reason this will work is it doesn’t involve overturning any calls on the part of Selig—a move that many would see as overstepping his authority. And since Joyce has admitted he was wrong, that the out ought to have been recorded, there can be no controversy as to whether the call was made for the sake of history. In his words, he “lost that kid a perfect game.” Lastly, because Galarraga went on to record the final out unscathed he should not be denied his accomplishment due to what amounts to a mistake, especially since the outcome of the game was otherwise unaffected.

With Maris’ home runs, or Bob Gibson’s stellar ERA in 1968, there is a context one can consider that leads us to conclude the worthiness of these feats. It’s true that Ruth hit his home runs in fewer games than Maris. It’s true that Gibson was throwing from an elevated mound during what is now referred to as a ‘golden age of pitching.’ But these details should not stand in the way of what the players achieved. The players’ feats should not be demoted or invalidated for the simple fact that the game and its rules change. The players are the products of their environment. It is our job as students of baseball to know the stories, to understand the contexts, and to argue about who was better than whom. In short, it should not be spelled out for us through the use of accusatory symbols that defame a person's season or career.

So, my proposal is this: list Armando Galarraga as the 21st pitcher in history to throw a perfect game, but leave the asterisk out of it. What Galarraga accomplished should stand on its own with out the tainting effects on an asterisk. Instead the asterisk could go in the box score in order to explain the 'hit' on the books for Jason Donald. So what if it's not, strictly speaking, exactly like every other perfect game? An umpire's mistake should not be able to undo what Galarraga clearly did. Decades from now it won't be anything more than a good trivia question.

Q: How many batters did Armando Galarraga face en route to pitching a perfect game?
A: 28

If Joyce, and everyone else, can see that he was wrong, what is the sense in pretending he wasn’t? In my view, and Jim Joyce’s, Armando Galarraga faced 28 batters and retired them all. All, that is, except one who reached on an umpire’s error*.

* A baseball statistic defined as a play in which (a) an umpire incorrectly interprets the outcome and (b) admits to doing so. Introduced in 2010 after Jim Joyce’s controversial call resulted in the loss of a perfect game bid by Armando Galarraga. The incident also led to a rule change in which the officiating crew was allowed to confer on and overturn close plays. Abbreviated E-U.

Sophomoritis

If Joltin' Joe had just quit when he reached 44, his streak would have been tied by Charlie Hustle

Like DiMaggio, Ripken, and Hershiser before me, my streak is over. Final grade for Pharmacology: 89.25%. In other words, I am no longer a straight-A student.

Last year I began my 7th year of college. I wasn't a great student in the first 6 years, but that was eons ago. I decided to make it count this time. Besides, I would need a 4.0 in my sciences if I wanted to be accepted into the nursing program at UNM. It was literally my only chance. So I busted my hump. I stayed home and studied and read and memorized and turned everything in on time. I became the exceptional student I never was and it felt good.

So, how did this happen? Well, I got accepted into my program at UNM a few weeks ago. I am an alternate for the fall semester, (also known as a fallternate). At the very least, I will begin in January. As someone who never had a science background, this is stupendous news. I am very proud of the work I did, and it puts me on track to complete nursing college a whole year ahead of schedule.

The drawback is that I let my guard down. I didn't sprint to the end of the race. I jogged the last lap, and now I'm paying for it.

None of it matters of course. They're not going to revoke their offer. I am still going to do this the way I wanted to do it. But I feel like I let someone down. I didn't show tenacity. I kind of gave up, and I knew it too. I got a low grade on my previous test because I didn't work hard. I didn't put the time in. It forced me to have to get an almost perfect score on my final exam, and I couldn't do it. I got an A on the final, but it wasn't enough. In other words, I got what I deserved. I earned that B.

I'm not telling you this for your pity. I'm not being melodramatic. I am only stating the hard truth that I am not among the elite 4.0 students anymore, and no matter how hard I fight I will never get there again. Math is funny that way...

One final to go and I don't plan to make the same mistake. Heading into the next phase of education, this may have been a good wake-up call. Now I remember how it feels to underperform. Now I will stay hungry. Time to start a new streak.

Now That I'm 29...

6 Things I Might Never Get Around To Doing:

1. Play major league baseball

2. Go on at least one international rock’n’roll tour

3. Get referred to as a national treasure

4. Write screenplays with endings

5. Scarlett Johansson

6. Heroin

God I Hope Outer Space Wins

Artist's Rendering of What a Bunch of Jerks We Are

Since Barry Bonds shattered the all-time home run record, the recipient of the ball has put it up for auction. It reportedly sold yesterday for $750,000. I suppose that's a lot, but who can say? I've lost all context for value. Anyway, the smart aleck who purchased it set up a web site to "democratize the debate over what to do with it." I didn't realize there was a debate, but hey, I'm not trying to create a media circus to prop myself up.

If you go to this site, you are presented with a pretty straightforward selection process. You can choose either:

A) To send the ball to Cooperstown as is.
B) To brand the ball with an asterisk, and then send the ball to Cooperstown.
C) Shoot the ball into outer space.

I must admit, when I first heard about this stunt I was pretty annoyed. I went to the site fully intending to vote for choice A (although C is by far the best option). Why keep dragging this media nightmare out? Even without the asterisk, the ball will forever carry the tainted memories of what had to be the longest years of Bonds' life. Even in Cooperstown, even among the other giants, that ball will be remembered as much for its place in history as its place in the op-ed columns. We don't need some jerk who calls himself a baseball fan to remind us of what our game has gone through in recent times. Why alter such a significant piece of the game's history?

And then something really special happened: I changed my mind.

As I went to submit my vote I decided, very suddenly, to vote for the asterisk. Perhaps I will regret it. It was a snap decision. But I decided that many years from now, when tempers have cooled, and maybe we even have a new home run king, that people will be able to speak of Bonds as one of the all-time greatest baseball players again. Like Maris before him, the humiliating punctuation mark that diminished what he was able to do will lose out to the sheer weight of the number 756.

And what then of our little ball that we collectively voted to brand?

Over time, it will be the asterisk that diminishes. It will change from a symbol of rage and disillusionment into part of baseball lore, nothing more. Unaccompanied by the hotheads who have criminalized Bonds, it will no longer be the Scarlett Letter forever calling Bonds a cheater, but a record of our time when baseball was under a lot of scrutiny, and reality TV and YouTube and interactive media were reshaping the way we express ourselves.

Most of all, I think that we will grow to be ashamed of what we put Bonds through--after all, he is only an entertainer, and baseball is only a game. But there the asterisk will still be, a reminder to future generations of what we had become: a bunch of raving lunatics and mean people who confused the right to vote with the ability to decide.

That seemed just as pertinent as the home runs. That seemed like something I should vote for.

Make your vote by September 25th.
www.vote756.com