Perfection

If there’s a good thing about Lasky, it’s that he has a hard time falling asleep.  His various manias and existential fears may prevent him from enjoying a productive and fulfilling life, but they intersect perfectly to create a man who can drive all night.

When I woke up we were just outside Chicago.  Lasky had driven straight through the night without so much as a cup of coffee and we were still two hours late for the White Sox game we had been hoping to catch.

The White Sox ballpark is called U.S. Cellular Field, but it will always be The New Comiskey Park to me.

We raced up the tunnel and the crisp green, which always seems greener than should be possible, of the field came into view.   I quickly found the scoreboard to see how much of the game we had missed.  I turned to Lasky and said the bad news was it was already the 6^th.  The good news was Buehrle had a no-hitter going. 

By the time we made it to our seats we realized it wasn’t just a no-hitter. 

There had only been 17 perfect games in the history of baseball.  There was a guy sitting next to me who looked like, and gave off the disconcerting vibe of, an aging gang-banger.  We were on the south side of Chicago after all.  It was pure racial profiling on my part, but he seemed like the kind of guy who had spent more time in his life in jail than out.  Not afraid of anything or anyone.  As hard as they come.  He spent the 8^th and 9^th innings with his hands over his eyes, peeking out between his fingers like a kid cheating at something.   Every one there lived and died with each pitch. 

The first batter of the 9^th inning hit a homerun that didn’t turnout to be one because the center fielder wouldn’t let it be.  The last batter hit a ground ball to short.  Had I been that shortstop I would have been too scared to move.  I would have fallen down and started pissing in my pants.  Know thyself.  I’m not up to a challenge like that and never have been.  But, he was.  They all were.  He picked the grounder cleanly and threw a strike to first.  When you watch a perfect game at home the focus is on the pitcher by virtue of the camera work and historical bias.  Being there you realize Buehrle wasn’t the only one who was perfect that day.  They all were.

After the game we immediately headed to the north side of town, knowing that the anesthetizing effect of the perfect game would only keep the gang-bangers under control temporarily.

We found the perfect place to park the truck for a few days around the corner from Wrigley Field.  This was when the second accident happened.

The parking lot attendant/homeless crack addict was directing Lasky into a spot.  He was waving his hands, bringing us in confidently, but I could tell something was wrong.  He was focusing on the truck’s width, but completely ignoring it’s length and depth.  This was because, in my view, the attendant had the intellectual tools of pony and could only understand the universe one dimension at a time.  I thought about saying something to Lasky, but didn’t.  This was between them. 

A few seconds later we heard a metal on metal screech.  The back of the truck had scraped along a gate and scored a deep cut into the paint.  Lasky flew into a rage.  “Why the hell were you telling me to go?  This is going to come out of my pocket!” He screamed at the attendant, who didn’t seem to know exactly where he was.  “It’s not my fault.”  The attendant muttered.  Lasky stared at him in silence.  Once again, he had been bested. 

We got back in the truck to leave.  Lasky was as angry as I’ve seen him.  He started punching the steering wheel in uncontrollable frustration.  I leaned back and thought about Mark Buehrle, about that catch, and about perfection.  As he pulled out of the lot Lasky slammed his fist into the center of the steering wheel and in anguish wailed “THIS TRIP IS GOING TO COST ME THOUSANDS!!!” over the blaring horn.  I reclined my seat, watched two pigeons fight over a paper bag, and closed my eyes.  Things were looking up.