The Game I Almost Missed

Every historic game begins as just another game on the schedule

Safeco Field was the perfect place to spend a sunny August afternoon. A friend of mine had texted me early that Wednesday and asked if I wanted to go with him to the Mariners game. That 2012 Mariners team was, to put it lightly, not very good. I was not yet a full-blown Mariners fan, but I always rooted for them as long as they weren’t playing either the Red Sox or the Mets. That afternoon seemed like the ideal day to skip out of work and head to the ballpark.

I didn’t go. I don’t remember why. I don’t remember if there was a meeting or a project or a deadline at work. I don’t remember if I was just feeling antisocial that day or, still in the grips of addiction at the time, if I was simply in some sort of state. None of it really matters. I didn’t go. It was August 15, 2012. While I sat in my office, Félix Hernández threw the 23rd perfect game in the history of Major League Baseball.

I had the game on in the background at work, and it became increasingly clear as the game went on what was happening. By the seventh inning, the small screen wasn’t enough for me, and I slipped across the street to the bar to watch the final three innings. I erupted in joy as King Félix ended his masterpiece with a strikeout. Needless to say, I was overcome with excitement for what I’d just witnessed on television, and with regret that I had turned down the chance to see it in person.

This past week, I was in Michigan for a few days for work. My work takes me all over the country, and whether I’m in a major league town or one with a minor league franchise, I always check to see if there’s baseball that evening. This past Tuesday, I wrapped up a successful training and decided to head downtown to watch the Tigers play the Orioles. I’ve often told people that while I may be a diehard Mariners fan today, I will always be a baseball fan first. It doesn’t matter who’s playing. If baseball is happening, I would love to be watching.

Truth be told, I almost didn’t go. I’d taken a redeye into town the night before and spent all day Tuesday training. While I was in a tremendous mood and felt the day had been a success, I was quite tired. The slipped disc in my back was bothering me, and the idea of lying in bed and getting off my feet was awfully inviting. But knowing I’d have a good time either way and having a somewhat higher than usual hankering for a ballpark hot dog, I decided to make the trip downtown. I also happened to have my baseball scorebook in my bag, so I grabbed it and thought scoring the game would be a relaxing way to spend the evening.

I settled into my seat, which for some reason I had been able to get for around $15 despite being on field level. The Orioles were slightly closer to the Mariners in the standings, so I opted to be a Tigers fan for the evening.

I’m glad I went.

The Tigers won 14-0, but something special happened that night, and honestly, I was surprised it wasn’t talked about more during the game. They scored in every inning they came to bat. I knew that was rare, but I wasn’t exactly sure how rare. In the seventh inning I looked it up, and when the Tigers scored again in the bottom of the eighth, it marked just the 22nd time in baseball history that a team had scored in every inning it batted. Even more remarkable, it was only the second time in history that a team had scored in every inning it came to bat and also shut out its opponent. The last time it happened was September 6, 1935, when the Pittsburgh Pirates beat the Brooklyn Dodgers 13 to 0.

In the Uber back to my hotel, I found myself thinking about the decision not to go to Félix’s perfect game. Games in which rare or historic things take place don’t announce themselves beforehand. You don’t buy a ticket expecting history to happen. Every historic game begins as just another game on the schedule.

When Félix had taken to the mound that August afternoon back in 2012, the Mariners were nearly ten games under .500 and fourteen games out of first place. Nothing that happened that afternoon was likely to affect a pennant race the Mariners were never expected to be part of. And yet there were 21,000 people who, unlike me, had said yes.

Maybe that’s what told me to say yes in Detroit. Or maybe I said yes because it was a Tuesday evening, I had nothing else to do, and there was baseball to be watched. Most of the time, the games we go to don’t become stories we tell for years to come. But simply by saying yes and heading out to the ballpark, you give yourself a chance to see something special.