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Perfection: In Retrospect.

You know it's a good moment when you feel like the credits are about to roll in a John Cusack movie.

Every sound drowns out as white noise and every movement seems to be in slow motion--especially in retrospect.

Allow me to set the scene:

I'm at my desk in Manhattan's Midtown East--a stone's throw from the Chrysler Building. The amount of work I have in front of me is suffocating. My desk is another area FEMA hasn't yet gotten to. I have publisher contracts, terms & conditions documents, notes, to-do lists, and empty bags of delivered deli sandwiches.

The game is in the top of the 6th and I'm using a supervisor's MLB.tv password, watching the game on "Mini View" positioned on the lower right hand corner of my screen, scrolling through the box score to get caught up. "God Dammit," I thought to myself, "I need to put the day games into my Outlook calendar." I always forget about day games until about an hour after first pitch. I remember them when I first sit down to my desk in the morning, but I never seem to be able to keep the thought around the time the game's set to start. As I scroll through the box score, I'm seeing a string of zeros that I need to double check.

Numbers are about 73% of my day in Excel. Check the formulas, check the format, make sure everything lines up, make sure nothing stands out, each row of numbers tells a story. The story in this string of zeros in the box score through 5.2 innings isn't something I've ever seen before while looking at the box score to see how the game's been going. No hits. Seveteen at-bats for the Rays, no hits. Errors? I scroll down to the Sox defensive notes below the offensive stats. None. No Errors. "Alexei must be awake this afternoon," I said to myself. Holy Shit! The White Sox have a perfect game going. Who's pitching? It's Buerhle. Wait... Buerhle?

He's been the Sox's staff ace for 8 years now. I remember seeing him as a rookie in 2000 in the ALDS against Seattle, a series in which the Sox were swept. He hasn't changed much since. In fact, the only thing about Mark Buerhle that has changed is his now-I-have-it-now-I-don't facial hair (remember 2002's mutton chop sideburns? yeesh... And, yes, I had them too. Eventually.) and his habit of sliding on the tarp covering the infield during rain delays (a habit broken by threats of $5,000 fines from the front office). Mark Buerhle is the Everyman. He's such a relatable, regular guy that nobody ever gives him his due. Even I, the South Siders' biggest ambassador in New York when Obama's not in town, seem to glance over Buerhle when thinking of my Sox. And you know what? That's by design. That's exactly how Buerhle wants it. He takes the mound once every five days and follows a robotic pattern: rock into motion, pitch into the strike zone, and catch the return throw from the catcher. Rock, pitch, catch. Rock, pitch, catch.

Back to the top of the 6th: Kapler's up. I can never count Kapler out of anything. He's a stubborn son of a gun. Somebody told this guy he's too old to play. Somebody else set him up as a manager of a minor league team. What happens next? He says, "Screw these punk kids in the minors. I got somethin' else to give." Now he's in the second season of his second career as a big league ball player. Disney made "The Rookie" one Ray too early.

Kapler grounds out to Boy Wonder Gordon Beckham at third: 5-3. Six innings perfect. It's still early though. There's still 3 more innings. That's one full swing through the line-up that includes 5 All-Stars (Pena, Longoria, Zobrist, Crawford, and Bartlett). Three more perfect innings is a lot to ask for from a guy that hopes--no,wants--you to hit the ball.

Bottom of the sixth. I have a meeting about a presentation for a campaign not set to launch until September. I sit through a re-group itching to get back to my desk to see what happens with Buerhle. Does he close or does flirting with the perfecto end at rubbing the small of its back? Meeting over. Perfect.

I get back to my computer, wake up my screen, put in my password just in time to see Gordon pop out to Pena at first to end the inning. But I don't care. I've already filed through the highlights of Josh Fields' grand slam (See what you did there, Josh? Job well done, sir. That's called hitting and we'd like to do be able to do it at a consistent clip. Thanks.) Great. Inning over, now let's get to the good stuff.

I scramble for my headphones during the commercial break between innings. "Hawk has got to be going nuts. I'll bet he's vibrating in his seat and Stoney is just wondering how the hell he could be sitting next to such a impartial homer of a Sox fan," I say to nobody in particular. Nobody outside Chicago knows or appreciates the greatness of listening to a Hawk Harrelson in the booth during a game. You don't feel like you're watching the game having to deal with intermittent comments about this pitch, what the manager said about that player, or any of that nonsense. No, you're watching the game with your overexcited old friend, uncle, grandfather. You're watching the game with somebody who shares your passion for the Good Guys--somebody who's heart is as black as yours during the summer.

Found 'em. Earbuds go from my iTouch to my computer. And, yes, as I expected (hoped?), Hawk can barely contain himself. First batter of the inning, B.J. Upton. I don't care how much he struggles, he's nasty. And I'm willing to bet at this point, he's reeling to redeem himself for misplaying Alexei's line drive the night before. Not this time, B.J. grounds out to Alexei. 6-3. 8 outs to go.

Carl Crawford: Changeup right back at ya, Mark. 1-3. 7 outs to go.

The crowd's really getting into now. Every strike, every foul ball: it's all the most anticipated event of the day. In fact, I don't think I can handle this. I have enough work to keep me busy for the next millenia. I have approximately 175 unread emails sitting in my inbox. I really do have to get this stuff done, though. I don't want to create more work for my team as a result of my watching a perfect game that can very possibly still go sour any minute. But when will this ever happen again? I don't know. I can't predict things like this. My grandfather went an entire lifetime without having seen a White Sox World Series Winner. Nope, can't do it. I'm watching every second of this god damn game. Work's going to be there for the next 60 years of my life; perfect games and no hitters happen to your team once or twice in your life if you're lucky.

Evan Longoria: One pitch. Changeup. One can-of-corn fly ball to Jermaine Dye in right. 7 innings of perfect baseball.

I end up straying back to my Outlook to see if anybody's freaking on an "ASAP" basis. Blow it out your ass, ASAP. You'll get your deliverables, I'll hit my deadlines. Just work with me here. I answer 3 emails, organize 2 powerpoint slides, and manage to escape to take a leak so I won't have to miss any of the 8th or 9th.

I'm so excited that I can't handle it. My stomach's tighter than the OTHER Jay Cutler. The bodybuilding Jay Cutler. I haven't had a feeling this tight in my stomach since high school when, you know, I wasn't 25 pounds of beer and chicken wings. Without thinking, I commit the cardinal sin. I'm going straight to baseball fandom hell. "Hey, Buerhle's perfect through 7." And to the next guy, "Buerhle's perfect through 7." And to the VP of Research who knows everything there is to know about baseball, "Hey, Brad, Mark Buerhle is pitching into the 8th. Hasn't let a runner reach first. No hits, no walks."

Brad won't ever know it, but he's getting the call from the bullpen today. Dad couldn't make it to New York on such short notice. Brad's getting the spot start as the closest thing I can relate to as family. "Buerhle's got a perfect game going? Aw, come on, Will, I don't care about those Pale Hose," he says with a young man's antagonistic smirk on an old advertising VP man's face. "Let me turn on the radio. You can sit in my office and listen." I love this guy. "Man, act like I don't got this game on my computer taking up the full screen right now. Come on over, Brad. It's about to get wild over here." He lets out a knowing laugh. "My mistake, Will. How could I call you into question like that."

I forgot to take my piss. Jesus Christ... The game's back on and I've got a crowd around my desk. Three guys from the other side of the office floor, the guy who sits kitty corner to my desk, and a mix of people who pass by my desk but get tractor beamed back, I imagine, by the crowd hovering at my desk and what ends up being on the screen. A couple of women unhook themselves after they find out "it's only baseball". Thanks for coming, but this wasn't meant for you anyways. A couple others stay, "A perfect game? That's all strikes, right? I only know Randy Johnson did it like 2 years ago or something." Fair enough, A for effort. Please stay. Enjoy this with me.

The bottom of the 7th passes with my co-workers asking me to fill them in as if I've been watching the whole game. I haven't, but I talk like I do. After all, I've seen the highlights, right? The volume of the game is on my speakers now. No more earbuds, this is getting full volume. My dad ends up calling me, "Did you hear? We're trying to get it on the TV, but I don't think we have cable." He's always amazed when I tell him that I'm watching the game, or listening to it, at work. "They let you get away with that?" It's as if I'm stealing from the vault at Fort Knox. My brother IMs me. He pulls odd jobs and random tasks for one of the people in my dad's office. It's not a career choice, it's just a place to be online to bullshit with his older brother and his friends on AIM. He tells me they can't get the game on the TV because A.) the company doesn't have cable set up and B.) WhiteSox.com, MLB.com, ESPN.com, et al are all blocked. Nobody can see this unless they file into a bar on Clark St in downtown Chicago, which is funny because imagine how the office came to find out about it when the people coming in from the bars on Clark St came to talk--too many non-sequiturs and discrepancies to talk about here. If you're watching a PERFECT GAME over a Liquid Lunch on a Thursday, why go back to the office? You smell like booze and you're only thinking about the perfect game, right? Just go back to the bar and then go home.

Top of the 8th. I'm still on the phone with my dad, crowd's still around my desk. Here's where it starts to get surreal.

I can hear people talking behind me, almost as if I'm not there, while I'm on the phone with my old man.

"Look at this kid... he's gonna lose it with 2 outs in the 9th and we're just gonna move on. This is the biggest thing of his summer and we're sitting here trying to figure out how we forgot Chicago has two teams?"

"Yeah, really. I don't even like baseball. I just know that a perfect game is a big deal, I guess. Look at him. On the phone with Dad, his AIM's blowin' up all orange. This is pretty cool for him, I guess. I'm actually pretty jealous."

"Okay, Will." The voices are directed at me now. "Enough with the small talk with Dad, close the IMs, maximize the game. What are you doin' here?"

"Hey, Dad?" I say, "Lemme call you back in a bit. I got a crowd of anxious New Yorkers to deal with here."

First Up, Carlos Pena. His stats show up across the screen. 24 HRs? Jesus, this guy's a monster. Glad I drafted him in fantasy. But to hell with my "High School Never-Weres" ESPN.com fantasy team. I'm watching a fantasy right this second. First pitch to Pena, called strike. The crowd at the Cell cheers nervously with excitement. I'm getting chills and my right starts bouncing (I get antsy when I get worked up. You won't see it in my face, you'll see it building in my right leg. If you see it in my face, it's already too late. I'm about to snap.) It doesn't matter how quickly Buerhle works here. Each pitch, each stall between his rocking into motion, his pitching, and the umpire's call all culminate into held breaths and exhales mixed of relief, torture, and anticipation for the next pitch.

Second pitch to Pena: Changeup fouled off. OH, MAN! Did he just miss that, I thought.

Third pitch: STEEEEE! Pena goes down looking on a fastball on the outside corner, belt high. In other words, Pena looked at a meatball. He should have put that ball into Indiana. He knows it. Tail between his legs, Pena goes back to the dugout.

Ben Zobrist. I love this guy too. Goes about his business; and business is good. I'm nervous.

First pitch curveball fouled off. Ball. Foul ball for strike 2. Ball 2. Ball 3. Zobrist fouls out to Gordon Beckham on a changeup.

Two outs in the eighth. This is happening. It's going to happen. No way can he just let it go from here.

Pat Burrell. New to Tampa this year after a World Series Championship in Philadelphia and a career of underachieving.

Changeup called strike 1. YEAH, BABY! Here we go! Slider is absolutely RIPPED just barely foul of the left field line. It's so close to ruining everything that the ball spun around the umpire up the line. Any closer and it would have had been up to the home plate umpire to make the call. Thankfully, replays showed the 3rd base umpire to have seen it before his less than graceful twirl. Foul ball. Honest to God, that just felt like the final scene in Rookie of the Year when that guy who looked like Ogre from Revenge of the Nerds hammered the pitch from Hen-hen-ree-ree Row-ow-wen-wen-gard-gard-ner-ner-ner.

After everybody's settled down, Buerhle throws a fastball for ball 1. Fastball fouled off. Changeup fouled off. 1-2 count. Ball 2. 2-2. Changeup low and away softly lined to Beckham. Still perfect. Even more nervous. Jesus Christmas! Your mother fries good eggs!

Bottom of the 8th, the conversations continue. "I can't watch this. I don't know what you want from me... I blame my parents for making me a typical utterly neurotic New York Jew." My, that's a revealing statement. I'm going to leave that alone.

"CALL YOUR SONS! CALL YOUR DAUGHTERS! CALL YOUR FRIENDS! CALL YOUR NEIGHBORS! MARK BUERHLE HAS A PERFECT GAME GOING INTO THE 9TH!" ugh... Hawk said the same thing when Gavin Floyd had a no-hitter going last season against Detroit. Floyd ended up giving up a hit almost as soon as Hawk dropped that line. I swear to God if the same happens here...

The bottom of the 8th isn't much. Nobody cares. The Sox had already put up 5 runs. The game is won, but the perfect game remains. Oh, Carlos Quentin? You're back? Nice! Turn it on for us in the second half, big guy.

The camera's on Buerhle in the dugout. He's not by himself... no, this isn't the YES Network whereby once a week I'm subjected to a shot of David Cone or David Wells sitting by himself in the dugout. Buerhle's openly talking about it, it appears. He's playing grabass in the dugout. Hawk and Stoney are making note of it too. "Buerhle's not that type of player. He's not superstitious whereas so many other ball players traditionally have been. Yeah, he's throwing a perfect game and everybody knows it. He's not going to keep it a secret."

"Hopefully this doesn't backfire," I think to myself.

The bottom of the 8th passes with Beckham flying out and Jason Nix striking out. Sox fans at US Cellular go wild in anticipation of what's coming next. The stage is set for Mark Buerhle to, again, etch his name into history. What song do you think is running through his head right now? If it were me, I'd definitely be a Bruce Springsteen song. "Darkness on the Edge of Town", maybe? Does he go out for the ninth the same way he went out for the first with AC/DC's "Thunderstruck"? Or does he go out there only with the chills on his neck?

For the ninth, Ozzie puts Dewayne Wise into centerfield, moves Scott Podsednik to left, and takes out Carlos Quentin. Sorry, big guy, we aren't going to risk a perfect game on a dieing quail and your plantar fasciitis.

First batter of the ninth inning, Gabe Kapler. I'm fine with this. The 7, 8 ,9 batters are up in the ninth and Buerhle's been dealing all day long. We're good.

First pitch is a changeup called for a ball. The crowd moans. The umpire isn't going to give Buerhle's place in history to him easily.

Kapler tips the fastball from Buerhle. Just missed it. There's been a lot more foul balls in the late innings. The batters are seeing the ball better and getting a feel for how catcher Ramon Castro is calling the game.

Changeup fouled off. Two strikes. COME ON!!

Fastball. Ball 2. 2-2. Here we go, Buerhle. C'mon, kid. In my head, I'm reverting back to talking like I actually still play baseball as opposed to being fat just watching it. God damn, I want this to happen. I want to see this go all the way through.

Another fastball fouled off. Now I'm getting sick. Kapler's seeing the ball well enough to put his bat on it. It's only a matter of time before he puts it in play--

Oh, God. He just smacked a fastball--thigh high, inner half of the plate--to the power alley in left-center. He didn't hit the cover off the ball, but that's solid contact.

Wise is on his horse. He's going to run through the wall to catch this ball. He better. For his sake. The crowd around my desk just gave up on perfection. Not me. No way. Dewayne Wise might not be able to hit, but he can play the outfield for damn certain. Keep on goin, D-Wise. Keep Goin... Keep... Goin...

He's at the track... Leaps... THE BALL IS IN HIS GLOVE... at the wall, his body snaps like a crash test dummy... he hits the ground... he's getting up... AND SHOWS THE BALL!! HE GOT IT! YES! YES! YES! DEWAYNE WISE CAUGHT THE BALL! HE STOLE A HOME RUN FROM GABE KAPLER TO KEEP PERFECTION IN TACT!

The replay shows Wise bobbled the ball and almost put the perfect game into the centerfield grass. Nobody would have blamed him for the effort, but disappointment would have settled over US Cellular Field and Second City's Second Summer Franchise. Hawk calls it the greatest catch he's ever seen consider the circumstances. (Yeah, hyperbolic. But that's a different discussion.)

Everybody in the stadium, in my office, goes absolutely nuts after that catch. Nobody could actually believe a no-name defensive substitute made the play of the game to keep the perfect game intact.

The replay of Buerhle's reaction to the catch shows his stomach dropping and hopes crushed and then a facial expression that only said, "Thanks, Dewayne." He deals with it and moves on to whoever's up next.

Michel Hernandez. Strikes on swinging. I do my own strike 3 arm pumps and the crowd at The Cell is on its feet.

2 outs in the 9th. 1 out to go.

Hawk Harrelson can barely contain himself and Steve Stone can't get so much as a word in between Hawk's cheers.

Jason Bartlett comes to the plate hoping to be the guy to break up the perfect game. No team wants to be no-hit. There's just no dignity in not registering a single runner in a Major League Baseball game.

First pitch fastball. Called strike 1.

This cheer is notably louder than in the 7th and 8th innings. You can feel the excitement, the electricity. After Wise's catch, there's absolutely no chance that this perfect game isn't going through.

Fastball. Ball 1. Another fastball. Another ball. 2-1, hitter's count. Against an All-Star.

Buerhle snaps off a slider. It will be his last pitch. And, appropriately so, a ground ball. A tailor-made ground ball, at that, to Alexei Ramirez at short. Alexei scoops the ball, flings it over to Josh Fields at first, and Celebrate. Exhale. Go Nuts. Soak it in. 6-3 in your scorebook to close out the perfect game for Mark Buerhle.

Hawk goes nuts, "Alexeeeeeiiiiii... YES! YES! YES! MARK BUERHLE! A PERFECT GAME!"

People now begin to linger back to work--back to reality. Myself included. But for those 45 minutes, I felt absolutely amazing witnessing a piece of history for my team.

We witness history more regularly than we'd all realize. Whether it be a Presidential news conference, an issue of the New York Times, or a baseball game, we all witness history but sometimes fail to acknowledge it.

Not this time, though; not for me. I rode that high of Mark Buerhle's perfect game for the rest of the afternoon as I received hand shakes and congratulations from every baseball fan in the office as though I had pitched the game myself. Silly, right? Wrong. Other fans appreciate the feeling of witnessing a player on your team accomplishing something so surreal that it's only happened twice in franchise history.

Before he left that day, Brad walked by my desk on his way out. "The Pale Hose! That Ozzie Guillen... he looks like a genius with that defensive substitution. Not bad, Will. Not bad at all," a ribbing is coming. I feel it, "Now only if people cared about the White Sox..." Yup, there it is. I know he's kidding. I've grown accustomed to the different type of humor on the East Coast and it serves me well.

A very typical New York sentiment, though, about so many topics: "Now only if people cared..."

Here's the thing, I don't need anybody else to care about my White Sox. I know I love my team more than I detest anybody else's. I'm content with that. And Mark Buerhle doesn't need anybody to recognize his perfect game. He knows he did it, he'll talk about it until his next start and possibly for the White Sox 2009 Season commemoration DVD. He doesn't need everybody to fawn over his accomplishment. In fact, he's already sick of talking about it. He's on to the main goal here: Win. Or Die Trying. Because, really, that's all that matters to Buerhle, whose outlook is representative of the entire team. Just go out there, do your job, and do it right. Rock, pitch, catch. Rock, pitch, catch.

Roll the credits. Happy ending. And with no White Sox to watch tonight, I've just added a slew of John Cusack movies to my Netflix.