Perfection

Yesterday, a Quixotic Trek through to Secaucus, New Jersey past the Meadowlands to track down the Yankee battery who combined for the only perfect game in World Series history. Too much paid for the privilege of the signatures, but necessary given the surrealness of the occasion. 50 years ago, my grandparents attend the game. 50 years later, I track down the pair to autograph the stub:


"I grow old . . . I grow old . . . " Prufrock sang, "I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."

As do we all.
As do we all.

At least, if we are fortunate, the joys of one unforgettable afternoon can be made to last a lifetime.

A very wonderful few days. To think I spoke with Yogi Berra, of all characters, less than two dozen hours ago. And with so much to record, I'll note only that the possibility of a 2009ish move to New York has suddenly become extraordinarily real.