Perfection; noun. One: the quality or state of being perfect; freedom from fault or defect. Two: an exemplification of supreme excellence; an unsurpassable degree of accuracy or excellence. Three: Harry Leroy Halladay III; Doc.
We knew Saturday night was coming. We've known, and been waiting, since September 27, 1998. Whether Roy Halladay would pitch a perfect game, or no-hitter, was never in doubt. It was always "when," not "if." And I endlessly wondered where I would be when he managed the feat.
Downtown Las Vegas, north of the infamous strip, it turned out. I was on the one minor league stop of the baseball road trip of a lifetime, in front of the box office at Cashman Field, home of the Las Vegas 51s, when my phone alerted me to a 6:08 pm message.
"Halladay perfect thru 8." It was my good friend Archi, Rogers Sportsnet highlight producer extraordinaire.
I immediately sat down. It was happening. And, as others have reported, you just knew.
A gamut of emotions rushed through me. Above all else: elation. This, Halladay's perfect game, was the culmination of his legendary dedication and umatched work ethic; proof in the pudding that if you put in the time, put in the effort, and practice practice practice, greatness -- perfection, for one moment in time -- is indeed possible.
But I was jealous. And angry. There was no denying it. It should have been for us, for Toronto. I should have been watching, at the very least, on television. Doc had faced the same Florida Marlins last June in Toronto. I was in attendance, having vowed to be at as many Halladay starts as humanly possible. Instead of tossing a perfect game that night, Doc left the game after three innings with a hamstring injury, having allowed five hits and one run.
In my mind, I saw Bobby Higginson's ball clear the left field wall back in 1998. I thought of Doc's performance against New York last September; the league's best line-up, the World Series champions, managed but one hit. There was July 11, 2008, when Doc two-hit the Yankees. And his last start as a Blue Jay, September 30, 2009, a three-hit complete game shutout of the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park.
His last two seasons with Toronto, Halladay crept closer and closer to baseball immortality; to perfection. On Saturday night I was reminded once again: we, Doc and Toronto, ran out of time.
Surely, I thought, Philadelphia didn't deserve this. Not so soon, at least. We deserved it, we Blue Jays fans, in Toronto. Who watched Halladay wow us in his second big league start, and then work himself back from the depths of A-ball. It was in Toronto where Doc rose, fell, and rose again, to monumental heights, and flirted with history. On Saturday Halladay had finally scaled the highest mountain, only no longer for us, and that stung me to my baseball core.
Yes, everyone was overjoyed for Halladay, first and foremost. There were, I heard, standing ovations in newsrooms, and tears flowing in pubs. But I believe there were a number of Blue Jays fans dealing with conflicted emotions Saturday night. And, clearly, I was one of them. In my foolish haste, I fast-forwarded the rest of Halladay's career with the Philadelphia Phillies: a perfect game, or three; a pennant; epic playoff performances; a World Series ring; his #34 retired by Philadelphia; and his eventual call to Cooperstown in a Phillies cap instead of a Blue Jays cap.
My insecurity as a Blue Jays fan kept me from fully appreciating Doc's performance for what it was: the 20th, and only 20th, masterpiece of its kind. Two days have passed, and I realize it doesn't matter much, not at all actually, which cap Halladay is wearing on his Hall of Fame plaque. I'm going to be at his induction speech regardless, letting everyone know that he was my guy; Toronto's guy. Doc, "the best pitcher of his generation," was ours as a Blue Jay for a long, long time; through his formative years. And we enjoyed every minute of it. While he's no longer a Blue Jay, Saturday night proved that Doc in fact still is, and always will be.
For years Halladay was, in a way, our little secret. The rest of the baseball world is only now truly learning, and truly appreciating, what we've known for years: there is only one Roy Halladay, and he is without parallel. I think I speak for us all when I say: I can't wait for Doc's next perfect game. Even if it comes against Toronto in June.
And Bobby Higginson? He's finally off the hook.
Congratulations, Doc.
