Imagine walking through the Sistine Chapel and you pass a man carrying cans of paint and a brush. “What are you doing, sir?” You ask.
“I’ve been commissioned to paint the ceiling. I’m thinking about a mural.”
Imagine at that time, you get to watch one of the greatest artists in human history create one of his greatest creations.
Imagine buying a ticket to a World Series game in 1956 in New York City. As the ticket taker hands you the ticket, you lean in and whisper, “I think I’m going to see a perfect game today.” Hours later, Don Larsen is hugged by Yogi Berra after throwing the only perfect game in World Series history.
Imagine if you had a chance to see perfection unfold right before your eyes and you knew the outcome. You would’ve enjoyed it so much more, right?
I went to a New Year’s Eve party with some friends and as we were passing the karaoke microphone around, the phone rang on one of my friend’s cell phone. To protect the innocent, we’ll call her Denise. Denise didn’t recognize the number, but knew her son might be staying at a friends so she answered it. “Quiet guys, I need to answer this real quick.” The room fell hush as she turned the speaker phone mode on.
“Hi.” A voice said meekly on the other end.
“Hello. Can I help you?” Denise, who was a true kind soul, would never just hang up on a wrong number. “Who are you calling for?”
“Do you know my friend?” The voice, again, was muffled and quiet, but seemed young.
“I don’t know. Who is your friend?”
“I’m looking for my friend Hugh.”
It was at this moment that the ticket taker at Yankees Stadium passed over the ticket to the game. I immediately knew what was about to occur, yet not many others seemed to cock their heads the same way. The group of poor singers had now paused their rendition of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” and we all leaned in – many of whom, Denise included, confused as to who Hugh might be.
“No, honey. I’m sorry. I don’t think anyone here is named Hugh.” The other end of the voice fell silent. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yes. I’m still there. I am looking for Hugh.”
It’s important to never speak of a perfect game in the middle of a perfect game. During Don Larsen’s perfect game, Mutual Broadcasting System announcer Bob Neal was careful to never use the term. He would say, “that’s 21 in a row retired by Larsen” but using the term is bad karma. And so, with the kids on the line likely giggling, and Denise none the wiser, I was careful not to stop the carnage that was about to ensue.
“Honey? We don’t have anyone named Hugh here. I’m sorry.” And Denise was genuinely sorry. She would’ve likely Googled a new phone number for the person on the other end of the line if she could.
“Oh. Okay. I thought Hugh might’ve been there.”
And then it happened. The final pitch. The final brush stroke to complete the masterpiece. Denise asked the key question, “What is Hugh’s full name? Maybe I can help.”
The voice on the other end, likely around 9 or 10 years old, was now confident and bold sounding. They knew what they had done. They had completed the gambit. They had nailed the task at hand. They had thrown a perfect game.
“His name? Hugh Janus.”
It was simply perfection. And I saw it from the beginning.
(Get more from Chris Kamler and Hugh Janus on Twitter at @TheFakeNed)
