The only noble thing left to do about last night's perfect-game-that-wasn't in Detroit is for Bud Selig to proclaim that Armando Galaragga did indeed pitch a Perfect Game.

He's already been robbed of the chance to celebrate with his teammates. Who knows where the ball is, or any of the other apparatus traditionally sent to Cooperstown after a Perfect Game. I hope someone had the presence of mind to preserve them in the clubhouse Just In Case.

Overturning the call would not only give Galaragga the day in the sun he deserves- albeit a bit late- but would relieve Jim Joyce of the unspeakable burden he must be feeling now (I take back those obscene gestures of last night!)

Back in the 1980s, the George Brett pine tar bat/ejection was overturned by then commissioner Peter Ueberroth and the Royals actually went on to win that game. Overturning last night's call would not change the outcome of the game. Only right what was terribly wronged.

Come on, Bud Selig, Do The Right Thing.

With this Yankees game semi-safely in our corner (I'm not forgetting Saturday any time soon) I turn my attention to the game between the Tigers and the Indians. Thanks to a blown call at first, Galarraga, the Tigers pitcher, was robbed of the chance to have pitched a perfect game. He DID pitch a perfect game- that runner at first was out!- but will never get credit for it and that is Just Wrong.

Calls like that, in a game that potentially historic, should be subject to review. It wasn't even close. 

Hats off to a great performance. Obscene gestures to the umpire.

Did you ever wax poetic about the perfect execution in the infield, Cano's batting average, Arod's slugging percentage, DJ's fielding and green eyes and meet with a blank stare and a barely garbled "Huh?" Talking with non sports fan friends about sports isn't much different from being airlifted into mainland China and asking in English, "How do I dial direct to let people know where I am?" You're in a foreign land. Much as how I feel when I have the misfortune to be plunked in the midst of women talking about recipes, kids and some TV show that somehow legitimizes whoring for a husband on-air. 

A few years ago I was watching a baseball game on TV in a common room at college. I was the only female in the room with about twenty guys. We were all watching the game. I told a classmate about it the next day. Her eyes widened like she just saw a fastball coming at her head.

"Twenty guys? Why didn't you call me?"

"Do you like baseball?"

Last January I was wearing my 27th championship jersey while walking my dog and bumped into an acquaintance who was walking her dog. She asked if my team won last night. Who? Knicks? Rangers? She pointed to my shirt. Yankees. She thought the Yankees played on a January night. Which would in her mind be the only reason I'd wear that jersey. If she had a mind to begin with. Yankees playing in January? I was instantly reminded why she didn't make that jump from acquaintance to friend. She regressed to acquaintance-I-just-say-hello-to-when-I-see-her.

Not all my friends are baseball fiends, but I think most know there are nine innings, nine players on each team, three outs per team per inning. Simple stuff like that. A few can talk a good game. I have guy friends I just talk baseball with. Harry and Sally would be so proud. Most of my stalwart baseball fan friends are on Twitter. It's easier to separate the wheat from the chaff. I follow whole games with them and feel like I'm as close as I'll ever come to Legends seating. 

There isn't a Boston fan in the bunch. 

Major league fans are among The.Most.Superstitious.People.In.The.Universe. And  that can sometimes border on the obsessive compulsive. A friend and fellow blogger will eat the same meal before every Big Game if that meal was ingested before a Big Win. If the Yankees go on to lose, she changes the menu. My talisman happens to be What I Wear. And unlike a meal that can be boring and bland but tolerable if it brings about the Desired Result, wearing the same clothes over a three day home stand can knock other people's socks off. And not just red socks.

Washing the clothes can just scrub the magic out of them. So I wait until the Monday 'off day' to do the laundry and don't act at all surprised if people step back or if those not In The Know (non baseball fans) think I'm doing the Walk Of Shame. The first "lucky clothes" I remember are a pair of pajamas I wore during the 1998 playoffs. I was visiting my mom who was a Yankee fan and who also scoffed at the very idea of "lucky clothes". Down in the series vs. Cleveland at the time, trailing in the game, my mom said to me, "Where are those pajamas?"

I pointed to the clean clothes in the  laundry basket. "There."

"Put them on," she said.

You know the rest. I should probably send those pajamas with the shot-to-hell elastic to Cooperstown.

Last year it was all about the T-shirt I bought on the street after the ticker tape parade that year and jeans and lucky blue anklets and lucky argyle sneakers and lucky earrings with interlocked NY and necklace with Yankees insignia and if I forgot even one of them and the Yankees lost, I knew it was All My Fault and I had to try harder. Like the team did.

Meals are a lot easier to duplicate.

I haven't quite warmed to this 'blogging' thing. I'm a freelance writer and at a loss for words- how can that be? I turn in assigned work on time and have kept a journal for 23 years- that's 96 volumes of stuff you're NEVER going to read in raw form, folks!- but writing for all to see, well, um, let's just say I hope this turns out better than my cooking efforts!