On Oct. 8, 1956, Larsen was as close to perfect as any pitcher can be and he chose the most important series in baseball to have his shining moment. Story.

The occasion was Game 5 of the World Series, Yankees versus Dodgers. A perfect game.

We watch sports for many reasons: the excitement that takes us out of our narrow concerns and for a moment or an hour induces self-forgetfulness, the camaraderie with other fans that makes us part of a larger fellowship even if only for an afternoon, the satisfaction of the same deep feelings that caused pagans to mark the progression of seasons with ceremonies: fall football, spring baseball.

But we also watch sports to see occasional human perfection--Montana floating a pass through the narrow window that exists only for a moment between the cornerback and safety, and into the hands of the receiver who will cross that window for a fraction of a second, all as Joe evades a rushing defensive end with mayhem on his mind; Jeeter leaping to snare a scorching liner then twisting his body to throw a bullet to first, catching the runner off the bag, all before Derek's feet hit the ground again; Stockton surrounded by giants down in the paint, hitting Malone streaking in from the corner even though John's glimpse of Karl was a fleeting sight of jersey briefly glimpsed between defenders.

Those we watch on summer evenings and fall afternoons and winter nights give us occasional glimpses of human perfection, gods at play. Major league baseball has burned me more than once, but, I'll be in front of the television for all the games I can, watching the World Series. Maybe I'll see a god at play.