Perfection

In Prospect Park a few weeks ago, a young man in blue called the batter out after a foul ball hit the top of the backstop and popped into the catcher’s mitt. Which brings to mind that only catchers and first basemen have mitts. The other seven have gloves. We wince when parents say “Have you got your mitt?” to their young outfielders when they leave for their suppers in Park Slope.

After the evening contest, the young man making a few bucks adjudicating a young ladies’ softball game admitted he was wrong but couldn’t change the outcome. We patted the fellow on the back and thanked him for his effort, and he went home to Mom and his supper in Bensonhurst.

But it was Bloomsday 14 days early for James Joyce of the American League. Not the author of “Ulysses” and “Finnegan’s Wake.” Just a humble man in blue who will carry a much greater burden than a chest protector, mask and shin guards when he takes his turn behind the plate. We doubt if he had supper last night.

Mr. Joyce, umpiring at first base, will forever be linked with Detroit’s Armando Galarraga as the man who called the 27th man safe after replays showed Mr. Galarraga, covering first, clearly gloved the spheroid and tapped the bag before the batsman reached first. Mr. Galarraga’s pitching perfection marred by a moment’s imperfection.

The greatest invention of the 20th century was air conditioning. The greatest of the 21st will be a time machine. How many of us long for such a device to undo the missteps of the past? To redeem the sins of yesterday is the greatest wish of a great swath of Homo sapiens, who nevertheless march ahead, knowing that the time machine will only go forward.

We think Mr. Joyce knows this. He joins the rest of us.