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with less than a third of the season gone. The Tigers decided to start Armando Galarraga, a tall, thin, twenty-eight-year-old Venezuelan pitcher in his third major league season. Galarraga had enjoyed a blistering rookie year but had faded in his second, recording only six wins against ten losses. In 2010, he had been sent down to the minor leagues in spring training. In May, he was called up again to the big leagues but was not burning up the stat sheet, going 1–1 for the month with an earned run average of 4.50. In fact, Galarraga’s previous outing was not as a starter but as a reliever.

So on June 2, fans did not exactly flock to the game. The ballpark was less than half full.

But Galarraga had the night of his career. Batter after batter strode to the plate for Cleveland, only to fly out weakly or hit a ground ball to an infielder. Not only was no batter getting a hit, no one was getting on base by way of error or walk. By the time Galarraga walked to the mound to start the ninth inning, he was three outs away from pitching a perfect game.

A perfect game is a spectacular feat. In comparison, a no-hitter happens in the major leagues about three times a season.1 When it does, it leads off the national sports reports and is the kind of feat that will ever after get listed among a pitcher’s greatest achievements. Many top-flight pitchers never get one. But a no-hitter need not be perfect. A pitcher can walk batters and his teammates can commit errors. Some pitchers have even lost games in which they no-hit the opposing team.

A perfect game is much tougher and rarer: it means that every batter the pitcher faces is put out in order. Three up and three down, nine innings in a row. There is no room for error on the part of the pitcher or his fielders behind him. Over the 135 years of major league baseball, only twenty pitchers have managed it, and none did it more than once. More people have orbited the moon than have pitched perfect games in the major leagues.2

So the eyes of the baseball-watching public turned toward Detroit as Galarraga took the mound to start the ninth inning. Baseball broadcasts around the country were interrupted so viewers could look in on Galarraga’s effort.

The umpire at first base that night was a well-respected veteran named Jim Joyce. He had been an ump for more than twenty years, and was so consistent and fair that an anonymous poll of a hundred players rated him as the best umpire in baseball.3 He twice umpired the All-Star game and the World Series. On that Wednesday in Detroit, Joyce had been busy. Galarraga threw only a handful of strikeouts, so many of the outs were ground balls ending with a throw to first. The ninth inning started with a fly out to center field and yet another ground out. So, having retired the first twenty-six batters in a row, Galarraga faced the Indian shortstop Jason Donald.

Every fan was standing.

Donald watched two pitches go by, one a ball and one a called strike.4 He slapped the next pitch to the gap between first and second base. First baseman Miguel Cabrera ran to his right and fielded the ball cleanly. He threw to Galarraga, who had meanwhile sprinted toward first base to receive the throw for the out. The ball reached Galarraga, and Galarraga reached first base, about a half step before Donald made it to the bag. The television announcer anticipated the call, yelling, “He’s out!”

Then Joyce made the mistake for which he will be long remembered.5 He stretched out his arms, emphatically signaling safe. He seemed to have no doubt. The crowd cried a collective “Oh no!” and the television announcer howled, “No, he’s safe! He’s safe!” The call shocked even Donald, who stood up the first base line with his hands on his head. First baseman Cabrera also put his hands on his head in disbelief. The television analyst voiced the nation’s bewilderment: “Are you kidding me? Why is he safe?” The crowd booed. As replays showed that Joyce had clearly blown the call and with it Galarraga’s perfect game, the television analysis was little more than a groan: “Oh my goodness.