The author's skin was crawling during near no-hitter

	Tom Terrific finished the Mets' miracle season with a 25-7 record, 2.21 ERA and the N.L. Cy Young Award. James Drake/Sports Illustrated
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By Michael Bamberger

Editor's note: We asked SI.com writers to share their memories from the best game they've ever seen. Here are their stories:

There's what actually happened, and what you remember, but after a while it doesn't matter. I was 9 and my brother David was 12 and our world revolved around the baseball standings. Baseball was our way to basic math, race relations, public transportation, civic pride, newspapers, cafeteria conversation. Most mornings, sports columnist Red Smith landed on our pebbled driveway, in the village of Patchogue, on the South Shore of Long Island. David had pointed me to the Mets, but now he was away at camp, in Maine. No newspapers, no TV, no radio. A jail sentence. I carried on alone.

It was the summer of '69, a crazy summer by any measure, and the Mets were chasing the Chicago Cubs in a new thing called the Eastern Division of the National League. July 9 was a Wednesday and the Mets had an 8:05 p.m. game against the Cubs at Shea. Tom Seaver was pitching for us. So that evening I strolled to the tent we had in our backyard -- a Coleman that smelled of bug spray -- unzipped the door, climbed into a sleeping bag in pajamas, and angled the transistor radio just so.

The game was called by Lindsey Nelson, Ralph Kiner and Bob Murphy. Kiner and Nelson switched back and forth between radio and TV, but Murphy worked the whole game on the radio. Games were faster then and the pace of that game was wicked. The Mets jumped out to a first-inning lead and Seaver had to run the bases in the second. A batboy -- this is my memory -- ran a windbreaker out to Seaver. It was a still, warm night and I could imagine the sweat pouring out of Seaver's cheeks, his chest heaving as he sucked air. I worried he'd wear himself out, but Seaver was OK. He had retired the Cubs in order in the first and the second, and he did again in the third.

And the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. When Seaver came to bat in the sixth, Nelson, according to the amazing book The Year the Mets Lost Last Place, said, "Tom Seaver will get quite a hand when he comes up to bat here. He's faced 18 Cubs and retired them all." He didn't use the phrase "no hitter" or "perfect game." My brother had taught me about that jinx. But I could think about nothing else.

The seventh was hairy. Cleon Jones, the Mets leftfielder and my hero, had to chase down the first out. On the radio, it took him forever to get there. Same for Ron Swoboda, when the rightfielder settled under a high pop for the second out. Ed Charles threw a third-to-first bullet for the third out. Kiner, Nelson and Murphy were my lifeline to the real world.

The eighth was one, two, three. Randy Hundley tried to bunt his way to first to open the ninth, but Seaver fielded it with his glove, got his fingers on the laces, steadied himself and threw a strike to first. Two outs from perfection. My skin was crawling.

Jimmy Qualls came to bat. I knew every name on the Cubs roster, but that one meant nothing to me, until no-name Jimmy singled to left-center on the first pitch. The next morning, The New York Times said it was a clean shot. What Murphy & Co. said over my transistor radio I don't remember. In my mind, it was a squiggly little blooper by Qualls, who was not enough of a real hitter to get solid wood on it, not off Seaver, my pitching god.

I'm sure I screamed and I may have cried. It was a little past 10. I slept in the tent and woke up with the crickets. There was dew on the tent walls and the transistor radio at my side. I felt empty. Thirty-eight years later, it's still the best game I've ever seen.

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