Harvey died in 1994, at 68, of emphysema, and today Marcia lives alone in a modest house in Springfield. Virtually no film footage of the game exists; the TV broadcast in Pittsburgh was preempted by a speech by Vice President Richard Nixon. There are no mementoes from the game in Marcia's house; Haddix's glove and a game ball are the only artifacts from it in Cooperstown. The Adcock home run ball was picked up by a kid who raced out of the stands and disappeared. The jersey Haddix wore was loaned to the Pirates 20 years ago and is now missing. (And talk about hard luck: Harvey's 1960 World Series ring was stolen from a hotel room in '84.) Marcia still hopes the commissioner's office will acknowledge the masterpiece as a perfect game. She also knows that Harvey truly didn't care about the snub. "He never talked about the game unless someone brought it up," she says. "He always said that the greatest thrill of his career was pitching in the World Series. He didn't care about attention for the perfect game."
Hours after his loss to the Braves, Haddix and Bob Smith were in their room at the Schroeder. The phone rang off the hook, and telegrams piled up on a desk. Around 5 a.m. the pair decided to break curfew and took a walk around the empty downtown. After wandering for a bit, they entered a 24-hour greasy spoon, and as they ate breakfast they overheard two men talking about the extraordinary game that had taken place at the ballpark across town. "Harv didn't want to say anything," says Smith, "and he sure didn't want me to say anything. The way he saw it then, he pitched a pretty good game, but the team lost. So what was the big deal?"
The two players got up from their seats. With his teammate at his side, the man who pitched the greatest game ever walked out of the diner, as anonymously as he had entered it.