There have been 322 no-hitters in American Major League Baseball. Of those, there have been only 24 ‘perfect games’ pitched. To put the rarity of those two feats in perspective, there have been 238,500 total MLB games played since inception of the sport. This means that a no-hitter is a very rare treat for all fans of the sport.

A no-hitter requires that pitchers on one team face at least 27 batters over 9 (or more) innings of the game without the opponent getting a single base hit. A ‘perfect game’ takes that challenge one step further, the pitchers for a single team during a singular game do not allow any baserunner whatsoever. No base hits, no base on balls, no single opponent steps safely on first base for the entire game.

For the successful pitcher, a no-hitter is a remarkable , career highlighting achievement. For the opposing team, it is an epic defeat. To the fans of the successful team the experience is an enormous thrill. On June 27 1980 I experienced one of those ‘thrills’ while driving a road trip. My favorite team at that time, the Los Angeles Dodgers, pitched a no-hitter game while I was on the road between Prescott Arizona and Phoenix Arizona. Save for one play, a throwing error by the shortstop in the first inning, I would have listened to the call of a perfect game.

Listening to Dodger baseball was my thing back then. My dad listened to the Dodgers, my brothers listened to the Dodgers. On old AM transistors we listened at home or while driving in my car. It’s how we did baseball for the most part. This was long before any WWW streaming, cable TV broadcasts, or a home team in Phoenix. To catch the Dodgers in Arizona you just listened on AM. Oh, but listening could be grand. The Dodger’s had a play-by-play personality named Vin Skully who made the action come alive! Listening to Skully call a summer game was like meat and potatoes, a staple in our gluttoned male diet.

During the summers between 77 and 81 I worked as a cabin counsellor at a YMCA Camp in Prescott Arizona. During the school semesters I was in class, and in the summers I worked up at the YMCA. The job entailed 24×7 supervision of a cabin full of young boys, which was mostly great. But it could also be exhausting. Once a week the camp allowed for a 24 hour shift off duty to do ‘whatever’. My ‘whatever’ on June 27, 1980 was to pop down to Phoenix for the day, a short quick trip to see family. Laundry, sure. A real hot shower and shave, sure. But mostly I just wanted to get away for a bit. So I hopped in the old jalopy and headed down to the Valley of the Sun.

Down is descriptively correct in one key area. The Valley is a 4300 foot drop in elevation. But up could also be correct. The summers in Phoenix can be 20-25 degrees Fahrenheit hotter in June than Prescott. My old jalopy did not have AC, so I cranked open the windows and tuned in to the Dodger broadcast, as the game against the San Francisco Giants was just beginning.

The Senator Highway into Prescott is forest covered, serpentine , single northbound lane. And on the AM Vin Skully was just setting into the game. The Giants were home team that day, so they were batting second. I was already into town, passing the brightly painted craftsman and Victorian houses on Mt. Vernon Street before the Giants even came to bat. By the time I had turned onto Gurley Street and merged onto the AZ-69 highway, the pitcher Jerry Reuss for the Dodger’s was locked into his work.

At the end of the first inning, Skully announced the tally; no runs, no hits, an error, one man left on base. The Giants had managed their one and only base runner for the entire game on a throwing error.

And so the game continued. As I sped along the 2 hour drive to Phoenix the Giants kept lining up to bat, inning after inning. I motored through Prescott Valley, Dewey and Humboldt. Still no Giant hits. As I passed the big ‘boondoggle’ smokestack in Mayer Arizona, there had still not been any more Giant base runners.

As I made the right turn onto the I-17, the radio announcers continued to call the game. Skully had given way to his sidekick after the third inning so he could concentrate his efforts on the TV simulcast. The various play by play personalities avoided specifically pointing out to the listeners that Reuss was throwing a no-hitter. Tradition and superstition forbid him from bringing that up until at least the 7th inning. At the end of each Giant at bat, the radio announcer would repeat the same iconic statistic; ‘no hits, no runs, no men left on base’.

It was then that I thought I’d take a little break at Sunset Point rest stop north of Black Canyon City. I might get out and take a stretch, but I was not going to wander far from the radio. I knew exactly what was going on. And I had a 2 and 1/2 hour game to listen to on a 2 hour drive. I had time to take it easy, enjoy the Arizona sun setting over the Bradshaw Mountains. The last thing I wanted to do was to arrive at Mom’s house with the no hitter still in the works.

I pulled into my mom’s neighborhood listening to the finish of the game. It was a magnificent game, I believe it may have been the only no-hitter I ever followed pitch by pitch. Listening while taking that beautiful and scenic drive, a road-trip I had taken numerous times before and since, added a special and memorable aspect to the entire experience. The only experience I can think of more typically American male than baseball is gas guzzling road trips. Combining the two activities touched all the buttons of American machismo.

I can imagine the oddest aspect to this for international readers of this blog would be my having taken such delight in ‘nothing happening’. Indeed, that is one interpretation of a ‘no-hitter’. Noting happening on one side for 9 full innings. But I think there is something more going on there. This is one lone pitcher, towering down on the opponents from a raised dirt mound. One lone pitcher on my favorite team, completely and thoroughly emasculating an entire team of batters for an entire game. Meanwhile, I am also all alone, barreling down the road behind the wheel of my 80’s gas hog jalopy, mowing down the miles. The pitcher and I are both in control, in power, and everyone needs to just step out of our way. What’s not to love there?

Cheers, nca