![]() ![]() Like Sandy Koufax and his perfect game, it was a special gift in a special time and a special place, one that he shouldn't examine too closely. It was a day like Michael had never known and knew he would never see again. It was baseball's day, a day when the Earth said, "That's pretty good Earth, but I'll show you perfect." ![]() Still, he hasn't thrown a single curveball all day, and he knows the batter won't be looking for it. His curve only works part of the time, often refusing to break and floating up to the plate like it's got "HIT ME" written all over it. ![]() He's already thrown his best pitch-an at-the-corners fastball-until his arm feels like an overdone noodle. It's 1981, Brooklyn, New York, and Michael Flint is one out away from pitching the perfect game for his team. ![]()
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