Perfect

He had been so imperfect his last two starts. His statistics ghastly. His performance giving absolutely no one reason to hope that greatness resided somewhere deep within.

And before that, the 10 game suspension for being almost the poster child for this year's chosen version of cheating, too much sticky substance on the hands.

His very appearance as a starter  an asterisk caused by injury to those who were supposed to relegate Domingo German to the bullpen or worse. He was merely an afterthought, a stop gap until better came along. Hanging on by a fingertip.

So, no, this did not appear a likely moment for history to be made. Tonight seemed a final chance, a last gasp at redemption. Not a ticket to baseball immortality.

Maybe there was something prophetic in his having this season chosen uniform number zero. Maybe it was just the serendipity of having your best stuff against a uniquely inept opponent. Maybe it was the baseball gods giving the Yankees a night off from their season long adventure in mediocrity bordering on something far worse. 

Whatever the cause, there it was, and there it will stand in perpetuity. No matter what should transpire the rest of his career, the rest of his life, Domingo German will now and forever more be remembered for what he accomplished one summer evening in California.

Not good, not great. Simply perfect.