You never know what you’ll see at a sporting event. It’s been my motto my entire fandom. It’s what kept me warm during 0-degree-Opening Days and on the edge of my seat for 13-inning shutouts. Heck, even the blowouts and mismatches hold the promise of something never seen before.

In baseball, I’ve witnessed a 500th stolen base (Bonds), a 64th home run (Sosa), and as of Saturday, June 20, 2015, my first no-hitter: 8 2/3 of perfection followed by a controversial hit-by-pitch, closed out by a routine fly out. No, perfection didn’t happen but tell that to the 41,104 of us who high-fived and screamed together during every beat of the final three innings.

As it happened, I was keeping score during this particular game; lazily at first, sharper after the 5th when I sensed something spectacular might occur. And that’s where things got interesting in Section 311.

“Is he pitching a no-hitter?” asked the man behind me.

I tried to ignore him. He tried again.

“Is it a perfect game?”

“Are you serious, sir?” I said. “Why would you ask me that?”

I don’t think this man understood. He just looked at me with pity. Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s watching OR doing, scribbling nonsense on her scorecard, his face seemed to say. I am not a particularly superstitious person. I step on cracks, walk under ladders, continue using broken mirrors. I don’t relate (much) to the guys in those commercials who refuse to move from their seats during games and I DEFINITELY wash my favorite jerseys. But as baseball fan, I do subscribe to that granddaddy of all superstitions: THOU SHALL NOT SAY THE WORDS NO-HITTER.

Back to the game. Top of the 6th inning comes and goes. A long bottom half of the inning leads to a pitching changes, gives us all a much-needed trip to the restroom. (Or if you roll that way, some new nachos.) In the 8th, we share a collective near-heart attack when Pirates 1B Pedro Alvarez hits a sharp, high liner to second. Never fear, Espinosa is there!

Meanwhile, our section’s resident drunk, Bob, tells me he hasn’t missed a game (or beer!) in eight years. Good for him. He is also keeping score, and for some reason carrying a microphone. His schtick appears to be getting things wrong. A shallow fly ball is “definitely gone.” The aforementioned play by 2B Espinosa was executed by the SS Desmond. And so on. No matter, I’ll never forget Bob. I’ll never forget any of it, for that matter. Something special happened this Saturday, so special that I can’t remember my sticky clothes or puffy hair, only the embraces at the end. And chocolate syrup.

The funniest thing about this particular game is that it almost didn’t happen—for me. Over the years, I’ve let creature comforts get in the way of my sporting adventures. I’ve even—gasp—left a few games before they were over simply to ensure more sleep. It’s for similar reasons that last Thursday I considered selling my tickets to Saturday’s Nats game. In addition to the sweltering temps and call for rain, it was my last free Saturday for a while. Wouldn’t I rather be swilling champagne in one of the District’s finest restaurants*?

I knew I could get A. on board. Heck, I actually anticipated her paying ME to leave the game early if it got too unbearable. But something stopped me from making those suggestions and his name was Max Scherzer.

Thank you, Max, for proving me right. You never know what you’ll find at a sporting event. Suck it, Tabata. The ump shoulda called you out!

*and by finest, I mean one that sells nachos.