I was out socializing at a less-than-upscale establishment last night, as I have been known to do on certain Thursdays.

(Don’t judge; I saw you in line at the place across the street.)

Anyway, every television was, as expected, showing highlights or full-out game replays of yesterday’s spectacular event, and that alone was cool – most of the social halls in that part of town usually only concern themselves with the trials and tribulations of this city’s minor league team. More than one person on the streets of Chicago bore a big number 56 on the back of their t-shirts, which was also a cool sight, as though the masses had momentarily united behind a man who, for a little while, just made things perfect.

But the strange part came later, when people in this pocket of enemy territory would hear about my allegiance to the Sox and say things to the effect of “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations on the perfect game today.”

“Dude, I’m so happy for you.”

“Man, I’m so jealous of you right now.”

And after about the fifth such exchange, I just had to ask: what in the world do I have to do with it? I didn’t call any pitches, didn’t swing at any tricky change-ups, didn’t make any out-of-character catches. Come to think of it, the closest thing I ever threw in my storied baseball career to a perfect game was the time in Little League when there were only two batters on base when that kid hit a home run off of me (instead of the usual three). So what gives?

This being a strange hour on a Thursday night, the men and women issuing these heartfelt regards were not exactly well-equipped to answer much beyond “Dude” and “You know – perfect game.” Sensing this line of questioning was going nowhere, I traded my curiosity for another PBR.

Much later, and at a much more deplorable venue, I spotted another dude in a No. 56 jersey t-shirt.

“You see them game today?” I asked him, knowing full well he did.

“****in’ A, man,” he answered, “and I’m gonna see it again tomorrow and again and again until the goddamn DVR remote breaks. We ****in’ did it, man.”

Like an idiot, I took the bait: “We?” I asked.

I braced myself for the onslaught of dudes and likes except this dude, this dude actually had an answer worth hearing.

“Hell yeah, ‘we’,” he started. “Us and Mark, man, we’re in this together, you know? We scream for him, go to the games, watch when even it ****in’ kills us, stick by ’em even when they suck, and why? For stuff like this, man.”

Dude took another chug of whatever he was drinking.

“And the thing is,” he continued, “the stuff like this, man, this is why it’s worth it. Say we’re not watching, then who gives a damn if some guy can throw a baseball? Mark knows it man, look at the smile on his face after that game. We’ll cheer if you give us something to cheer about, you know? You do it, we’ll make it count. Simple as that. Simple as that.”

Simple as that, I thought. Dude might have been onto something there.