June 1, 2006.

He wanted to say it so bad. Inning after inning passed and Dave Righetti was tossing what every baseball pitcher dreams about. But Yankees’ broadcaster Mel Allen, brought into my living room thanks to ESPN Classic, was a pro at this. He knew a too-early mention might be a jinx.

In the eighth inning, he started to talk around it. The Yankees led 4-0. There had been eight hits in the game. The Yankees had all of them. Mel’s partner, Fran Forgotten, talked openly about that, breaking the most coveted of baseball superstitions. I imagine the tension in that broadcast booth being as heavy as it was on Righetti’s nerves. I imagine Mel looking at Fran Forgotten with an &#8220are you nuts?” expression.

The Red Sox retired the Yankees and the game moved to the top of the ninth. &#8220Can he do it?” Mel asked.

Seven years after the July 4, 1983, game between the two rivals, Mel sat and told me how, when he was on the air, he could never talk about &#8220it,” but he could talk around it.

&#8220Tell them, for example, there are zeros under the R, H and E for Boston,” he’d say.

Through a chance meeting with my dad, Mel became part of our family. His stories of baseball past were as astonishing as they were unbelievable. We are now approaching the 10-year anniversary of his death. Because of age, I remember only hearing him call a game once – it was this same game, nearly 23 years ago.

Back at Yankee Stadium. Lou Piniella and Don Baylor, both grizzled veteran managers now, were strikingly young. Don Mattingly was so young he is wearing No. 46 instead of the 23 he wore for most of his career. A 24-year-old Righetti is tossing a gem in front of 41,000 on a hot summer afternoon.

Righetti walked the first batter, then a fielder’s choice and groundout leave a runner at second base with two outs. Mel talked about the butterflies in and on Righetti, how nice it would be to accomplish such a feat.

Wade Boggs, the most-hated Red Sox player, is up to bat. In 1983, few were better at hitting than Boggs. Against Righetti, though, he fell behind quickly.

It’s then I noticed only one voice over the air: Mel’s. He was calling the final inning all by himself. I wonder who was responsible for taking Fran Forgotten off the air. Did talking about &#8220it” get him tossed from the broadcast?.

&#8220Strike two,” Mel bellowed. &#8220One more strike. Can he do it? Can he do it?”.

Foul ball.

Sigh.

Today’s broadcasters start talking about &#8220it” once a pitcher goes one time through the batting order. But not in Mel’s world. No sir.

&#8220Righetti delivers.”

&#8220Strike three. He did it. A no-hitter. A no-hitter for Righetti,” Mel shouts, followed by six more mentions of the word not spoken until the feat is accomplished.

He had held it in for so long, the extra bellows of &#8220a no-hitter” seemed right. The rarity so vast that the last no-hitter the Yankees threw before Righetti’s? Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series. Mel was ducking and dodging before declaring that one a no-hitter, too.

In his basement, on a shelf surrounded by a hall of fame of memorabilia, sit two baseballs in plastic cases side-by-side. A game ball from Larsen’s perfect game and one from the 1983 Righetti no-hitter. Both autographed.

Bet Fran Forgotten doesn’t have those.