Professional baseball greeted a new season this afternoon with an Opening Day game for the ages, an extra-inning masterpiece that vividly unfolded on the sun-dappled field of the imagination. The crack of the bat could almost be heard, the blur of white almost seen, the communal joy nearly felt.

From the moment the first batter tipped his helmet — and a bird flew out — to the walk-off home run by a faltering pinch-hitter, this 11-inning affair redefined what constitutes a perfect game. No one cared about the outcome; the distraction was reward enough.

Don’t misunderstand: This game between the New York Gothams and the Cincinnati Greens mattered, but in ineffable ways beyond the columns of wins and losses. It mattered so much that complaints about baseball’s slow pace yielded to the universal wish that this game would last forever.