"Buehrle's doing very well tonight, isn't he?"

That's what Long Suffering Spouse said when the line score came up as the Sox broadcast went into a commercial break.

I looked up. I see what you mean, I thought -- but all I dared say was, "Yes, he is. I hadn't noticed."

And I hadn't noticed.

I'd gotten home late and didn't turn on the game until the 5th inning -- in time to see Jermaine Dye's grand slam. Dye's been hitting poorly of late and Youngest Son was threatening to cut Dye from his fantasy team. (Yeah, that'll teach him.) When Dye hit the home run I wondered if Youngest Son had made good on this threat -- making a mental note to tell him to cut all the White Sox from his team if he had. We could use the offense.

So I did not notice just how well Buehrle was doing -- until Long Suffering Spouse pointed it out.

Without saying any more than I've already said she said, of course. Because even in our den we might jinx it.

Fast forward to the end of the game: Buehrle completed the no hitter.

I was on the computer sending celebratory IM's to Oldest Son and Middle Son -- trying to count out the "nos" in the opening lines to "Nobody But Me" -- the 1968 classic by the Human Beinz: No no -- no -- no no -- no no no no....

The phone rang. It was my friend Steve -- who shares White Sox season tickets with three other people. I'd seen that he was on line; I knew he wasn't at the game. I greeted him with "Who had the tickets tonight?"

It's still cold in Chicago -- and the Sox had been drubbed by the Rangers Tuesday night. We speculated that the guy who had the tickets might have given them away -- just as Steve had done the night before. If he did give the tickets away, he'll never live it down.

Middle Son responded to my IM just after I hung up the phone: He'd been watching the game in someone else's room at the dorm. I typed that Buehrle said, until tonight, he'd never pitched a no-hitter at any level -- although he pitched part of one, maybe two innings or so -- in a high school game.

Middle Son typed back: "Then I've done something Buehrle didn't do."

(I've cleaned up the spelling and punctuation. Apparently only old fogies like me worry about bothersome things like spelling or grammar when instant messaging.)

After a pause, presumably picking up on the fact that I didn't know what the heck he was talking about, Middle Son typed, "Well, it was Summer ball. I don't know if it counts."

I could think of a couple of very good games Middle Son had pitched in high school summer ball... but a no-no? No -- I was still blank.

"It was against Evanston. And I went to football practice right after."

Ah, that's it, I figured: He probably didn't even tell us about it... because he went straight to football practice. Long Suffering Spouse agreed with my reconstruction of events -- and I typed that to Middle Son, too.

"I'm sure I told you," he typed back.

But he didn't. I may forget a lot -- but not that. I think we've offended him, though.

Youngest Son got home around this time: He'd been at... where else? ... baseball practice. Last night, at least, was at an indoor facility. Another family drove him. He didn't even say hello. Instead he greeted us with: "Tell me you watched it."

Which brings me to the punch line.

Oldest Son -- the most fanatical White Sox fan in the entire Galaxy -- didn't respond to my IM last night -- but his away message this morning was, "The one night I don't watch the game...."