Folks across the state of Arizona will remember this season as the year that the Diamondbacks made it to the World Series and—just maybe—held on to win it all. And, in a way, that’s a shame.

Postseason glory is one thing, but let’s face it, it’s something we’re exposed to every year. Someone has to play in the Fall Classic. It’s impressive to do it after existing for a mere four years, but if the Diamondbacks didn’t, some other good team would have. We can count on these things happening every year—champagne sprayed around a locker room, cliché-ridden speeches to FOX sideline reporters and phone calls from the President. Winning the World Series is a wonderful achievement, but it happens all the time. There is nothing particularly cool there.

That’s why, regardless of what happens to Luis Gonzalez and friends, the 2001 Arizona Diamondbacks season ought to be remembered most for what happened to The Bird.

I’m sure that somebody else out there remembers watching SportsCenter during spring training and picking his or her jaw off the ground after seeing this play. It was a preseason game between the Diamondbacks and the Giants. Randy Johnson was on the mound for the ’Backs, and he threw a fastball that never made it to catcher Rod Barajas’ mitt. Instead, it collided with a dove that just happened to be swooping down past home plate at the time. There was an explosion of feathers and what was left of the bird landed somewhere behind home plate.

So, Randy Johnson’s 95 m.p.h. fastball destroyed an innocent dove. Johnson, a 6’10 giant with a mug fiercer than anything you’ll encounter trick-or-treating tonight, was probably more rattled than he’s ever been while facing Jeff Bagwell or Barry Bonds. He didn’t want to talk much about the incident afterwards, saying that he “didn’t think it was at all funny.”

But if you’re not the guy who caused the carnage, how could you not laugh after that? Yeah, an innocent bird lost its life, and I’m all for the ethical treatment of animals. But the punch line possibilities are astounding! “He really does have a killer fastball!” leaps to mind. “Hey, Unit, give peace a chance!” is more subtle, but, in my opinion, far more clever. Someone far more witty than I could probably wrangle something out of “fly ball” or “wild pitch.” The Giants’ Jeff Kent joked that he would invite Johnson to hunt on his ranch in the offseason, and give him a bucket of balls instead of a shotgun.

Even if you are emotionally older than the age of nine and can’t see the humor of the moment, its sheer implausibility has to blow you away. What are the odds of a bird swooping in at that exact moment that close to the ground—in the strike zone, no less? That’s like dropping a coin from the top of the Prudential Center and having it land on its end, or watching a playoff game without seeing one of those commercials for “24” or “Ally McBeal.” It just doesn’t happen.

Then, there’s the history. Turns out, this incident wasn’t without precedent. In 1983, Dave Winfield killed a seagull with a warmup throw in Toronto. The Ontario police charged him with animal cruelty, although the charge was later dropped. There’s something wonderful about being able to sit around with a bunch of guys in a Burger King or a barber shop and discuss, in sophisticated terms, the history of unfortunate bird deaths in the majors. It speaks to the incredible scope of baseball history.

It also says something about the vast world of baseball rules. The batter never swung at the pitch, and the ball never made it to the catcher. It wasn’t a wild pitch or a passed ball because, well, the pitch wasn’t really wild and the ball never really passed. So what kind of call should the umpire make in this situation?

Ask your barber shop or Burger King coterie of fanatics this one, and the resulting debate could go on for days. (I won’t tell you what the ruling was. Some of you might need something to talk about over make-your-own waffles this morning, and this is perfect conversational fodder).

Who cares about the World Series when things like this happen? Someone more cynical than I am might argue that the World Series represents everything that’s wrong with baseball. It’s just a meeting between two teams that had enough resources to amass copious amounts of quality starting pitching. One team is hard to like because of its constant success. The other makes a Series appearance in its fourth year of existence. It’s enough to make a Cub or Red Sox fan cry.

But if the World Series represents everything wrong with baseball, the bird episode shows us so much that’s right—except, I guess, for the violent death part. It’s history. It’s inane chatter that makes bleacher and upper deck tickets the best seats in the house—always. It’s spinning yarns about the weird and the wacky, about the crazy thing that happened “that one time” when the secure boundaries set up by the rules of sport were bent and twisted by the unexpected and tragically hilarious.

It’s also just plain cool.