I prefer BI to AI:
Baseball Intelligence is field-earned;
Artificial Intelligence is machine-learned.
Even an abacus can count to twenty-seven,
But only humans can feel thisclose to perfection.
C’mon now, where’s the charm
In Hawk-Eye’s robotic arm
Calling balls and strikes?
Gimme Bruce Froemming
Blowing Milt Pappas’ fling
With a perfect game.
It was 1972:
Behind home plate was Froemming in blue.
The modern era’s version of pitcher heaven
Had only witnessed such hurlers seven:
Cy Young, Addie Jones and Charlie Robertson;
Don Larsen was a perfect World Series top gun;
Jim Bunning, Sandy Koufax and Catfish Hunter.
Pappas would have been number eight, but for Froemming’s blunder.
Top of the ninth. Yo!
Only three outs to go.
A line drive to left. One out.
A grounder to short. Two out.
The count went to three and two.
Immortality needed one strike more.
Instead, Froemming called, “Ball four.”
Along with a few choice words (too blue to print here)
Pappas might’ve said, “A robot woulda’ got it right.”
But baseball aficionados know, it ain’t so black and white.
Why is perfection so rare?
Because each human actor
Plays a crucial factor
In twenty-seven up
And twenty-seven down.