It was late. A single desk lamp cast long shadows across the large office, illuminating a stack of papers—spray charts, groundball averages, fan engagement metrics. The numbers were grim. The game was bleeding singles.
A knock. The door creaked open.
“Sir,” said the aide, breathless. “We’ve run the simulations. The shift… it’s killing offense. Left-handed hitters are down 12%. Groundball batting average is at .208. The fans are restless. The broadcasters are using words like ‘aesthetic erosion.’”
Commissioner Manfred didn’t look up. He already knew.
Another voice, older, gravelly: “There’s only one thing left to do.”
A silence fell. The air grew heavy.
“That’s madness,” whispered someone near the window. “You can’t just… ban geometry.”
The commissioner stood and walked slowly to the