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

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