Based on the Twighlight Zone episode, “I Sing the Body Electric”
In the near future.
“Five Million Dollars for a pitching machine?” George Johnson presses his fingers to his temples as he gives Alex a most incredulous look. Ever since George took over as head of Mecca-Mechanics, it seems as if all good ideas have been extinct. Starting out as a mere engineering-intern twenty-five years ago, the starry-eyed prodigy with a full head of hair had always dreamt of climbing the ladder and calling the shots in one of the most esteemed mechanical engineering companies in the United States. And he did it! Mecca-Mechanics, for almost a hundred years now, has been successfully supplying airlines, factories, and even the military with the latest, state of the art technology. And now there is no proposal pitched, no project funded, no team assembled, without the supervision of Mr. Johnson. Here, in Midtown Manhattan, stand Mecca Towers (referred to as simply “The Mecca”), and here on the 35th floor, upon a citadel of power sits George Johnson, living the dream and changing the world. However, within the first few years of assuming this role, he has decided that when a dream comes true, that a dream also dies. As Mr. Johnson knows, good leadership of a major company lies in the ability to balance exploitation and exploration. A leader of industry must meld the tried and true with innovation, so that the company continues to move forward. And since George took over five years ago, it seems all M&M has done is exploit, exploit, exploit. Hardly anything new has been offered by them. Sure, the stock has not taken a tumble, but he feels it is only a matter of time. Eventually, someone will make a more powerful fighter jet, a faster processing chip, and a more efficient vacuum. When will the other shoe drop? Besides, it’s all been so…boring!
We need something new, George ruminates. But this? This is moronic! He never liked Alex, the promising twenty-seven year old with big ideas whom everyone seems to adore. Maybe the very fact that everyone adores him and endows him with nicknames such as “The Next Elon” is precisely why he hates him. Or maybe it’s that he wears his blue-light protection glasses everywhere he goes, even when he’s not in front of a screen. Or maybe, it’s because he reminds George of…himself…all those years ago.
George, outwardly critical: “Who the Hell is going to pay FIVE MILLION DOLLARS for a pitching machine?!”
“Actually…what I said was the cost-minus labor-would come out to about five million…”
“Oh my bad. You’re right. Now it makes sense!” George found that five years of leadership is enough to sharpen your sarcasm.
“So we’re looking at about ten million retail…Mr. Johnson, I think you’re failing to see the full potential here. It’s not just an ordinary pitching machine. It’s…so much more!”
“I see from your specs what it’s supposed to do. It’s crazy is what it is. You’re telling me people are gonna pay ten million dollars for that thing?”
“Mr. Johnson. We’re talking about a very niche, untapped market here.”
George shifts his gaze between the blueprint on his screen and Alex as he rubs his chin. He suddenly realizes something. An epiphany! This situation is actually a win-win! This idea is so absurd, so laughable, so high risk- Johnson figures that it’ll either be a hit or a total disaster.If it’s a success he’s a business genius. If it’s a disaster-he blames it on Alex and fires the young cocky prick!
“Fuck it.” Johnson turns to his tablet, taps the green button that reads, “Approve project #32795” and presses his thumb to the small square box in the right-hand corner. This gesture gives his blessing, and, more importantly, transfers over 5 million dollars from M&M’s R&D budget into Alex’s project fund. “You have three months.”
“Thank you sir. I promise. We won’t let you down.’
George Johnson smiles, nods his head, and swivels his chair away from from Alex, signaling there is nothing else to discuss.
Maybe that was a mistake…But shit-at least things around here will start to be a little less…boring!
* * *
About 860 miles south of this meeting, in Truist Park, Atlanta, the sounds of April baseball fill the air. Hah-hah! The umpire barks as thirty-six year old Ronald Acuna Jr. breaks his bat over his thigh in frustration. That makes it a hat-trick, Acuna’s third time striking out tonight, which is appropriately greeted by a host of boos from the crowd.
Behind home plate, in the first row, sit long-time friends and Braves fans Larry and Jesse. Jesse, an athletically built African-American male, and Larry, a tall, lanky, white man, behind and just to the back left of home plate, can be easily noticed on every broadcast live-stream of the game. Teammates in high-school, these two formed a friendship kept intact by their mutual love for baseball. Every year since graduation-except 2020, the year of the Coronavirus Pandemic-Larry and Jesse have made a tradition out of going to the Braves Opening Day game and just shooting the shit.
And getting drunk. The particular kind of beer drunk that makes you enjoy the baseball spectator experience and your friend’s company despite the fact that your team is losing by three runs in the eighth inning in the middle of a play-off race. “Solid thighs for a guy his age” Larry remarks as he nudges Jesse. “I think my leg would be the only thing to break if I tried that.” Jesse laughs, recalling his friend’s fragile reputation and unforgettable nickname: “Larry Limp.”
Senior year of high school, the one-two punch of Larry and Jesse was being scouted by colleges. Then, Larry tore his ACL while trying to shift to his right avoiding a tag along the first baseline. This put him out of commission from baseball and off the radar of scouts. Determined to get back into the game, Larry trained arduously at Emory University to make it as a walk-on, but then tore his ACL again! This time playing a pickup basketball game. After the re-tear, Larry decided it wasn’t meant to be-so he would get a real estate internship and devote his energy towards a new sport: commercial leasing. He would then venture into development and throughout the years find a healthy return on investment. At the ripe age of thirty-eight Larry has earned a fortune as a developer. Just last week he was listed in a prominent Atlanta publication as one of “Atlanta’s 40 power people under 40”.
Jesse, however, decided he wanted baseball to remain a part of his life in whichever capacity possible. A baseball scholarship to Vanderbilt gave him four very thrilling years as a D1 college athlete. Although a solid player at the university, Jesse figured he did not have the full package for the big leagues. He always said he was “half a step too slow, and half a brain too smart.” He had read about so many players struggling in the minors just to never realize the dream, so he didn’t push his luck; he opted out of the MLB draft. Instead, he founded an indoor/outdoor baseball center/practice facility in the cozy town of Nolensiville, Tennessee, just a thirty minute drive from his alma-mater. Back when he was a senior at Vanderbilt, the baseball team rented out an Air-BnB there for their formal, and he and his college-sweetheart, Valerie, split an eighth of shrooms in a cornfield around the corner from the Air BnB. As the two stared up at the stars, they had decided in their expanded minds that after graduation, they would get married and move into this town. Four years and a wedding later, the couple moved into a place in Nolensiville just a few miles from their psychedelic date years before.
“You know Jess” Larry burps to his friend. “I wanna tell you something. I gotta give it to you. You really have it all.”
“Yeah. And you really have a drinking problem.”
“No, I’m serious. All this bullshit I have in my life…I’d trade it all away to have what you have. Beautiful wife and kids and all.”
“Yeah I can’t complain. You know they ask about you all the time. The kids. They keep asking when we’re gonna go back to the ‘Castle’ .
“Tell them anytime. They are two very special boys. I wanna do something nice for them someday.”
___________________________________________________________________
Two years later:
“Ball ten” an exasperated James moans to Isiah, who stands right in front of the mound about forty-five feet from home plate. It’s embarrassing enough to play with your eleven year-old brother, but at some point it just feels like a waste of time. “Just underhand it!”
Isiah obliges and lobs one right down the middle. “Finally” James mutters as he cocks his hips and licks his lips. Wham! The ball travels over two hundred feet, takes three bounces, and disappears into the cornfield wall. Two weeks until ninth grade starts, which means three weeks until high school baseball tryouts, and James has to get ready-in any way he can.
Usually he would practice with his father. After school every day, James would walk three blocks to his father’s baseball center, hit the cage, field some grounders, and finish his homework. He would then come home to their full baseball diamond in their own backyard and practice with his dad until supper. Isiah would join from time-to-time, but more often than not he would have his head buried in science fiction novels in the dugout.
That routine came to an abrupt end, however, four months ago. Their father, Jesse Thomas, was riding back from the Atlanta Braves Opening Day Game at midnight, in a Hyundai self-driving car, when a Mack Truck cut him off while merging into an over-pass bridge. The highway, composed of three roads, merged into just one road as it approached the bridge. Jesse’s vehicle came from the right, the truck from the left. Jesse, intoxicated (as the law allows for operating a self-driving car) tried to over-ride the system, swerved out of the way, and sent his Hyundai into a fifty-foot free-fall into a river. He didn’t make it out.
“I’m hungry! James, let’s go inside already.”
James looks back towards the house. It is getting dark-must be around eight o’clock. Why hasn’t their mother called them in for dinner yet? Without saying a word, James leads Isiah on an invisible leash by racing towards the back door. They step inside and find their mother, Valerie, sitting down at the kitchen table having tea with a tall, white man, and another white guy, younger-looking, and well-dressed with black, plastic-framed glasses.
The tall, older white man stands up. “Hey Kids!” Larry greets, as he walks over and puts his hand out for low-fives. James coolly slaps five without making eye contact. Isiah, however, eagerly windmills his arm and slams down his hand to meet Larry’s, as if he were playing the high-striker game at a carnival. Larry shakes his hand, mixing some genuine surprise with playful exaggeration.
“Owwww! That’s it! You’ve been working out! I gotta wear gloves next time! And James! Look at you, man! You’ve grown about a foot since I last saw you!”
“…At the funeral” James states, matter of factly, keeping a straight face while tossing his baseball up and down in his right hand. He motions his head towards the young man sitting down, “Who’s this?” Before anyone can answer the boy’s ill-mannered query, James widens his eyes at Larry with excitement at a brilliant idea. “Hey, Larry! You wanna go out to the field and pitch to me??”
“Ahhhactually, kids,” their mother interjects, “Larry stopped by because he has a gift for you…” she turns towards Larry, shaking her head, “although really, there is nothing you need to do for us at all.” He closes his eyes, smiles and waves off the suggestion, as if to say, “nonsense!” She then motions her hand towards the young man, “And this is…uhmmm…”
“Alex” the young man fills in, adjusting his glasses. “It’s great to meet you, James and Isiah. I think you guys are gonna be really excited about this.”
“About what?” Isiah asks as he walks closer and beams at the stranger. The boy looks at his mother, who shrugs her shoulders, also awaiting the surprise.
Alex stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and smiles. “I couldn’t explain it, so we’re just gonna have to show you. Follow me.” “He walks across the foyer and opens the front door to the darkening, peaceful night. Parked in front of their house is a black, window-tinted, 4-door Tesla. He puts a hand up towards them. “Stay right there.” James and Isiah oblige, standing on the front lawn walkway, with Larry and Valery behind them, peering through the open front door.
Alex then proceeds to walk towards the luxury electric car and open the back-seat door. Out walks a man in a baseball uniform.
He is an impressive figure: 6”2 with an athletic, muscular build. His black hair shows at the sides of his baseball cap. As he walks towards the boys, the man starts to appear…familiar, and James is able to read the blue logo on the man’s jersey: “Dodgers.” On his hat read the famous letters in conjunction, “LA”. The man and Alex exchange a few words as they walk over, but keep their voices low enough to keep the boys from making out what they’re saying. They approach the two boys, and the baseball man flashes a charming, subtle smile at James, and winks. Isiah scratches his head, trying to place the strange man. James, however, drops his jaw and screams, loud enough for the neighbors down the block to hear, “WHATT! YOU’RE…YOU’RE…SANDY KOUFAX! I THOUGHT YOU WERE…like a hundred?!”
The man remains cool and silent, while Alex chuckles and puts his arm around the presumed baseball legend. “You know your history, kid!” Alex exclaims. “But, you don’t have the full story. Let’s talk about this inside.”
* * *
Around the dining room table sit the four family members, long-time friend Larry Larkin, Mecca-Mechanics representative Alex Bernstein, and…Sandy Koufax.
“So, he’s a robot?” Isiah questions Alex. Alex looks at the kid and nods his head towards Sandy, suggesting he is being rude to talk about a present guest in the third person. “Oh. Sorry.” Isiah turns towards the guest of honor. “So…you’re a robot?” To which Sandy responds with another quiet smile. Alex answers for him.
“Technically, yes. However, I would say that is selling our friend here short. As I said, he is more of an intelligent, super-advanced pitching machine. The likes of which the world has never seen.”
“THAT IS SO COOL!” James shouts. “And we get to keep him?”
“That’s right buddy” Larry pats the incoming high-schooler on the back. “My gift to you guys.”
“Geez, Larr…sounds…expensive” Valerie quietly utters with a nervous smile.
“Oh! You have no idea!” Alex proudly announces. “This was such a huge transaction, I flew over here from New York to finalize the deal. This project…Sandy…was my baby for the past two years so I was more than eager for Larry here to help ease this transition. I understand that while this is very exciting, it may be a hard situation to grasp. So, I’m here to answer any of your questions about Sandy. You also have my number so you can reach me after I fly black to New York, if you have any questions.”
“So…why Sandy Koufax?” James asks, trying to contain his excitement. “Like obviously the guy was amazing, but you could have made him look like anyone, right? Like it could’ve been Babe Ruth. You know, Babe was also an amazing pitcher!” James jumps up and down in his seat and excitedly rambles on about the Great Bambino before he shifts back to topic. “What I mean is, like, it could’ve been anyone. It doesn’t even have to be a real person, right? Like why not, I don’t know, Spongebob?!”
Alex grins and pushes his chair into the table, bringing himself closer to the boy. “You know, that’s actually a great question, James, and I’m glad you asked. You see James, you and I both share a love for baseball. The pitching machines out there, even the good ones, have pretty much been the same for the past sixty years. One wheel, two wheels, whatever. And sure, they can pitch over 100 miles per hour, and sure, they can be configured to throw curveballs and what not, but they’re so…boring! And they don’t actually prepare you for the real duel on a baseball diamond. Batting against a pitcher is a game of chess; an intense showdown. You know what hitting against two wheels is gonna prepare you for? Hitting against two wheels. So, I set out on a mission, to build the best, human pitching machine.
“Ok, so I thought, ‘where to start?’ So I drew upon the biomechanics publishings of the great Dr. Marilyn Pink. As it turned out, through a quantitative visual analysis, she discovered Sandy Koufax was bio-mechanically perfect in his pitch delivery: posture, wind-up, pitch angle, release point-everything. In robotics, an important challenge faced is often, ‘how to maximize energy’, and Koufax was the answer in this case. There was not a single ounce of energy wasted in his motion. A graceful human catapult. There’s an expression that we like to use when talking about Sandy: ‘Form follows function.’ That’s just it; his form was…and now is again…perfect.”
“awesome” James whispers to himself.
Valerie cuts in, “And…How can we be sure that this-that he is safe?”
Alex chuckles. “Valid. Well, Mrs. Thomas, while the real Sandy Koufax had excellent command, the accuracy and precision of our robotic friend is of the highest degree. Military grade. Safety, Mrs. Thomas, was also a priority for us. A few years ago, Mecca Mechanics purchased Aimlock Technologies, the top auto-targeting technology for small arms platforms. You see, M&M does a lot of work for the U.S. military-much of which I am not allowed to divulge…however, our team dedicated the Aimlock targeting software towards Sandy to produce a pitching machine with unprecedented accuracy. Ironically, the AimLock program in Sandy is engineered to not hit any human beings-the opposite of a weapon, if you will. So rest assured, Mrs. Thomas, it’s safe.”
Isiah raises an eyebrow. “He’s been so quiet so far…So, does he talk, or what?…I mean,” shifting his gaze accordingly, “Do you talk, or what?”
Eyes turn to Sandy as the pitcher lets out a laugh. “Yes, Isiah. I talk. Just way less than a guy like Alex should.” Alex laughs and turns towards Isiah.
”We could’ve just stopped at an optimal, life-like machine. But, like I said, our goal was to make something more human than machine. In addition to his mechanics, what made Koufax so great was his killer pitcher-mentality. He was clutch. Performed great under-pressure. Excelled in the playoffs. We wanted that in our pitching machine. We wanted Sandy not only for his form, but also his personality. So, after we built Sandy, we started to train Sandy. We set up control environments in labs for Sandy, isolating all extraneous variables, and raising him accordingly. And we not only uploaded the relevant data into his make-up, like background, ‘core personality traits’, but also had him experience similar events that the real Sandy did. We even consulted with Sandy’s most famous biographer, Jane Leavy.
Alex then looks at Valerie. “We also figured, unlike many other celebrities, Koufax serves as a pretty respectable role-model. No scandals to speak of, no outbursts, no drugs. Overall, it was just an easy decision. So, to your point, Isiah, he seems quiet because that’s how Sandy was, and that’s now how Sandy is. It’s by design. However, and this is maybe the most exciting part-he is still learning, and will continue to learn. How you guys treat him, how you act around him, contributes to his learning algorithms and allows him to grow as an artificial person and adapt accordingly.”
“…Cool…Cool” James repeatedly drums the table with his fingers. “So you said we can call you if we have any other questions, right?”
Alex grins. “You wanna test this baby out, huh? Prove he’s not just some Sandy Koufax poser? Go for it.”
James dashes outside before he could hear his mother suggest he grab his helmet. Sandy slowly gets out of his chair and follows James to the diamond. Alex and Isiah trail behind. Larry and Valerie watch through the transparent sliding door that leads into the backyard. Sandy jogs to catch up to James and breaks the ice: “What do you say we start at 50?”
Alexander Bernstein, standing on the third baseline, takes in the cool night air and watches his accomplishment pitch to the fourteen year-old boy under the lights of a very cozy baseball diamond. He can’t help but smile, but notices the younger brother Isiah, sitting in the dugout, almost pouting. Curious, he walks over to him.
“Everything alright, buddy?”
Isiah looks up at the engineer and sighs. “Yeah. It’s just…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, baseball is James’ thing. I like it, but not as much as him. I don’t want to be an ingrate, like mom always says I shouldn’t be…But it just seems like this is more of a thing for James, and not me.”
Alex slowly nods his head and digests. He then remembers the conversations he had about the two boys with Larry in the preceding days.
“You know what, Isiah, I get that. But I think this may be more for you than you think. Let me let you in on a little secret. Sure, I love baseball, but my true love, lies in science and technology. I heard you’re quite the scientist yourself.” Isiah looks up to show he’s got his attention.
“Well, just so you know, this machine, cause that’s what it is at the end of the day-a machine, is the result of a lot of experimentation, research, computer processing…way more of that stuff is factored into Sandy than baseball knowledge. And like I said, the learning process is not over. Think of this as a big, longitudinal experiment. Did they teach you what that means at school?”
The boy nods his head. “Yeah, it’s when you study something over time, right?”
“Exactly! Now I’ve done a lot of scientific work so far, but now I’m passing it off to you. I want you to take notes, stick to the scientific method, and report back to me your findings, ok?”
“Well…wouldn’t I need the stuff you did already to build on?”
Alex cracks a smile and nods. “You are quite right about that. I’ll get some stuff over to you. Sound good?”
“Yeah…Hey what was that you were saying about robotic energy being maximized? Does that have to do with that ‘potential energy’/‘kinetic energy’ stuff?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“Honestly, Larry, I don’t know what to think. Seriously, how much did this thing cost? This isn’t fair. You can’t just do this to us.”
“You did mention to me that the kids were bugging you for a pitching machine…Come on, you practically asked for it!”
Valerie returns nothing but a sardonic smile.
“I’ll tell you what. I told Alex I wouldn’t mention it today, but there’s a 30 day window after purchase in which you can return him. Just talk to me how you feel about all this in a month. Please, Val.”
“Ok. I guess that’s fair. I just can’t wrap my head around this. And are you sure about this Alex guy? Kind of seems like a douchebag to me.”
“Yeah, he is kind of a douchebag. But he’s a good guy, I think.”
“Talking to my kids about ‘extraneous data’ and ‘quantitative analysis.’” She starts to laugh. Larry also laughs.
“I guess he’s one of those guys that treats everyone like an audience, you know.”
Once the laughter subsides, Valerie’s face turn to Larry with a serious look. “Larry. There’s no replacing him. You know that.”
He nods his head and at the ground. “Don’t I know it.”
A line drive whizzes right past an unflinching Sandy, to which he gives the young batter a thumbs up. “Alright!” James shouts. “Throw it as fast as you can now!”
Sandy nods his head, and without hesitation, gets into his perfect windup. Before James could even register the blur coming at him, the ball rattles the backstop fence behind him. He had never experienced a ball come at him anywhere near that speed. Jaw agape, he stares at the pitcher who had just delivered the heat. Sixty feet away, without saying a word, Sandy touches the brim of his Dodgers cap and puts his glove up, signaling for James to throw the ball back.
As James throws the ball back, he exclaims, “Wow! How fast was that?”
“I have a built-in speed gun. I clocked that pitch at 102 MPH. And you’re not ready to see my fastest yet.”
Wack! The ball soars in the air as James admires his hit, still posing in the finished position of his swing. After putting on a clinic for the third day in a row as a mere ninth grader trying out for varsity, James has no doubt in his mind that he is making the team. The only question is if he gets to be in the starting lineup. Regardless, James cannot contain his smile of pride as he walks to the dugout. Before he sits down, he notices his friends behind the back-stop. Kyle and George did not dare try out for varsity; they just finished their junior varsity tryouts at field #5 and decided to walk over and root for their buddy.
James swaggers over to greet his fans.
“Dude! We saw you in there. You were absolutely crushing it!”
Again, unable to contain a smile: “Thanks. How did it go for you guys?”
“Eh. We’ll see…Seriously though, I don’t remember you being this good-what happened to you this summer?”
James shrugs, grabs the backstop fence and casually looks out into the field. “I got a new pitching machine.”
___________________________________________________________________
“OK, one more, Sandy” James chimes again. Isiah sits in the dugout, doing his math homework/taking notes on Sandy when he notices his mom walk sharply towards the field.
“James! Your friends are here to pick you up!” It’s Kyle’s sixteenth birthday, and they were all going out to watch Star Wars, then go back to Kyle’s for a pizza party.
She walks up to the first-base line. “James! Look at you! You’re playing in your nice clothes! You’re going to get them dirty! You wanna go to the party looking like a hobo?!”
“Ugh!” James drops the bat and follows his mom to the front, where his friends are waiting in the self-driving Uber. Isiah watches his mother and brother walk away, and then turns towards Sandy. He picks up his notebook and pencil and walks over to the mound.
“Hey, Sandy.”
“What’s up, Isiah?”
“You know, every time I had a question about your mechanics, I would call Alex. But I’m curious if you have a different perspective.”
Sandy smiles and nods his head.
“What does it mean to you to maximize energy and minimize error? Do you think about that stuff? Or should I say, is your program equipped with that sort of analytics? Or do you just throw the ball?”
He responds by dropping the baseball and offering his hand. “Give me that notebook and pencil.” Isiah obliges.
Sandy then starts to draw a very strange figure comprised of straight lines. “This is your body from start to finish in pitching motion. Ideally, you would treat your body like a catapult. The important thing to note, is that some people think you want a nice, continuous flow of the arm with the body. You don’t. Right here is the most crucial point. The front leg stops the torso. Now the arm catches, and you’ve multiplied the force factor. It’s the law of the flail.”
Isiah snatches the notebook out of his hands and studies the drawing, slowly nodding his head. He then looks up at Sandy.
“Back in the Middle Ages they would use a simple, single-long-armed catapult, until one guy suggests using two shorter arms. That’s your body. A two-armed catapult. You gotta get that front half as far out as you can, create this straight line for you to follow, and let the rest of your body flow from there. It’s about weight distribution and energy transfer rather than over-exerting force. Here.” Sandy picks up a baseball from the bucket on the mound. “Grab this.”
Isiah palms the ball, clasps it with his other hand, and presses it to his chest, shoulder facing home plate. “Like this?”
Sandy takes Isiah’s hand and adjusts his fingers to make the shape of a two-seamed fastball. “Like this.”
James, lying down on his bed, hears a knock on the door.
“What do you want, mom?!”
“Can I come in?” It wasn’t his mom, though. It was Sandy.
James sighs and lets out a long, annoyed, “Yes…”
Sandy walks in to find James watching episodes of Friends on his laptop, with Reeses Cups wrappers decorating his bed. “Close the door”, James groans.
Sandy walks over and sits on the bed, forcing James to sit up himself. “What’s going on? We haven’t played all this week. I heard you missed practice. Isiah’s been playing with me more these days. He’s developing into quite the pitcher.”
“It’s just a stupid game. I don’t care.”
Sandy slowly nods his head. “Ok. Ok. Something obviously happened. You wanna tell me what it is? Or do you want me to get your mother?”
“It’s just a stupid sport. That’s all. It’s for little kids. I’m better off investing my time in other things.”
“OK…and I suppose Friends is what you consider a worthy investment? That show is just…terrible.”
James, furrowing his brow: “How would you know? You’re a robot! You can’t tell what’s a good show or not!”
“It doesn’t take much in this case” Sandy answers with a smirk.
James puts his hands on his knees and lets out a deep breath. “Last week when we were playing this other school, when I slid home-the catcher, he called me the N word…”
Sandy nods his head, waiting to hear more.
“It kind of psyched me out, I guess. I mean, I thought all that kind of stuff was in the past. Racism. I didn’t respond, didn’t tell on him or anything. The next day I told Terry about it, the closest friend I have that’s also black. And you know what he told me? ‘Yeah, well. Baseball is a white man’s sport.’ Just so casually, and then he went off to class. So, yeah, I’m done with baseball.”
Sandy nods and puts his arm on the boy’s shoulder. “I understand.”
James, however, reacts by pushing the arm away and bursting out, “No! You don’t understand! You’re just a piece of junk! A white piece of junk! You don’t know what you’re talking about! You don’t have emotions. You can’t feel things. And you don’t know what it’s like to be discriminated against! You’re a robot! A computer! And, you know what? Computer’s fuckin suck! They’re supposed to be ‘sooo great’, and ‘sooo smart’, but guess what? They’re not so great! They’re not so smart! They suck! They…they killed my dad! Self-driving pieces of junk…”
James starts to tear up as he turns away from Sandy. Sandy waits about a minute before James comes turns back towards him and makes eye contact. Sandy responds. “You done?” James slowly nods his head.
“You’re right, I don’t know. It’s your struggle. But you’re not a dumb kid. Think about it: ‘A white man’s sport’? That doesn’t make any sense. And you’ll have idiots out there on the field-no matter what year it is. But yes, it used to be worse. Way worse. I’m sure you know, back in the day, my teammate, the great Jackie Robinson, handled the hate better than anyone. People would spit on him, and what’d he do? He would just outplay everyone. And how bout that. He wasn’t only the first black player in the MLB, he was also a damn good ball player. You know, I’m not just white. I’m Jewish, and believe it, back then people weren’t too fond to share a field with me as much as Jackie. So, Jackie and I, we related to each other, and I kind of emulated him in the way he responded to discrimination. Just put your head down and outplay everyone.”
James nods his head, taking it all in. Then he scrunches his face and points at Sandy. “Yeah, but, that wasn’t you. That was the real Sandy Koufax that went through all that.”
Sandy gets up from the bed, shrugs his shoulder, and smiles. “Does it matter?”
“He’s gotta be all in fast ball here.” Larry nudges to Sandy as they sit in the stands and watch James at the plate. It’s the state championship game in James’ senior year, and there is no doubt as to who the league’s mvp is. James crushed 15 homers, knocked in 50 RBI, and batted .450 with an on base percentage of .650. Now, in the eighth inning, leading by four runs, James’ team is just a few outs away from becoming state champions.
“I don’t think so” Sandy responds.
“3–0 count and you think James not gonna take a rip here? He’s already hit one out of the park today and he’s just gonna let them walk him?”
“Yes. At this point, it’s very unlikely they’re going to give him a piece of meat down the middle. They know it and he knows it.”
The pitcher nods at the catcher sign, takes a deep breath, and throws a pitch that hit the outer half. “Hah!” The ump barks, signaling strike one.
“I don’t get it! He’s in a different league than these guys. Even though that wasn’t right down the middle, he still could’ve crushed it.”
“You’re not thinking as far ahead as James is. Look around.“
Larry takes a quick moment to take in the environment. Behind Sandy and him sit Valerie and Isiah, sharing popcorn. Behind them, hundreds of fans are gathered to watch which team will be crowned the champs of Tennessee.
Larry returns his attention to Sandy. Before Sandy can finish his point, however, he points at the field, with the pitcher in wind up for the next pitch.
Just outside. Still no swing. “Ball four” the ump squeaks as James trots to first.
Sandy then leans into Larry. “Scouts are here. No doubt about it. They already know James is good. A player as good at age 18 is rare. But do you know what’s even rarer in an 18 year old? Discipline. Patience. Maturity. Baseball IQ. That’s what a walk shows. Besides, do you know how valuable walks are nowadays?”
After the game, James, holding his MVP trophy in one hand and championship trophy in the other, walks toward his family waiting for him by the stands. “That was so great!” Valery shouts, as she hugs her son. “So what’re you thinking now? Pizza?”
“Pizza sounds good” says James.
Suddenly people start to gather around James. Ready, for more adulations, he turns to them with a smile. However, they walk right past him and go up to Sandy. “You’re that thing! That guy!” A bald man with glasses exclaims as he approaches Sandy. The strange man turns toward the little girl holding his hand. “Sweetie, this is the robot I was telling you about.”
“Woah.” The girl looks up with her big eyes. She then points at him. “Can I touch you?”
Sandy chuckles and flashes a most uncomfortable smile. Next thing he knows, the ten million dollar man is surrounded by people with their iPhones held out right in front of his face.
“Say something!”
“How old are you?”
“Wow, he’s so good-looking for a robot!”
Valerie then grabs Sandy’s hand. “Ok that’s enough! Guys. Let’s go!”
The five escape the mob into the parking lot and settle into Larry’s car. They manage to make a clean getaway and drive out onto the highway. Valerie, riding shotgun, turns around to Sandy. “Hey…don’t ever feel compelled to come to these things anymore.”
___________________________________________________________________
Isiah shakes off the sign again. No. We just threw him three curveballs, he thought to himself. He hears that voice in the stands again: “Boooo Thomas! You suck, you cheater! Booo” The miscommunication with his catcher, combined with the incessant heckling, calls for a reset.
“Time!” Isiah shouts as he motions for a meeting with his catcher.
The score was 1–0 and Isiah was just three innings away from completing a no-hitter. Of course, the opposing pitcher was pitching one hell of a game, which made the potential no-hitter all the more special.
Training with Sandy for the past five years, he learned to use his body as a catapult, efficiently transferring energy from the back side to the front. Sandy, along with continued support from his contact in New York, Alex Bernstein, instilled in him a love for baseball that stems from his inclination to see the sport through the lens of a physicist. Isiah often describes the game as “physics in its most enjoyable form”, or even sometimes, simply “magic.” Although he has no Major League aspirations like his brother James, who just got drafted by the Red Sox, at age sixteen Isiah Thomas has developed to be a fine pitcher.
“Mitch” Isiah pleads, “we’ve been over this. I can’t keep throwing the curves.”
“But your curves are biting especially hard today! They haven’t touched it yet!”
“We have to stick to the golden pitch mix formula I devised to maximize perceived motion and speed.” Mitch the catcher rolls his eyes. “Remember, like Einstein showed us, time is relative. Therefore speed, distance divided by time, is relative. Meaning that, after throwing those curveballs, all I need to do is throw one fastball around seventy-five miles an hour and the perceived speed will be around one hundred miles an hour. If it’s in the zone, that’s pretty much a guaranteed strikeout.”
“You know, what. Throw whatever you want, nerd. I don’t have time for your lectures.”
“Will do.”
Isiah takes a deep breath and thinks about what Sandy taught him about a lively fastball. The three factors of a ball thrown are gravity, drag, and lift. Lift, being created by the backspin put on a ball, competes with gravity, the downward force on the ball. Gravity, of course, wins every time. But if you get enough backspin on the ball, the perception to the batter is that the ball is rising, for he expects it to drop lower than it does.
The next pitch is thrown right down the middle, but the bat does not leave the hitter’s shoulder. “Strike Three!” The ump shouts emphatically. As Isiah walks towards the dugout he can hear that voice again: “Bullshit!! The kids a cheater!” Although valuing Sandy’s advice about keeping his head down, he cannot help but glance up in the stands along the third base line to find the heckler. He is a big figure with long blonde hair and a dirty stubble. And of course, in his right hand is a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer-no doubt not his first. “You’re a fraud, kid! Everyone knows it!”All Isiah can think about is how bad he feels for whoever the son is. No kid on Earth would wish for their dad to show up like that to their baseball game.
Isiah finished the game, but didn’t get the no-hitter. He gave up a double with two outs in the eighth inning. Nonetheless, a very impressive, one-hit shutout is very exciting news to share with Sandy when he gets home. Walking alone at night, wearing his baseball equipment on his back, Isiah is on the corner of his home block, when he notices a car pulling up slowly to the side of him. He remembers seeing this same car, an electric hummer, a few blocks back. Is this guy following me? Suddenly, the window rolls down and a man sticks his head out. It’s the heckler from the game! “Hey kid, that game was a bunch of bullshit and you know it.”
Isiah looks in the passenger seat and finds a boy looking down into his lap, ashamed. He recognizes him as the opposing (and losing) pitcher of the team he just faced. The man opens the door and walks toward Isiah. Isiah freezes in bewilderment as he watches the man chug what’s left of his beer and throw the empty can on the ground. The man reaches in his pocket and trades the can for something unexpected: a switch blade.
“You think you’re so special cause you got a fancy pitching machine. Let me tell you, if my son had that he’d be in the majors already. Unfair, is what it is!”
“Look sir…I really don’t want any…” Isiah starts to plead as the lush inches closer. Once Isiah realizes there is no reasoning with this guy, it is too late. The man grabs Isiah by the collar and holds the knife within inches of his neck. As the man grins a sinister, dirty grin, Isiah can smell a pungent, off-putting mixture of tequila, beer, and other intoxicants.
“Dad, stop!” The boy in the passenger seat begs to no avail. The boy then opens his door, and gets out. Isiah feels slightly hopeful that the son is going to save him, but then…the kid runs away! He couldn’t handle the shame of the situation.
“Pussy” the man remarks, followed by a belch right in Isiah’s face.
Isiah trembles. “What do you want?”
The man then rubs the knife gently on Isiah’s right shoulder. Smiling sinisterly: “For you to never pitch again.”
Suddenly the man lets go of the knife, crouches to the ground, and screams, holding his wrist. “Owwwwww! Shit!” Isiah then notices a baseball bounce right in front of him. He looks at the man shrieking in pain and sees that his wrist bone is sticking out of his skin!
“What the Hell?” Isiah says to himself. He then notices a figure jogging towards him from the direction of his house. It’s Sandy!
“You alright?” Sandy asks as he approaches Isiah. “I was waiting on the porch for you to come home when I heard some commotion down the block. So I turned on my night vision, and I see you getting held at knife point.”
“Yeah I’m alright.” Looking down at the drunk father with his wrist bone sticking out, “We should probably get him to a hospital.”
“Probably.”
“Oooooh!! Ouch! Fuck!
Later that night Isiah and Sandy are hanging out in the living room, watching the Braves game. Isiah goes into detail about the sparkling shutout he put together and how that led to the father of the losing pitcher following him home. After finishing the story, the two glue their eyes to the screen for a few minutes, until Isiah breaks the silence.
“Sandy?”
“What’s up?”
“There’s something I don’t get. I remember five years ago, when we first got you, Alex explained that it was impossible for you to hit a human being. How it was part of your core make-up. So how were you able to strike that guy down like that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that drunk piece of trash was not a human being.”
___________________________________________________________________
George Johnson and Alex Bernstein toast cigars in celebration as they watch the news in George’s office. On the screen, a young blonde women reports, “Can robots raise our children? Well, MIT student Isiah Thomas proves that artificially intelligent ‘pitching machines’ can develop humanity in longitudinal field study.” The screen then cuts to a young African-American with a backpack strap over his shoulder.
“That’s him!” Alex jumps. “That’s my boy right there!”
“It was discovered, that an artificial intelligent machine with the ability to continually learn, can, in a sense learn to love. It sounds silly, but through real-life experiences, a machine can bypass or even sacrifice its core-programming to protect what, or whom, the machine loves. I am very happy to finally publish my findings. You can check it out on MIT’s website for free. It’s all there. Of course, I have to thank long-time friend Larry Larkin for the best gift in the world. I would also love to shout out Mecca Mechanics and my personal mentor, Alex Bernstein.”
“Haha!” George and Alex high-five each other, and clank their whiskeys. After the news segment segways to something much less uplifting, George shuts off the TV and turns to Alex. “I gotta give it to you, Bernstein. This really is amazing, and it was all you.”
“Well, what can I say? Did you get a chance to read the study?”
“Yeah! It’s brilliant. I guess the thing really did learn how to…I mean, Hell, I don’t know. Who knows if that story is even how it happened. I mean, come on, the thing beamed a baseball at the thug’s wrist from two hundred feet away?”
“Trust me, the kid wouldn’t lie about that.”
“I guess it’s in my interest to buy it. Why don’t we get a hold of this kid before another company picks him up? He’s an engineer, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, he can go anywhere he wants. It could be here. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable recruiting him. I hope you understand.”
George waves his hand in the air and takes to his whiskey, as if to say, “whatever.”
After a hearty gulp, George continues, “Amazing. And you told me his brother plays in the MLB?”
“Yup. James. Just got called up a few weeks ago by the Red Sox. Needless to say, they have a very proud mother.”
“How could you not be? And what’s going on with the machine now?”
“Sandy? He’s being kept in the family as I understand it. He babysits James’ newborn baby girl. Could you believe that? From pitching machine to baby-sitter?“
George shakes his head and wags his finger at Alex. “Seriously, I gotta say. I know we’ve done a lot of great things together here, but this one’s special. I remember when you came into my office with this. I thought you were so full of shit!” Mr. Johnson then breaks into laughter.
“I kind of got that vibe. But you approved it! I couldn’t believe it! You know it takes balls for a boss to approve a project like that.”
“Oh yeah. You wanna know the truth? I approved the project…because I figured, when it failed, I had an easy reason to fire you! Wow, never thought I’d get to tell you that!”
“Jokes on you, I guess. Your dumb-ass found a way to promote me!”
They clank their drinks again, and burst into laughter, holding each other’s shoulders.
Johnson gathers himself. “I can’t believe the amount of buzz generated from this. You know, I got a lot of phone calls. The military wants to see how we can weaponize this thing, plantations down in the south want to pave the way for some “robo-slavery” situation…but there was one thing that really piqued my interest.”
“What’s that?”
George Johnson walks around to his desk and picks up the pink sticky-note pad laying down on the right corner. He rips off the top note and hands it to Alex. On it reads a phone number, but nothing else. “Cryonics Lab up in Scottsdale, Arizona. My contact there says they’re willing to partner up with us on a long-awaited project. They have the head, the body, and now they think, with our technology, they can make the leap towards building an organic robot. They want to bring back Ted Williams.”
THE END
sources:
Leavy, Jane. Sandy Koufax: a Lefty’s Legacy. HarperCollins, 2010.
