Architects sweat details. Baseball presidents of operations are architects. They try to cover even the most minor holes of a roster, scour data and science for any perceived incremental edge in performance and deploy armies of whipsmart recent college grads who should be working in Silicon Valley to pour through monotonous video to figure out if a pitcher has the smallest of tells in his mannerisms about what pitch might be coming next.
And then championship baseball laughs at such micromanagement. When the game is at its nail-biting, stomach-churning best, it is reduced to how a 10-year-old views it: the superstar player coming up big in the biggest of spots. Simple. Pure. Analog. Backyard dreams, only under massive candlepower and five million people watching.
