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When God created the world, he made mis­takes. When God created baseball, he made per­fection.

Now though, like irrev­erent and ungrateful children, the com­mis­sioner and owners have insti­tuted new rules for the 2015 season fool­ishly trying to hurry the pace of a game designed to exist outside of time.

But baseball doesn’t need pro­gressive ref­or­mation. It needs only its own immortal orthodoxy.

Of all the sports that matter, baseball alone escapes the tyranny of the time­piece. Bound by the two hands of the clock, bas­ketball con­forms to quarters, hockey obeys periods, and football submits to halves. In each, the clock does more than just mark the remaining moments. It shapes the con­sciousness of the players and guides the outcome of the game.

In baseball, every inning encap­su­lates a potential infinity. Each unit of play con­tains three outs and every game, nine innings, but oth­erwise hours and minutes have never fac­tored into the sport. Fat ladies, walk-off homers, and shutdown closers mark the end of the game — not obnoxious buzzers.

With his new pace-of-play apostasy, rookie com­mis­sioner Rob Manfred has forced a tem­poral con­struct on a holy insti­tution. Fearful that the length of a baseball game eclipses the attention and imag­i­nation of the average American, the com­mis­sioner con­jured new speed-up rules.

To hurry things, the batter’s box becomes a cage, as hitters must keep a single foot within the chalk lines throughout their at-bat. Then to squeeze the game through a broadcast window, digital timers countdown from 2:25 between innings, as if the tra­di­tional intri­cacies of so called “non-game-action” need only the same time nec­essary to boil a runny egg.

In the lesser sanc­tu­aries of Double and Triple A ball, a more insidious heresy has emerged: pitch clocks. These elec­tronic eye­sores force young pitchers to throw within twenty seconds of touching the rubber. They also offer a threat­ening message to Major League pro­fes­sionals: Conform to the new pace of play rules or submit to the pitch-clock mon­strosity.

Last year, the average baseball game lasted 3 hours and 14 minutes. That’s a ghastly sum of time until com­pared with football, the United States’ more violent and popular past time. In 2013, the average NFL game lasted 3 hours and 12 minutes on an average of just 11 minutes of actual game play.

While these new rules might shave a few minutes off, they won’t sub­stan­tially shorten baseball and they won’t attract new fans. Instead, they’ll fun­da­men­tally transform the mental element of the game.

Baseball is the sport of intellect and nuance. More fire­brand than philosopher, even Red Sox slugger David Ortiz under­stands that. Infamous for an excessive batting routine, he steps out after each pitch to readjust his batting gloves before reen­tering the box. Big Papi explains that he’s not slowing the game down when he steps out. Rather his “mind is speeding up,” antic­i­pating the pitcher’s next move.

Invisible to the undis­ci­plined eye exists a con­stant mental struggle between hitters and pitchers, a game-theory battle that demands brains as much as brawn.

The new rules balk this cerebral baseball ballet. Putting the batter at an arti­ficial dis­ad­vantage cheapens the strikeout and the game. Without moments to reflect, hitter antic­i­pation will decline and pitching will ascend to dom­i­nance, and the game will flatline.

Worst of all, Com­mis­sioner Manfred’s pro­gressive vision cuts at the heart of baseball. As a his­torical insti­tution, the sport has remained con­stant over more than a century. And aside from the des­ig­nated hitter heresy, it has remained pure.

Every player who steps on the field follows the same rules as the players who came before him. When at bat or in the field, they compete against opponent both in the dugout and in the record book. In the same way, when fans punch their ticket at the ballpark, they commune with those who filled the stands before them.

The timeless game, baseball pre­serves the past for the future. Enduring emo­tional bonds overlap the ele­ments of the game giving it per­ma­nency. We love baseball in the same way we cherish the mem­ories of our first catch, our first hit, and our first major league stadium.

With his new rules, Com­mis­sioner Manfred severs these bonds. Baseball was made perfect. Then he ruined it. Now he needs to change it back.