In many ways, the game of baseball is the same as it was 150 years ago.  Bases are still 90 feet apart.  The action still lasts nine innings.  And the Cubs are still in last place.  But a few things have changed drastically, one of which cost 25 fellows from Detroit a very important game on Sunday night.

There was a time when a dominant pitcher was left alone.  He stood atop the mound armed with a mixed bag of unhittable pitches.  Fastballs, sliders, change-ups -- blazing, biting, tumbling toward the plate in unpredictable sequences.  The hitters were at a loss.  The whole ballpark was aware that the afternoon or evening belonged to the pitcher and nothing could be done about it.

Except, the game is different now.  There is no need to knock the hurler off his perch.  He simply completes his seventh brilliant frame, makes his way down the dugout steps and vanishes.  No event or circumstance dictates such an exit; it’s simply the way of the baseball world.

It is not worth looking for explanations.  This situation has played itself out for years, and it is here to stay.  No longer are pitchers expected to throw the first pitch at 8:00 and the last one at midnight.  This is baseball in 2013, where near no-hitters in the playoffs take the work of five men.

The American League’s best pitcher put on a show last night.  He retired 21 hitters.  Only eight of those managed to put the ball in play.  It was a work of art.  But there are no solo acts on the middle of the diamond anymore.

A man finds a blank canvas; selects the appropriate shades; applies his blues, greens, and yellows in all the right places; and for the finishing touch...he looks to his bullpen.

Never mind that the fraternity of gentlemen waiting in the wings pale in comparison to our genius, our star, our ace.  They are called upon because “new baseball” says they shall.  

No rhyme.  No reason.  Just a fresh take on an old game that might not have needed any tweaking to begin with. 

The game still lasts nine innings for position players, but it’s been shortened for the men on the mound.  Six innings is applauded, seven is idolized, and anything more is considered superhuman.

Baseball managers are like the rest of us, born with a deep-rooted instinct to want to affect a future outcome -- to put our hands in the dough, our foot on the gas, our say in the matter.  But it’s not always needed.  Sometimes the skipper just needs to take a seat on the bench and watch his mound-master at work.  The situation is under control and needs no further manipulation.

But our current version of the national pastime disagrees, and with that, a four-run lead can be surrendered in a flash.

One moment, a series is lopsided, a road team sweeping a pair, primed to finish things by the middle of the week.  In the next, things are deadlocked, momentum squarely on the side of those with the red stirrups and runaway beards.

Don Larsen twirled the most famous postseason game during the 1956 World Series.  He set down all 27 Brooklyn Dodgers that afternoon.  It was powerful; it was simple; it was perfect.

But nobody could tell you how many pitches Larsen threw.  It wasn’t important. It was just a man with full control of a lineup, and he was never coming out of the game.

Baseball is the same game now as it was then.  We’ve just complicated it; more thought and discussion when less is preferred, and none is ideal.

The artist watched as his masterpiece was destroyed last night. 

It’s a shame; he just needed to be left alone.