Inventors Have Looked to Perfect ‘Robot Umpires’ for Better Part of a Century
The era finally arrived last month when MLB adopted the automated ball-strike system.
By Frederic J. Frommer
The technologists touted that their robot umpires would overcome human limitations in calling balls and strikes.
That’s the goal of the automated ball-strike (ABS) system that Major League Baseball adopted this season. But it’s been something that inventors have been promising since the Great Depression.
“BALL GAME ROBOT A PERFECT UMPIRE,” blared the headline on a 1938 New York Times story, about a patent granted to Dallas inventor John Oram for an automated system made up of two lights, two photo-electric cells, reflecting mirrors, and an “ingenious” electrical circuit.
“The ‘umpire’ is electrically operated, is provided with sharp ‘eyes’ and shows none of the weaknesses to which human umpires are heir,” the Times reported in the story, published on its Education page.
It didn’t catch on, of course, but the era of “robot umps” finally arrived last month when MLB adopted the ABS system after several years of experimenting with it in the minor leagues. The sport decided not to go full-on automation, where technology would be used for every ball and strike call. Instead, the system allows each team two unsuccessful challenges per game, which incentivizes players to be selective in using them. The player registers his challenge by tapping his helmet or cap.
Through the first couple of weeks, the new system has resulted in a host of interesting outcomes, including the first-ever game that ended on an ABS challenge. On April 1, Baltimore Orioles catcher Samuel Basallo challenged a ball call with his team up 8-3 over the Texas Rangers and two outs in the ninth inning. The call was reversed, leading to a strikeout of Texas batter Evan Carter and the final out of the game.
A few days before, the Orioles had been involved in another dramatic late-inning ABS situation, when their closer, Ryan Helsley, challenged a ball call in the ninth inning. Had the call stood, the Minnesota Twins would have put the tying run on base. Instead, hitter Josh Bell, who began jogging down to first with an apparent walk, went to the dugout with a strikeout. The challenge was unusual — most are requested by catchers or batters — and it led to the ejection of Twins manager Derek Shelton, who argued with the umps that Helsley hadn’t challenged it in time.
In a game between the Cincinnati Reds and Boston Red Sox, home plate umpire CB Bucknor had two consecutive balls overturned after challenges by Reds hitter Eugenio Suárez, leading to a raucous cheer from the hometown crowd in Cincinnati. Overall, Buckner had six calls overturned in the game out of eight challenges.
Strike zones have always been subjective and varied depending on who was calling the game. But under the new system, MLB takes the measurement of every player and calculates his specific strike zone, using 27 percent of the player’s height as the bottom and 53.5 percent of his height as the top. That has led to a spate of shrinking baseball players, whose baseball card heights have often been exaggerated by an inch or two — or even three. According to the Wall Street Journal, 68 players have gone from six feet or taller to below six feet.
Seeking perfection
Had 20th-century inventors gotten their way, robots would have been calling balls and strikes for nearly a century, before the designated hitter, artificial turf or even teams west of St. Louis. Fifteen years after Oram’s robot ump patent, some other inventors gave it a try.
“Robot Umpire Can’t Call Wrong, Heralds End of ‘We Wuz Robbed,’” blared the Times headline on the top of the Business page on August 1, 1953.
The story explained how Wyoming inventors Lloyd M. Holiday and Nellie M. Holiday got a patent for a robot ump, using one lens below home plate and another one between the pitcher and home plate.
“When both agree that it’s a strike, a light shows on the bulletin board,” the Times explained. “Strikes are also recorded on a paper tape. If no strike is shown, it’s a ball.”
In 1970, MLB experimented with a robot ump during spring training, as colorful umpire Ron Luciano recalled in his memoir, The Umpire Strikes Back.
“It was a short, stubby thing that made strange sounds. Kind of reminded me of Earl Weaver,” Luciano wrote, referring to the Orioles manager, who was Luciano’s famous sparring partner. “Two laser beams created a screen over home plate and could be adjusted to the strike zone of each batter. If a pitched ball went through the beam, a red light flashed on.”
But it had a tough debut, calling every pitch a strike. Yankees catcher Thurman Munson, whose normal disposition was something resembling a permanent scowl, couldn’t stop laughing.
“Jeez, Luciano, this machine is even blinder than you,” Munson yelled.
Luciano wrote that the inventors said the problem could be easily corrected. The next day, they came back and declared, “It’s fine now.”
“The first hitter stepped into the box and, without thinking, tapped his bat on home plate. The machine called that a strike. The red light started flashing urgently,” Luciano wrote.
Again, the inventors said they’d fix it, but two days later, the machine went off when the batter took a half-swing. The batter looked back at Luciano and said, “Hey, that thing’s crazy.”
“I shook my head sympathetically,” Luciano wrote. “‘Don’t tell me about it,’ I said. ‘I’m just the umpire. Tell the machine.’” (This is probably a sentiment umps are already expressing today.)
Finally, after a couple of other problems surfaced, the experiment was scrapped.
“I wasn’t surprised, but I was disappointed,” Luciano wrote. “I was looking forward to seeing Earl Weaver trying to blow the machine’s tubes.”
Frederic J. Frommer, a sports and politics historian who has written for the Washington Post, the New York Times, the Atlantic and other national publications, is working on a book on ‘70s baseball.
The same is needed for football too.