I blame myself. I do. I have grown less vigilant in recent years. You wake up one morning, discover that intentional walks can now be declared instead of delivered, and one man’s silence leads to the now-standard practice of a manager wiggling four fingers in a dugout. And it’s goodbye to the intentional walk.

(And, oh by the way, moments like Rollie Fingers striking out Johnny Bench in the 1972 World Series by feigning an intentional walk. That actually happened.)

You wake up some other morning, and you learn there is now something called a “ghost runner” — (or, more cleverly, the Manfred Man) to help move extra-inning games along. You’ve attended your share of 15- and 18- and 20-inning baseball games, your soul dying a little with every scoreless inning, and conclude: “even Abner Doubleday wouldn’t want to sit through a 20-inning baseball game.”

And again: one man’s silence becomes acceptance. You hit the Deegan a little quicker, make an earlier 7 train. Where’s the harm?