Another season boils down to the otherworldly entities that control the outcome, and - no - I am not referring to the juju gods

This we know: Nothing lasts forever, aside from the love of a moose for his flying squirrel. Everything ends somewhere, sometime, somehow - consult your local listings - and "2017," the baseball season, not the impending global catastrophe - soon will boil down to a strike zone or chalk line, some microscopic vagary that exists behind the Easter Island grins of the juju gods. This time, Cleveland will come to bat last and, more importantly, enjoy a home field umpires, whose calls over the last four games have consistently bent like windsocks to favor the louder crowds. 

I cannot recall a series where home plate umpires - and judgement calls on checked swings - have more consistently favored the host teams. In Cleveland, Trevor Bauer carved up the strike zone like Jim Bowie. In New York, the same pitches just missed. It's only human for umpires to be influenced by the wild, zealous - and, gulp, dangerous? - crowds, but MLB's instant replays - in getting base calls right - is showing the world just how poorly balls and strikes are being judged. The visiting teams consistently get squeezed. It's becoming impossible to ignore. We all hate the idea of automated strike zones, but soon, the entire 2017 season will hinge upon a curve in the dirt that gets ridiculously called a strike - blowing a hole in the pitcher's psyche - while the TV announcers grimace and equivocate. Mark my words: The home team will get the advantage, and we will play the price.

We can rage about Joe Girardi's failure to challenge that foul tip two games ago - the likely fulcrum point for this series, as history will remember it. But the umps could have simply said they weren't sure, and to get it right, the call demanded an electronic review. They didn't do this, of course, because that's not who they are. The modern game hardly resembles what Mickey Mantle once knew, yet we still rely on the 1940s model of the glowering, buzz-cut umpire - the angry, underpaid, pug who rules through intimidation and rage. Instead of bully cops wrapped in psychological riot gear, the umps should be young technicians with iPads, who instantly analyze close plays and move the game forward. There is no reason why ump crews should take 10 minutes to review plays that are instantly assessed on the Jumbotron. And yes, the automated strike zone needs to happen. If you fear the game will lose another microscopic piece of humanity, where have you been? Have you seen how Orwellian ads shift behind home plate? Look... okay, I get it, machine are evil - but an automated strike zone will not lie, and I greatly fear that, come Wednesday night, we'll be screaming at the TV - another machine - over the blatant home cooking served to Mr. Corey Kluber. 

Joe's failure to challenge that foul tip in Game Two might define how 2017 is remembered. If we lose this series, we lose because of that game, because the ump missed a call and we didn't instantly lawyer up. And if we win, we win because our team rallied behind its manager, who faced an enraged fan and media base. If we lose, Joe becomes scapegoat. If we win, his float leads the parade. 

I can understand why some fans would prefer the humanity behind such decisions, rather than the cold-blooded calculus of a Kubrickian Hal 2000. But let's see how those child-of-nature-friend-of-man, touchy-feely fans feel Thursday morning, after a night of watching the Indians feast on a strike zone the size of a postage stamp. 

I never thought I'd say this, but it's the umps - not the juju gods - that we need to work.