Judging from his spectacularly wonderful name you might guess that Bacchus Pederson is either a character in a novel by Thomas Pynchon or the son of a Swedish father and a patriotic Greek mother. Not so. He's the creation not of eccentric parents or postmodern fiction the but of the voice recognition system that's been close-captioning that 2017 Dodgers-Astros World Series. He's an imaginary being. He does not exist. Except on the TV screen.
There is, however, a up-and-coming not-Greek-but-Jewish on-his-mother's-side left hand hitting center fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers named Joc Pederson. And what is the relationship between Joc and Bacchus, you ask?
The other day (and the following morning because the game went on roughly forever), I watched the epic 13-12 Houston win over the Dodgers. A most exciting game. There was bad umpiring by the home plate official, there were balls flying out of the bandbox and onto the short porches, there was some beautiful defensive plays and some costly mental errors. See-saw, back and forth.
And yet more. Inasmuch as my veteran ears are past their prime and over the hill, I now supplement my hearing with "close captioning." I try to catch what Joe Buck and John Smoltz say and then watch as their words, or some approximation of their words, flashes across the screen. It's an activity that is almost as fascinating and much more amusing than the game itself. And it is out of this experience that the fanciful mythological figure of Bacchus Pederson emerges. Smoltz says "a fly ball to center and back goes Pederson." CC writes "a fly ball to center and Bacchus Pederson." No human being would translate "back goes" into "Bacchus". It's nonsensical and not even decent English grammar. t's got to be a machine, an idiot savant machine, that, stumped by "back goes," has located "Bacchus" in its word hoard.
And similarly, what is an "Amana board?" Something wooden manufactured in the Amana colonies in Iowa, you might guess. No, it's CC for "a man aboard."
CC produces all sorts of comic linguistic wonders because it's utterly untethered to common sense.
When John Smoltz, a human being who knows all there is to know about pitching, said that the left-hander was going to try to "bury it in the back foot," knowledgeable baseball fans would understand exactly what was meant. The lefty intended to throw an unhittable pitch by coming as close as possible to the left-handed batter's left foot. However, readers would have to be mighty clever to interpret the meaningless wild CC phrase "Marriott in the back foot."
Other electronic locutions were easier. Not much of problem with "hit it into the upper tank" or "rubbing him of a double" or "sacrifice bump" or "Taylor will eat it off."
Some CC flights of fancy require a little more interpretive skill. Will the Dodger manager replace his pitcher with "a fresher god?" Perhaps a "fresher guy." Did the pitching staff "hand out seven rocks?" Seven walks is more likely. Do the Dodgers have a right fielder named Yossi el Pogue? No, but they do have Yasiel Puig. Was a reliever taken out after "a short student?" Naw, it was a short stint. Did a pitch come "in her half" of the plate? Who is "her"? But no, it was "inner half." Is it possible that a batter "applied to center?" No but he might very well have "flied to center."
Here's one that is Impossible to comprehend: "Turner headset hard." I had to rewind and listen again: "Turner hits it hard."
Sometimes CC sounds vaguely spiritual. "Flies want to center," says CC. Do they really, I ask. But what Joe Buck said was "flies one to center."
My favorites, aside from the immortal Bacchus Pederson, are errors that make no sense at all. What does it mean to say that a pitcher is a "shortest writer." And that he "threw his lighter." The correct locutions: he was a "short strider" who "threw his slider."
Voice recognition systems are technological marvels, no doubt. But they have a way to go. There's still a place at the table for humans.
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