Robot for a Housekeeper? You'll Still have to Sort the Wash.

Fred Bruning’s

Invisible Ink

Photo by Matthew Modoono/Northeastern University

By Fred Bruning

April 5, 2026

Baseball is back at last and fans are advised to savor the season because this may be the last chance to see the game played by young men wearing gold chains and tight-fitting trousers – who decided against knickers, I’d like to know? – and not sleek robots who routinely find the strike zone and spark late-inning rallies, no problem.

Those not interested in the national pastime, please remain at your posts.

The sport will barely be mentioned except to say Major League officials have made good on threats to impose an automated system for judging balls and strikes.

“Stee-rike,” says the ump, species homo sapiens.

“Beg to differ,” complains the batter.

Play stops and a graphic appears.

And, wouldn’t you know, the ball, indeed, is a sixteenth of an inch off the plate.

“Deepest apologies,” says the umpire. “Very sorry.”

“No offense,” says the successful petitioner. “Stuff happens.”

Matter settled, play resumes – until the ump, again, comes under suspicion.

Automated Ball-Strike (ABS) technology supplements the league’s existing replay protocol – further evidence of a civilization in decline – that allows managers to question close calls and various matters, fair and foul.

Oh, the plight of the umpire – forever disrespected and now second-guessed by laser beams and video cameras and league officials demanding perfection, forget that baseball isn’t intended to be perfect or else there would not be a big “E” – “E” for errors – on the scoreboard.

(“They’ve been taking it on the chin,” said a Mets radio announcer last week after ABS pulled rank on another ump.)

For now, teams are entitled to only a few challenges per nine innings but no question what lies ahead.

Roboball! Automatons in team jerseys. Umps, obsolete. AI everywhere, hot dog stands, included. Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio? Simon and Garfunkel’s plaintive question is urgent as ever.

I am not a Luddite opposed to all technology.

I have adjusted nicely to color television, for instance, electric car windows, motion-activated night lights and even streaming services though exactly what is that little circle that goes round and round in the middle of the screen and why does Netflix make it so hard to find a good movie?

And, yes, all right, I am grateful for week-in-review news podcasts and Shazam, the app that identifies tunes on oldies radio (yes, knew it, “Ship of Love” by the Nutmegs, circa 1955!), but did you see what took place recently at the White House?

First Lady Melania Trump hosted a “Fostering the Future Together” high-tech meeting and was escorted by a robot, handsome android known as Figure 3.

They walked the length of a red carpet toward the East Room, Mrs. Trump glamorous as always; Figure 3, fit and with a waist even smaller than that of his companion, limber gait and evidently at ease though you couldn’t tell too much from his deeply tinted plastic face.

Figure 3 said a few words of thanks to Mrs. Trump and then departed. Guests took the moment seriously – no R2-D2 jokes – as though, yes, of course, here we are at the White House and Melania Trump arrived with a cyborg.

I looked up Figure 3. His manufacturer says the robot is designed as a sort of tireless Merry Maid. He is 5’-8,” weighs just over 134 pounds and has a five-hour “running time.” Figure 3 “takes care of household tasks like laundry, cleaning, and doing dishes, all autonomously,” according to the corporate website. Estimated cost: $25,000.

What do you think, friends, are we ready for a robot-in-residence – an impassive presence who might arrive at your side any moment, wanting only to serve, demanding attention as though it were the family Labrador Retriever, when all you want is to relax and watch the Mets and hope baseball’s oppressed umps don’t take it too often on the chin.

Can’t we vacuum the rugs ourselves and carry our own Amazon packages from the front door to kitchen table?

In a company video, we see Figure 3 in action, gliding through a home, generally keeping an eye on things, even putting clothes into the washer.

“Hey, look at this,” I said to my wife, Wink. “Wave of the future.”

Wink, generally cautious about labor-saving devices and told by her mother if you’d like something done right, do it yourself, watched the promo and lost interest.

“Didn’t separate the whites from darks,” she said.

In the laundry, if not the dugout or East Room, humanity is, for now, preserved.

Enjoy the moment while we last.

Previous Invisible Ink posts at: https://fredbruning.substack.com/archive