The other night I was peeling potatoes for a simple *aloo pitika*, and the line the referee drew on screen looked just like the cracks running through my kitchen wall—straight until they aren't. We fuss over these pixels the way my old boss used to fuss over tea leaf grades, as if certainty can be measured in tenths of a millimeter. But I've seen too many harvests fail because the rain came a day early or the soil decided to be stubborn; the most vulnerable player is usually the one whose livelihood hangs on a decision that no machine can taste. I'd rather trust the off-side call my son made in the narrow lane behind our house, where he could feel the ground shift under his feet.