It’s the year 2026, and the amount of information available to us at a moment’s notice is staggering. Whether it’s via smartphone, laptop, desktop, or a visit to the library, an internet connection brings the world to your door. Knowledge is knocking—and yet, sometimes we just don’t feel like answering.
I’ll start with some examples of low-hanging fruit—though given the number of times I’ve pondered these questions without ever pursuing an answer, they could probably hang at eye level and still not produce enough interest for anyone to pluck from that particular unforbidden tree of knowledge. Our first question involves a product that is, appropriately, made from a low-hanging fruit:
Why is canned cranberry sauce packed upside down? It’s so that consumers can enjoy that sweet “slurp” as the cranberry sauce slides out of the can and onto your plate, with its cylindrical mold shape fully intact. An air bubble on the “do not open” end of the can helps make that happen, and putting the label on “upside down” encourages supermarkets and customers to store the cans with the air bubble up, which helps to preserve it. Apparently, some brands of tomato paste do the same upside down packaging trick, for the same reason. Other red slurpy foods, like red Slurpees, take a more traditional approach.
As an experiment, I tried opening some Ocean Spray cranberry sauce from the “wrong” side, but it was locked up tighter than Fort Knox. If I was more determined, and had a Ginsu knife handy, I might have cut it open, but it wouldn’t have been easy, and there’s a good chance another red substance would have been added to the mix—my own blood. So as much as I’d like to test this theory for myself, I think I’ll just take the word of the experts and trust that the corporate powers know best. They’ve made it fool-proof except for the most proven fools, like me, whose curiosity would otherwise ruin the integrity of their cranberry sauce.
Why are there no B batteries? The simple answer is that there once were, but they were made obsolete. B batteries weren’t small enough to fit into portable electronics easily like AA and AAA batteries, and weren’t as powerful as C and D batteries, so demand dried up and they disappeared. The same thing happened with A batteries, which didn’t offer any significant advantage over AA or AAA batteries when those came along.
The question the internet can’t answer is why we don’t just adjust the names of the popular batteries. AA batteries could become A batteries, and AAA batteries could slide into the empty B slot. We’d have a neat, clean, A, B, C, D system. But as history informs us with our failed attempt at changing to the metric system in the 1970s, we Americans are a stubborn lot, and we don’t like change.
The internet has its limits, but some questions merely require a little more determination to find an answer. And often, answers breed more questions. Case in point:
Why do tennis ball numbers only go up to 4? Wilson, Penn, and Dunlop, the three major manufacturers of tennis balls, all use numbering from 1 to 4, and Google’s explanation is that it’s simply for differentiation, to avoid ball mixups with players on other courts. Google’s AI Overview goes on to say that 1 to 4 numbering is “often sufficient to avoid clashes.”
While it’s true I’ve never seen players on different courts bludgeon each other with their rackets over a ball ownership dispute, I’ve often run into situations where nearby courts are using the same brand AND number balls (Wilson 1s or Penn 3s, for example). According to some AI-aided probability calculations, that isn’t unusual.
With each of 5 tennis courts using any of 12 possible ball types, there’s a whopping 62% chance that two courts will be using identical brand and number balls. Even with only 3 courts, there’s still a nearly 24% chance of using identical tennis balls. With 5 courts, 3 brands, and numbers that go from 1 to 9, however, the chance of duplication across courts drops to about 33%. With 3 courts, it drops to just over 10%.
For a casual player like me, this seems like a significant real-world benefit for a negligible cost to the manufacturer. And I’m assuming it would cost slightly more to print double- or triple-digit numbers, otherwise the numbering possibilities could be boosted to say, 333, which would give the 5 court, 3 brand option a less than 1% chance of duplication. It would also open up all kinds of marketing opportunities.
Frequent players might buy up Penn 63s or Dunlop 199s in quantity, so they could use the same unique ball number for months at a time. And people collect pretty much anything; I have no doubt that some would buy every number available, 1 to 333, just to have a complete set. Companies could manage scarcity—not to mention charge more—by picking a few random numbers for lower print runs (“You have the rare Penn 312s? I’ll pay double!”).
Instead, the only option for getting even a simple Wilson 5 is custom tennis ball printing, which is pricey. Instead of roughly $1 per ball for a standard issue tennis ball, custom imprints run about $6 per ball, in bulk. So the Wilson 5 remains a dream indefinitely deferred.
Due to space constraints, I’ll have to leave some other questions unanswered, such as:
Is there a rule that every hotel shower’s controls must be a unique puzzle to operate, with punishments for wrong guesses administered in the form of scalding or freezing water? Why can I get a Lyme disease vaccine for my dog, but not for me? Why do keyboards have bumps on the keys for “F” and “J”?
If you’re motivated, you can put some 21st century computing power to work and find the answers in seconds. Or you can shrug your shoulders, say, “Who cares?” and go on living in blissful ignorance. It’s not quite the same as Keanu Reeves choosing between the red pill and the blue pill in The Matrix, but it’s about as close as you’ll come while reading this column. Choose wisely, Neo.
Peter Dabbene’s website is www.peterdabbene.com. His poetry/photo book The Lotus Eater (and Other Poems) is available through Amazon.com for $20 (print) or $10 (ebook).