The Cactus League

by Emily Nemens

  The lounge is made to look old, the bar laminated with antique-seeming hardwood and its chairs upholstered in dark faux leather. At least the piano is real—not a Steinway, but a peppy Baldwin baby grand that’s fun to play. He makes a wave at Eric, who dims the house music to nothing, and then Lester opens the piano’s lid.

  Lester tries stretching across a seventh chord, C-E-G-B, and lands it without a hint of pain. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he chuckles to himself. He flats the B—C7—and shifts his left hand down a fifth. F major reverberates against his fingertips. Lester feels a warmth spreading through his chest as he flats the E and his fingers start an easy loop around the circle of fifths, one chord leading to the next to the next. That’s what he likes about the progression—it’s not up or down, but around. Tension and release, tension and release: it never gets old. When he gets back to C Lester smiles and starts into the same melody he opens with every night: “I Let a Song Go out of My Heart.”

  * * *

  Lester hits the last chord of “When Sonny Gets Blue” and looks to the bar. Who does he see but the bad-driving rookie, his face turned toward a basketball game on TV? He’s seen this kid here before, but tonight’s the first time he puts two and two together. Lester’s about due for a set break, so he stands up from the bench and shuffles to the bar. Clippers and the Trailblazers, playing in L.A. “Guess you’re gonna have to become a Clippers fan now.”

  The kid does a double take. “How’d you find me? Is it your car?”

  “The car’s fine. As for me finding you, I work here. Piano man.” Lester thumbs toward the piano. “Now, who’s stalking who?”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, Eric!” The bartender comes over, cocktail shaker aloft. “You know how old this kid is?”

  The boy goes ashen, begins to stammer. Lester holds up a hand, points from William to the shaker. “Kidding. Jeez. His next is on me.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Lester leans against the bar, waiting for a whiskey sour. One of the Clippers makes a defensive block and tosses the ball far ahead, to a teammate at midcourt. The player catches it out of the air, dribbles quickly into the key, leaps, and makes a smooth layup.

  “Good play.” Lester nods in approval.

  “Yeah.” They watch the replay.

  “Bet he screwed it up plenty of times before he got it right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lester stares at the screen, a little smile on his face. An ad for some big, shiny truck. The kid’ll figure it out.

  “Frank?” A young woman suddenly appears alongside them.

  Lester squints at her. “Who are you? This here’s Willy—”

  “Emily?” The boy leaps up from his seat, getting between the girl and Lester.

  “Yes. Hi.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The boy hugs her awkwardly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she starts. “I just saw Jason Goodyear, the baseball player, downstairs. I got his autograph!” She waves a cocktail napkin in the air.

  “Goody?” Lester says. “No surprise. He gambles like I drink, by which I mean, within reason.” The girl looks confused. “Oh, where are my manners?” He sticks his hand over the boy’s shoulder, and the girl shakes it cautiously. “I’m Lester. Emily, you said? Beautiful song by that name. A waltz.” Lester starts humming, enjoying the melody. “You know it?”

  Her eyebrows go up and she slips out of his grip. “Uh, no.” William looks stricken, but Lester keeps smiling.

  “Look it up.”

  * * *

  “So who was that guy?” Emily says when they’re settled into their seats, Lester safely back at the piano.

  “Oh, nobody,” William says, watching her eyes flick from him to the piano and back. She’s pretty, wearing a sleek black top, a skirt, and pumps. The kind of outfit that’s trying to make a good impression. He regrets his faded New Jersey Nets T-shirt.

  “Obviously he’s somebody. Seems like he knew you.”

  “I hit his car.”

  Her eyes go wide.

  “Not hard or anything.” Mercifully, her wine appears, and William takes the opportunity to swallow a big gulp of his whiskey. “How was dinner?”

  “The same.” She rolls her eyes. “You know, parents. Always worried about something. It drives me crazy! They won’t quit getting in my business and—”

  “—asking a thousand questions. I know it.” He nods sympathetically.

  “Yes! About the new job, about what I’m eating—”

  “—if I’m sleeping enough, if I’m dating…” Their eyes lock.

  “Exactly. Though I can tell you one thing: there are exactly zero eligible dudes in my life right now. I’m living at home. To save my savings, you know?” She looks nervous, revealing the fact, but William shrugs. He lives in a hotel. “Every single man in the neighborhood is over fifty or under five. That’s why I’m here. I mean, why I went online. Which is I guess why I’m here. Oh, you know.”

  “I do.”

  She puts down her wineglass and squints at him. “It’s crazy, but I keep thinking you look just like this baseball player. My dad’s from L.A., so he’s a big Lions fan, and they’ve got this rookie … fuck. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Huh. Is he any good?”

  Emily drains her glass. “He sorta sucks.”

  * * *

  Lester looks over to the chatting couple. “Cute girl,” he says to himself. Not going to win any pageants, but handsome in a quirky way, bright eyes and wavy hair and an interesting profile. Big nose, that’s another way to say it. She reminds him of the bohemian chicks he went with in the Village, way back when. Birds chirping about women’s liberation, too busy to shave their pits (but not their legs, thank goodness). He did well for himself, for a while there. He could talk just about any woman, fourteen to forty, into his bed. Emily cracks up across the room, her laugh like a trill.

  Young love. A lot of good songs about it, too. “There Will Never Be Another You.” “You’re My Everything.” “All of Me.” Those kinds of feelings seem a long way off now, but at least he knows what they’re singing about.

  Lester takes a long draw off his whiskey sour and starts into “Emily,” nice and easy. The stretch of the piece is in the right-hand melody, low then high, and Lester has no problem with that. E-B-G, E-B-G, E-B-G. Wow, he loves this song. His left hand spreads into a G7, pain-free. E-A-A, E-A-A, E-A-A. It was written for some bad movie, but Lester first heard it performed by Bill Evans, back when Scott was playing with him in the Village. After that, Lester couldn’t put on an Evans record without hearing another version: he plays it on Conversations with Myself, on Live in Paris. He recorded it in San Francisco, too, just a few days before he died.

  When Lester finishes, a few light flourishes in the right hand over the low rumble of C-sus, he looks up. The girl is gone, and Jason Goodyear is sitting in her place.

  * * *

  Emillionaire was a bust—their conversation went well enough, but she seemed more interested in the free wine than getting to know “Frank,” and when he invited her up for a nightcap in his room, she let a quiet laugh slip out before saying no, she had to be heading home. So William is left alone to watch the muted Late Late Show monologue—Craig Ferguson gesticulating like a marionette—and listen to that weird old piano man. It is while he is sitting at the bar, feeling supremely sorry for himself, that Jason Goodyear sidles into the seat next to him. “This one free?”

  Eric is so startled at the player’s appearance that he forgets a tap, the beer foam spreading over the lip of a pint glass and down his arm before he snaps to attention. Jason waits patiently for him to wipe up the mess, then orders a beer of his own. “You need anything?” he asks William, then nods at his near-empty glass. “He’ll have another of whatever that is.”

  “So, how’s the spring going?” Jason asks once both men have their drinks.

  “Great.” William’s heart is in his throat. Sure, Goodye
ar has said a few things to him in passing, stuck up for him when Monterrey was giving him grief. But the idea that they’d sit together and share a drink—he can’t believe it. “It’s such a dream to be here.”

  “You can be honest.” Jason takes a draw of his beer, and sets down the glass carefully on his coaster. He’s in no rush.

  “I really suck.”

  The older man laughs. “Everyone who makes it—and most of the guys who don’t—were the best somewhere. A lot of places. The best on his Little League team, the best in his youth league, the best in his high school division. The first time you realize you’re not the best anymore … it’s no bed of roses.”

  William knows he means the petals, but he thinks of the thorns. Has Jason ever faced that day, faced any sort of failure?

  They watch the TV, Ferguson silently talking with some forgettable celebrity. When a commercial rolls, William tries to get the conversation flowing again. “How, uh, is your spring going?”

  “Shitty.” Of course. The divorce, the trespassing kerfuffle. William is so wrapped up in his own crap spring, he completely forgot about Jason’s troubles.

  “Sorry, stupid question.”

  “It’s okay.” Jason takes another sip of beer, side-eyes the rookie.

  What was that look? William wonders. Was it I need to talk to someone, or Fuck you, rook? William can’t tell, but Jason did sit down and start a conversation … “Do you want to talk about it?” William thinks he sounds like a therapist—or a girl—asking that.

  Jason drops forty dollars on the bar and rises. “Not here.” And then, to William’s amazement: “Come with me.”

  * * *

  They walk out of the casino and into the parking lot. Jason continues through the rows of cars, weaving between shiny Bimmers and rusted-out Mercurys and past William’s own Porsche. “Where did you park?” William asks as the cars start to thin.

  “I didn’t,” Jason says. Ahead, there’s a footbridge between the casino and the stadium complex, one William has never taken—he always drives the short distance. They cross it, walk across another lot, and start down a path between dark practice fields. Everything’s clean, in its place, ready for the morning sessions that will begin—William looks at his watch—in six hours. How did it get so late?

  Jason leads them to a small cinder-block building, takes out a set of keys, and opens the door. Inside it’s a simple arrangement: a hot plate and half-size fridge in one corner, a single cot in another, covered in a cowboy blanket. Cactus League pennants on the walls, a small shelf of books. A television, snaking the stadium’s cable, and a ratty secondhand loveseat. A laptop open on a card table with two folding chairs. Under the table a bucket of batting-practice balls.

  “You live here?”

  Goodyear shrugs. “Easy commute.” He points his finger toward the stadium, to the casino, and back. “You want a beer?”

  William is well on his way to drunk, but he nods. Anything to keep this going.

  “I’m sure you heard the wife kicked me out.”

  “I hadn’t.” Of course he had, but this doesn’t seem like the time to mention it.

  “I know what the guys are saying.” He passes William a beer and opens one for himself. “It’s not because I have a small prick. And she’s not into chicks. Any of that would’ve been easier.” He takes a long pull of beer.

  William takes a sip, too.

  “You know, Willie Mays was suspended for gambling.”

  William didn’t know that.

  “Mickey Mantle, too. ‘Associating with known gamblers.’ But it’s bullshit. Spring training in Florida, the Grapefruit League, just about everyone ends up at the horse track. You ever bet on horses?” William shakes his head no. His gambling starts and ends with March Madness.

  “I remember when Pete Rose was going through all his trouble. I was just a kid, but I kept thinking, How could he be so fucking dumb? Why doesn’t he just quit already? Let me tell you: it’s easy.”

  William feels suddenly queasy. He’s signed his life over to the Lions, at least the next four years of it. What would they do if their star is booted? The team would collapse, William’s prospects along with it. “Did you … bet on baseball?”

  “Fuck no. But I got myself … into a pretty bad hole. That’s the real reason Liana jumped ship. ‘Thrill-seeking behavior,’ whatever the fuck that means. I know I just like to win, and she was sick of it.”

  William stares at the floor, recognizing himself in Jason’s confession. He likes to win, too. “How much did you lose?”

  “Tonight, I came out with about the same amount I came in with. Maybe down a hundred grand.”

  “Sounds fine,” he says, though it sounds impossible. That’s a Porsche, what he lost.

  Jason laughs, it coming out more like a bark. “That’s tonight. I didn’t tell you about this morning.” Both men are quiet. Jason takes another pull from his beer. “How much was that signing bonus?”

  “Two.”

  “You spend it yet?”

  “Just the car.”

  “That’s good, that’s real good.” Jason puts his can down and presses his hands together. “In that case, I have a big favor to ask.”

  * * *

  William falls asleep on Goodyear’s loveseat, legs dangling off the end, and wakes only when the left fielder throws a glove at his belly, telling him to borrow it for the day; they are late. They do what they need to on the bank’s website, then Jason rushes off somewhere in his Jeep. Out on the sidewalk, William squints at the too-bright morning and walks slowly to the stadium.

  There’s a note on his locker, and Paine is waiting for him in his office. “You weren’t answering your phone,” he says.

  “Outta juice,” William says, not making eye contact. He hopes he doesn’t smell like beer.

  “Anyway, here.” Paine hands over an envelope. William eyes the contents, a stack of twenties. Paine says, “That’s a week, kid. But today’s your last game. You report to Single-A Carolina on Tuesday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Work on those breaking balls. And when you are fielding, I’ve noticed you have a little stutter-step to the right. Try to cut that out by next spring.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know this spring was disappointing, but I look forward to seeing you next year.”

  “Yes, sir.” William walks out of the office, drops the envelope in his locker, and heads for the showers. He turns the water to scalding, hoping to feel the heat—nothing else seems to be registering at the moment. Not getting cut, not moving back to the East Coast, not being handed another chance next spring. His skin pinks; the room steams until it’s nearly white.

  He’s the only one in the locker room—that’s never been the case, not all spring. After his shower he walks up one row, down the next. The lockers for the starters have their names spelled out on laminate nameplates, the rest of them are written on masking tape. There are plenty of empty lockers now—the residue of tape where names have been, guys he can hardly remember, even just two weeks gone. He stands in front of his own locker. A nameplate, GOSLIN. Someone made that decision, too. He can hear sports radio coming from Paine’s office. He slips the plastic out of its rails and puts it in the envelope with his meal money. Next year.

  He suits up and steps onto the field. Putney is already at home with a bucket of balls, waiting to practice fungoes with him. The shortstop has been doing this twice a week all month, not complaining, just trying to get him better. Maybe there are a few decent guys here. “You ready, Goose?”

  William jogs toward first base, steps on the bag, and settles into position. “Ready.”

  Above him, the stadium organ comes to life, a creaking progression from one chord to the next. Dissonance, resolution, dissonance, resolution. The notes get louder, more confident, all the way around the loop.

  EIGHTH

  No team ever stays on top of the standings—nothing is static, remember—and right around 1400 the Hoho
kam had a rough go of it. No one’s sure what happened: maybe it was a drought, a flood, or some asshole GM making bad trades, breaking up all the best parts of the team. But whatever caused it, the whole civilization collapsed. The Lions have their own five-game skid the last week of March, but as catastrophic as it feels to Woody Botter and Stephen Smith and everyone else who has a hand in cutting and trimming the Lions to their final iteration (down from eighty to thirty-six by March 25, one more round of paring to go, the last of the probable cuts walking around with targets on their backs), it is a blip in the grand scheme of things.

  No, the Hohokam’s fall was more than just a sloppy wipeout, a dust-yourself-off-and-get-some-stitches sort of spill: they went poof, just disappeared. Closed their lockers one day, walked out of the stadium, and never came back. Left their ball courts, left their pole houses, left their pottery and spearheads and so many other bits scattered about their desert compounds. With time and mud, all of it got buried, just like the shark teeth, the rhinoceros footprints and fern fossils and whatever else’s been sunk below the sod. Given that vanishing act, now their name makes sense, right? Hohokam: those who have gone.

  The Pima people took up the Hohokam mantle, settling along the Salt River. They managed the wave of Spanish explorers, sent them on to New Mexico and the Grand Canyon. They welcomed the westward-moving Americans, made friends enough that they became scouts for settlers, proving themselves to be useful allies. Another team, the Maricopa, came calling in the middle of the nineteenth century. Mergers are hard, but the Maricopa seemed a good partner against the Apache (the bench-clearing brawls were getting more frequent). It’s not unlike the dynamic of these men gathering every spring; strangers until they’re not, competing until they’re teammates.