by Emily Nemens
Greg isn’t thinking anything about what card table to pick. He’s thinking those chips are thousand-dollar ones. Where did all that cash come from? Does Goody keep ten grand in his sock? He’s got a good contract, one of the best in the league, but—
Jason steps up to a table and lays down two chips. “Two hands, buddy.” The dealer nods, reaches for a chip of his own.
“Oh, I don’t play.” Greg is close at Jason’s shoulder, worried that if he blinks he might lose the left fielder in the sea of tables and tourists, the scantily clad cocktail waitresses and the spinning roulette wheels.
“Who said you did? These are for me.” Jason rolls his shoulders inward, toward the cards. He looks at his hands, says something to the dealer. He busts on one hand; the house beats the other. Jason lays down another pair of chips. “Let’s try that again.”
* * *
After Jason burns through his initial ten he gets ten more. He wins a hand, finally. A pretty cocktail waitress, her bangs teased two inches, asks them what they’re drinking. “Gatorade?” Greg says.
That gets a laugh from the table, a back slap from Jason. She brings him a club soda with lime. Greg’s still sweating but feeling frozen in the AC, disoriented by the fact they went from a bright afternoon to this dim and clattering room, where it could be 2:00 p.m. or 2:00 a.m.
When Jason is up to thirty, they wander from blackjack to poker. The left fielder quickly loses all he’s gained on a hand of Hold’em with a gray-haired cowboy (his two-pound belt buckle and a ten-gallon hat making Greg, his sweaty clothes now stiff with salt, feel underdressed all over again). At that, the outfielder stands up and says, “Good game, sir. Carve, should we head back to the stadium?” Greg nods, though he hardly understands why Jason is so damn chipper. Thirty thousand is what Greg earns for a whole season in Salt Lake.
They jog through the parking lot, over a short bridge that spans a drainage canal, and onto the Salt River lot. Goodyear picks up his pace, nearly sprinting between practice fields. A few fans taking smoke breaks squeal when they see Jason Goodyear approach the players’ entrance, his pumping arms and perfect form, his skin glistening. No one calls out for Greg, thundering down the sidewalk a few steps behind. Inside, the clubhouse TV says it’s the ninth inning and Vásquez is still on the mound. Goodyear raises his eyebrows and Greg curses under his breath.
Jason turns and says, “Looks like I owe you a five spot. And remember, we just went for a run.” He slaps Greg’s back again, but closer to his shoulder, and it sends shots of pain down his arm. He’d nearly forgotten about his surgery, had not thought of his arm since that first whoosh of cold casino air.
Vásquez finishes the game while Greg’s rinsing off; he can hear hooting and hollering over the sound of water splashing on tile. When he comes out the locker room’s abuzz: complete game shutout. Dorsey never keeps a starter in for the whole game in spring training, but today he did, just to see. The players are whooping, hooting for Vásquez, who is quiet but smiling in front of his locker. Jimmy throws a towel around Vásquez’s hips, shimmies it around his ass like he’s polishing a bowling ball. Greg gets dressed as fast as he can and speeds back to the hotel, swallowing a pill just as soon as he steps into his room.
* * *
The doctor gave him Vicodin, with the standard warning of moderation. As needed. But when Greg was supposed to taper—when the pain was supposed to taper and it didn’t, just kept on pulsing from his fingertips to his neck—he continued with the pills, doubling doses as often as he could without raising suspicions. It’s not Greg’s fault the doc left his script pads around the office like they were Post-its, that his 30s could become 90s pretty damn easy, that the lady pharmacist thought Greg was some sort of famous coming in to the Walgreens with his team scripts.
He blacked out on the pills. Or grayed out, maybe—it was hard to describe the sensation. Lost time, in any case, three hours or four per pill, though the blank spots hardly seemed to matter through that endless recovery. There was always another physical therapy appointment, always more stretches to do in his parents’ basement. The same sitcoms on TV in the living room, the same restless nights.
From the outside, things looked fine. After that first year of conditioning, he was finally able to throw again. Started with easy, slow tosses. So many pitches thrown at a rubber bull’s-eye, counting the strikes. Strength came back, velocity, accuracy. Even Coach Stu thought he’d healed up well. Looking good, kid—that’s what he’d said at the end of the first day of pitchers’ and catchers’ practice. Like he’d finally done something right.
Greg is scared to bring it up with his doctors, but he’s done enough trawling through WebMD to have an educated guess of what happened. Something went sideways on the first surgery, a clipped nerve or scar tissue. Something. If Greg mentions it now, explains that it feels like he’s sticking his elbow in an electrical socket every time he pitches, the doctors would want to take a look. And not just look: they’d have to go back in, root around, snip and tuck and hope they fix it right. If they made another mistake, even a tiny one, the Internet says he could lose all feeling in his arm—fingers, too. Something about how the nerves are bundled. How is he supposed to pitch if he can’t feel his thumb? At least now he can throw, even if it hurts like a mother. A second surgery, recovery time, would be another four months. Practically the whole damn season on the bench, and then his rehab assignment. Fuck that. Greg took two pills before his last start and couldn’t remember a pitch of it, but Jimmy said he’s throwing faster than ever.
* * *
A bright, buzzing liquor store. Greg’s at the counter with a basket full of cheap champagne. The man with a scar on his cheek brings his basket up to the front—light beer with mountains on it—and pays for both of their lots with a credit card that says JAMES CARDOZO.
Greg picks up and palms a muddy, familiar ball. Jimmy. He knows Jimmy. Jimmy is his best friend. Jimmy is the catcher for the Salt Lake Stallions. No, the Los Angeles Lions. Jimmy is wearing a ball cap that says as much. “I got it.” Jimmy gives the cashier a credit card, signs a slip. “Thanks for picking up the tab at that last place.”
Greg has no recollection of the last place, but he realizes that along with the fuzz of the vikings, he’s wobbly with booze. He straightens up, tries to ignore the swimming corners of his vision. “No problem.”
There is a beat-up convertible in the lot, two women waiting in it. They wave at Greg and Jimmy; the one with brown hair blows a kiss. Jimmy blows one back. “Who are those women?” Greg says under his breath. They look familiar, but he’s not sure if it’s because he’s seen them before or because they look like every dolled-up divorcée in this town.
“Dibs on the brunette,” Jimmy says. “Joanne, right?”
“Hell if I know.” According to Jimmy, the trophy wives want trophies, too—though these women look too rough around the edges to be anyone’s stay-at-home. Pretty, though.
They follow the convertible through the nighttime streets, Jimmy driving, Greg hanging out the window, hoping the fresh air will blow away his fog. And it does, somewhat: Joanne and Tami, those are their names. They’d been sitting on a bench near the players’ lot, Joanne saying something sharp and flirty, Jimmy snapping right back with a humdinger. Jimmy: unless he’s due on the field, he’s always down to meet a lady. They’d gone for drinks at the casino, some lounge with a happy hour fit for a minor leaguer. The whole time there, swilling their vodka sodas, Greg had been convinced he’d run into Jason, and he looked for the left fielder’s broad shoulders leaning over every card table. But they saw only Goslin, the wayward rookie, scurrying across the hotel lobby, pretending like he didn’t know anyone. Oh, how Jimmy’d heckled, turned the rookie beet red. Jimmy also bought the kid beer, he said, kept him in six-packs, so there was no bad blood, not really.
The palms zip by like so many columns holding up the night. Did he tell the women about their long-distance run, Goody’s midgame gamble? Greg had sworn up and down he�
��d say nothing, but now he can’t remember if he’d kept his promise or not. As for the women, the blond one, Tami, knew everything about the team, and a damn lot about him, his surgery and his stats for the spring. Sorta creepy, but flattering, too, particularly after the year at home, feeling like the opposite of a professional ball-player. Jimmy had so much to brag on, the one-hitter with Stan Rogers and Vásquez’s complete game shutout being the most recent; it felt good to have Tami focused on him. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt tonight, but the way she’d put her hand on his arm, gentle-like, a fingertip tracing the seam under the fabric, it’s like she knew everything.
They trail the taillights past a stone sign that says SANDIA HILLS. The car stops just inside the gate, an imposing white-stucco pile.
The women unfold from the car. “This your place?” Jimmy asks them.
“I’m watching it for a friend,” Tami says with a serious expression.
“But it’s basically Tami’s,” Joanne adds. She’s still making eyes at Jimmy as Tami unlocks the front door. The four step into a double-height foyer, cool terrazzo floors and a glittering, too-bright chandelier.
“Let’s go in here.” Tami leads them into the great room, soaring ceilings and a stone fireplace, no furniture except for a semicircle of camping chairs.
“Sorry about the furniture,” Tami says. “I’ve just been waiting to find the perfect couch.” She fishes a champagne out of Greg’s bag, unwraps the foil, and pops the cork. It ricochets off the ceiling, just missing another gaudy light fixture. “But please, make yourselves at home.”
Jimmy plops down in a chair and scoots it over to Joanne’s side. “This is fine with me.”
“Oh, sorry,” Tami says when she realizes there are only three chairs, four of them. She looks at Greg. “I could’ve sworn I had another. I can—the patio?” She points toward the back of the house.
“Floor’s fine,” Greg says and eases himself onto the dusty hardwood. He winces.
“Have you ladies been watching Carve this spring? He threw a great game the other day.” What game is he talking about? Greg wracks his brain. The Mariners? He threw five innings, maybe six. Did they win?
“Oh, yes,” Tami says as she pours champagne into cups. The bubbles make Greg’s head spin. Back when they were both Stallions, Jimmy and Greg did more than a bit of womanizing together, prowling bars in road towns, finding pretty women and following them home—anywhere was an improvement on the team hotel. They found their way into plenty of strange situations, too. But this all-but-empty house, these two women, fifteen, twenty years older than them—this takes some sort of cake.
“How did you get your scar?” Joanne breaks the silence. Greg is ready to answer, but she is looking at Jimmy, at the faint lightning bolt down his cheek.
“Everyone assumes I got a bat to the face. Catcher’s prerogative, right?” The women nod, and Jimmy shakes his head. “Mom’s boyfriend had a Doberman. I hated that guy from the start.
“But mine’s nothing,” Jimmy continues. “Wanna see something cool?” He leans out of his chair and grabs Greg’s wrist, lifting it like a prizefighter’s. A sharp pain pops to the surface. Jimmy doesn’t notice Greg’s shudder, but Tami does, and she raises an eyebrow at him as Jimmy pushes down the sleeve. “Check out that battle scar.” Jimmy smiles.
Both women lean in to peer at the six-inch incision along the inside of his elbow. Tami’s eyes go wide. “I’ve never seen a Tommy John up close.”
“He’s good as new,” Jimmy continues. “Procedure’s no big deal, tons of pitchers have it nowadays.”
Greg wiggles out of Jimmy’s grip. “Slow recovery, though,” Jimmy says. “This fuck’s been coming back for a year. Over a year. Pretty shitty, huh?”
Neither woman replies, but Greg can see something on their faces, like they know what a year can mean. He excuses himself, finds the bathroom, and swallows another pill.
* * *
Jimmy wakes him with a shake and a whisper, the catcher’s breath warm and sharp near his cheek. He is in jeans and socks, his shirt still balled up in one fist and his shoes hanging by their laces in the other. “Carve, we gotta go. Say bye to the bird.”
Greg looks at Tami, her forehead smooth with sleep. He can’t remember what they talked about last night, but he has the sense he fell asleep reassured—and not just from the release of sex. He does remember that, at least snaps of it: her naked body, the tan skin of her legs gone a bit loose with age. Her breasts, still round, the nipples big and hard as leather. Had she said her ex was a pitcher? That she knew someone who came back from surgery? He can’t remember. Greg steps into his jeans, grabs his wadded-up clothes, and follows Jimmy out of the house, both men dressing as they go.
“Damn,” Jimmy says, hustling to his car. “I sure hope we’re not late for pregame. Gotta get you warmed up. You ready to start?”
The only thing Greg is ready to do is curl up into the fetal position, but he smiles wanly.
“Atta boy.”
* * *
Every throw hurts. It starts before the throw even, screaming when he lifts his arm up and back for the motion.
Jimmy holds up his palm, gets out of his crouch, and jogs over to the rubber. “You okay, Carve?”
“Just sore.”
Jimmy gives the pitcher a hangdog look. “I am, too! Joanne kept me up half the night. How’d you make out, champ?”
“Fun time.” Fun, if that’s what it’s called to burst into tears after sex, soaking some stranger’s pillow. He remembers now—he’d actually said it, out loud: My elbow’s wrecked. Tami, she’d just put her hand on his chest, right over his breastbone, and pressed. Hard but soft. That opened the floodgates.
“It’s good to have you back.” Jimmy grins. “Last season was no fun at all.” Greg smiles, sort of, then says he’s gonna take five.
Tomás Monterrey is in the clubhouse bathroom, standing at a urinal. He busted his wrist against the outfield wall two summers ago, and Greg is pretty certain he’s got something. Might not be the same, but that hardly matters—he can’t start the game feeling the way he feels, pain so sharp he might puke. And he can’t tell Dorsey he’s hurt, that’d be curtains—tomorrow’s cut day, and as it is he’s hanging on by a thread. “Tomás, hi,” Greg says. He offers a hand, and then sees Tomas’s hand is around his dick. Greg crosses his arms. “I’m Greg Carver, a pitcher with the Stallions? I mean, hopefully the Lions, but last time I—”
“I know who you are.” Since they traded Townsend, Monterrey’s been starting in center. Not exeptionally good at it, but not fucking up, either.
“Oh, good. Right. I wasn’t sure, since I’ve been out—”
“What you want, Carver?” Monterrey looks annoyed and finishes pissing with an exasperated little shake.
“See, I’m starting today, and I’m out of, well—I’m looking for some vikings. I’ve got plenty more back at the hotel, but I’m starting in thirty. I’ll get you back, plus some. Or cash. Whatever you need.”
Monterrey zips himself up and disappears with a scowl. Greg hears a locker open, the rattle of pills in a bottle, the locker closing. Monterrey returns with two tiny white pellets in his palm. “You know what you’re doing with these, man?”
“Yeah. Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Fifty bucks tomorrow,” he says, glancing at Greg’s scar. “And tomorrow’s cut day, so make sure you get me my money before you go.”
Greg wants to punch him, but someone else walks into the bathroom, clomping in his cleats. Jason Goodyear, unzipping as he walks. “Tomás, Carve,” he nods to both, giving Greg a quick look like he knows everything, Greg’s loose lips and the old broad and the half-abandoned house, the nerve damage that’ll end his career, the pills clutched in his fist. Greg might know about the gambling, but the scales are impossibly tipped. Greg throws the pills into his mouth, swallows hard. “Absolutely, Tomás. Of course.”
* * *
Sinking into the pill while pitching is a stran
ge sensation. In the first inning the pain dulls. A guy gets on base but no damage is done. In the second the ache in his arm slips away and he begins to float above himself, like he’s a fan in the grandstand, watching the action on the field. Someone hits a ball to deep left, but Goodyear is there, waiting under it. He hardly has to step. And he throws back to the mound, a rocket. Greg feels that, the heat of the throw through the leather of his glove.
Two men out, a runner on first. The stadium is loud and the afternoon bright, but to Greg it’s all muffled sound and hazy gray. He nods at the signal, pulls his arm back and snaps it forward, letting the ball fly. That release, and, a half second later, the slap of the ball in Jimmy’s mitt: with that, Greg Carver is gone.
SIXTH
And with the end of that brief, green promise came people. Players from Asia traveled across the Bering Strait, whole teams came charging down the West Coast, wearing fur-coat uniforms and carrying honking-big spears. What they found alongside the McDowell Mountains: mammoths in marshes, competition that proved to be as easy as a slow runner with a too-big lead off of first. Watch them dance, and then … blam. Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I think us old-timers must’ve looked not unlike those mammoths to the Internet-savvy newcomers, the guys who bought out the papers and speared all the union guys before anyone could turn their creaky old heads. Not that feeling sorry for yourself is any sort of productive, but the metaphor seems apt.