by Emily Nemens
He dialed it, of course he did. On his cell, right there in the casino. Gave his real name, too, because as slick as he sometimes felt sitting at the big stakes table and being in magazines and standing at the plate, he was still a bighearted midwestern boy at his middle. The guy gave him fifty grand on the spot—not quite on the spot, but within thirty seconds of hanging up, a pretty waitress was pressing five $10,000 chips into his palm. He couldn’t figure how they’d found him so quickly, but also didn’t ask: there was a good table going in the VIP room.
That night had gone okay, but the next night, and the next—it seemed impossible to get back up. So he called again. The first fifty had been on name recognition, the next was on promise of the signed balls, the 2008 MVP trophy. Another guy, not the loan shark, but “an associate”—a skinny, tall man who looked sunbaked and shifty—collected the bucket of balls from Jason’s shed one morning. He crossed paths with Sara making her daily delivery of coffee and a bran muffin, and Jason watched from the door as the two of them brushed shoulders. Sara stonewalled the guy, stared right through him like he wasn’t even there, like he wasn’t leaning sideways with the weight of the bucket of marked-up balls and grinning at her. Like she recognized him but didn’t want to. The skinny guy laughed and said it was funny, their meeting here. Sara waited until he was good and gone before she handed Jason his coffee. Who was that? Jason asked.
Sara chewed her lip. I could ask you the same.
* * *
Then he had a good night at the table, after an ugly loss to the Padres (he’d scored, but they lost 9–2), and that got him a few feet closer to the surface. He didn’t have to call the shark again for a week, but then he did, having started an evening with half a million of his own chips, then getting down to nothing. He felt absolutely certain that with another hand or two he could turn it around, get it up to $750K, maybe even a million. He was certain. He’d done it before, million-dollar nights. The shark didn’t sound too happy to answer Jason’s call at midnight, but he also answered on the second ring. A waitress came over with a Jack and soda and a handful of chips.
* * *
The spring continued, and his losses mounted. That creepy associate showed up on the floor at odd hours, playing Texas Hold’em at the next table (and folding every hand after the kitty, watching Jason’s table rather than his own game). Jason would see him around the stadium, too, where the autograph seekers and desperate women loitered. Ten-mile stare, or leering like a wacko—the guy had both looks down pat. Sara still delivered the morning coffee but was jumpier now, worried that she’d see him, too. Apparently, she had known him in some past life—she admitted he was a friend of her ex, both of them bad news—but she wouldn’t say any more about it.
By mid-March all Jason’s accounts were drained, the Saarinen house proceeds long gone. He wasn’t about to call Iowa, to repo his mother’s Cadillac—she’d worked too long, too hard, for him to pull a stunt like that. He offered to sign another bucket of balls but the shark said the market was “saturated.” Fuck if it didn’t sting to hear his signature wasn’t worth shit.
So, Herb. They got together at the agent’s favorite steak house. Sara was there, too, driving that tank-size car and wearing something unnecessarily tight and short. Not that she didn’t look nice—she did, and Herb sure wasn’t complaining. What did he call her? A nurse? No. Assistant? The way she talked around him, how she acted, it was like he wasn’t even sick, and it was clear Herb appreciated that. Deserved it, too. How Marlene took the diagnosis, slumping around the house like the grave’d already been dug, well, that didn’t do anyone any good.
They were sawing at their steaks, and Jason decided to take the Band-Aid approach: pull it off quick. He asked for half a million.
“I just don’t see why you’d ask the man with a nickel and three pennies when you’re holding ninety-two cents of the same damn dollar. Does that make any sense to you, Sara?”
“Cents!” She giggled.
“Thank you, Sara.” Herb lifted his wine to his lips. “Unnecessary, but appreciated. Goody, I thought you said the divorce was buttoned up?”
“It is.” In fairness, Jason had given Herb a good deal, frontloading his commission to years one through three, rather than spreading the agent’s 8 percent evenly across the decade. Another $3 million went to taxes annually. And Liana got the equivalent of three years’ income in the house and her payout.
“I’m sure that your accounts look scary after the divorce, but you’ll be fine. I have a guy that can help with that kind of stuff. Do you need a guy?” Jason cut into his sirloin, thinking about the guys he already knew; the deep-throated shark and his twitchy errand boy. “And my insurance is covering all the court fees around your recent escapade, you know. For you and your, ahem, friend. That’s not an insignificant sum.”
“I appreciate that, Herb. But the money, it’s not for that, either.”
“Do I want to know what this is for?” Herb stared at Jason.
“You don’t,” Sara said. Her tone had lost its giggle, and Herb set down his knife.
* * *
The shark called from unlisted numbers. Left threatening voice mails, sent mean text messages. He promised to call the commissioner, to break Jason’s fingers, to go to the press. The tunnel seemed darker, narrower, caving in, until Jason had the brilliant idea to ask the kid, Goose Jr., for money. That rookie got a two-million-dollar signing bonus and didn’t know his ass from his elbow. Jason knew where to find him—they were always crisscrossing paths in the casino—it was just a question of sidling up at the right moment, in the right way. And he did, doling out the beer and the conversation, the “come with me” camaraderie. Then, so late it was early, the ask: Might he spot him some cash? He could see Goslin doing the calculation in his head; what it would mean to be linked to Goodyear, what his mother would do when she found out his money was gone. What made him feel more powerful. “Sure, Goody, no problem.” Good kid, right call. The whole thing took ten minutes on a laptop.
The teller looked some sort of spooked when Jason asked her to put half a million in cash in the L.A. Lions duffel bag—but she did it. Then he had to go to the drop-off, the back lot of some shopping center in North Scottsdale. He had parked and was looking for his transfer when he saw Tami tottering toward him on platform sandals, each hand holding a heavy grocery bag. Then he spotted her creaking Cavalier, parked a few spots over, looking dustier than ever. How had he missed that? Herb had told him under the strictest terms: no contact. But here she was, and when she saw him she yipped, almost, rushed up and gave him a sideways hug, her paper sack thumping him on the back. They talked awkwardly, her trying to apologize for that night a dozen different ways. As she did, he noticed new details of her tan and freckled face, the skin around her eyes looking older than he remembered. Then the handle on one of her bags ripped and grapefruits went rolling in every direction. He scrambled with her, grabbing up an armload of the fruits. He started reaching for a few that had rolled under a truck, when Tami put a hand on his shoulder. “For god’s sake, Jason, leave them be.”
It was when he stood back up that he saw the man, his shark’s awful muscle, watching from the shade of the loading dock, arms crossed and glaring. Muscle wasn’t the right word—Jason was bigger and stronger than this guy, but there was something in his eyes, an intensity and unpredictability, that made him frightening.
Tami saw him staring, noted the guy in the shadows and the overstuffed bag on Jason’s shoulder. “You got a meeting or something?”
“Something like that.” The guy started striding over, scowling. “Have a good day, Tami.” She set two fingers on his shoulder, the lightest sort of touch, and walked away.
The exchange was quick, as easy as giving away half a million dollars can be. Easy enough when it’s someone else’s money. “Where’s the interest?” the guy wanted to know, and when Jason explained he didn’t have it, the guy nodded at the Jeep.
“My Jeep?” Jason had had it sin
ce he was sixteen. The car was something between a lucky charm and a constant companion. He knew that on the resale market it couldn’t have been worth more than five grand, but maybe it’d pull in more, coming from him. Celebrity affiliation or some bullshit like that. “Right now?”
The guy nodded.
“Fuck, fine.” He handed over the keys.
“We do need to know where to find you. For the rest.”
Jason flipped through the options. Not the stadium. Never at the stadium again. What if it had been someone other than Sara who had seen their exchange? Not the house here—Liana didn’t deserve that, and it would be a violation of his own rules. Not the house in L.A.—the new owners were moving in this week. Not his mother’s house, not any of his teammates’. Trey could’ve helped him, but Trey was already unpacking on the other side of the country and pissed about it.
He’s memorized Herb’s L.A. address, and recited it now. Marlene’d be some sort of freaked to have this guy on her doorstep, but better that greeting than this guy on the doorstep of Stephen Smith. And who knew where Herb would be in a few weeks’ time. He talked about heading to L.A. with the team next week, acted like this season was the same as any other. But they both knew that wasn’t true.
And so the man drove away in Jason’s Jeep, down the aisle and out onto the thoroughfare. Only then did Jason tap his pocket and remember his phone, his wallet—everything was in the car. “Fuck.”
Looking at his watch, looking at the sky, looking at the casino tower shimmering on the horizon, he knew he was going to be late for first pitch. Dorsey would blow a gasket.
* * *
The sun is fierce, and he’s drenched in sweat after a mile, heaving for breath after two. There are three days left in spring training, but this feels like Southern California at high summer. He slows but keeps running.
The lot is full when he gets back to the complex, the mumble of the announcer sounding like it’s the middle of the third. As he weaves through the left-field lot, he is thinking about what he’ll tell Dorsey, trying to come up with an excuse, wondering about whether the clubhouse attendant has washed his sanis and cleaned his cleats and set out his uniform. It’s a special treatment he usually resents, because he is one of the guys, he can handle his own gear—but today he is hoping someone has done him the favor. He is thinking about who they put in left and what Dorsey will say and—
And then he sees him. Jason is passing between parked cars in the players’ lot and spots a little kid curled up on the back seat of a faded blue Toyota, slick as a seal pup, cheeks glowing red. His shaggy head is tucked into his knees, his back showing Jason’s name and number. Baseballs are scattered all around him.
Maybe Jason should’ve worried about glass shards, about what would happen if he cut up his hand. Maybe he should’ve thought about the sound it’d make and considered if that might scare the kid. But all he can think of at that moment is how damn hot it must be in there, it feeling like a furnace outside, and so he picks up a stone from the stadium’s nearest rock garden, fits it like a spear tip between his knuckles, and brings down his fist upon the glass, as hard as he can.
The glass shatters. Jason reaches in, opens the door, pulls out the kid. He is so small—young, but skinny, too—limp like a rag doll, and hot to the touch. Jason starts yelling for help, and someone from the grounds crew—the guy he paid off at the start of the season, the short one who gave him keys for the shed—is there in three seconds flat, cold water in hand. He pours it over Jason and the boy like champagne after a pennant win. He passes another bottle to Jason, who tips it to the boy’s lips.
* * *
That’s when I come over, too, having been trailing Jason at an inconspicuous distance all morning—the shed with Goslin, the bank visit, the parking lot handoff, back to the stadium. I could have offered him a ride, I suppose, but Jason’s been so jumpy, so suspicious of everyone, it’s not likely he’d have accepted anyway. A fan must’ve seen us gathering and called the cops, or an ambulance, I’m not sure which—but Jason and I both hear the wail of sirens at the same time, how it slips in between the notes of Lester’s organ. My reaction is relief, relief that help is coming. And, if I’m being honest, there’s a sliver of selfishness there, knowing I won’t have to watch someone die today.
And what about Jason? What does he think? When he hears the wail he leans over the limp boy and squeezes him tighter. “Hang on, little man,” he whispers into the boy’s tiny ear. He caresses the boy’s damp cheek, leaving streaks of blood. He’s cut up his hand pretty bad, smashing that window. That’ll be stitches, a week out of the lineup—if not more. I take off my shirt and hand it to him. He wraps it around his mitt.
“Hang on,” he says again. Jason Goodyear means it as some sort of hope for that wilted, red-faced kid in his arms, but goddamn it if his words couldn’t have been meant for himself, if they couldn’t have been meant for us all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To everyone at FSG, especially Emily Bell, Jackson Howard, Brian Gittis, Alex Merto, Hannah Goodwin, Abby Kagan, Mitzi Angel, and Jonathan Galassi—thank you for believing in this book, and giving my made-up baseball team a beautiful home field. Jessica Friedman and Jin Auh, thanks for the early support and the unwavering belief in this book. Harry Stecopoulos was a wonderful early reader—thank you for seeing the book’s promise and making it better. I offer the same thanks to Adrianne Harun. Steve Kettman and Dan Hoyt, thank you for being my ideal readers, and Sandy Alderson, thank you for your careful review from the field. I worked on this book at the Hermitage Artist Retreat, the Betsy’s Writers Room, and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference—thank you to everyone at these organizations for the support. Thank you as well to everyone at The Paris Review, particularly Terry McDonell, for encouraging me through the book’s proverbial ninth while I was just starting off at TPR.
This project began in Baton Rouge, with the encouragement of the Louisiana State University English Department. Thank you to everyone there, particularly Jennifer S. Davis, James P. Wilcox, William Demastes, and Phil Maciak for steering me through early drafts, discussing the intersection of sports and culture, and getting me into the football press box. I am grateful for the wonderful friends and creative community I found in Baton Rouge, especially Alyson Pomerantz and Sandra Wolle, Atom Atkinson, Katie Boland, Kevin Casper, Vincent Cellucci, Matt Dischinger, Emily Frank, Leslie Friedman, Lara Glenum, Zack Godshall and Jillian Hall, Robbie Howell, Jill and Mike Kantrow, James Long, Brad Pope, Hannah Reed, Will and Liz Torrey, Josh Wheeler, Dylan White and Annie Bauman, Jason and Ali Wolfe, and all the Zemels. Thanks to everyone at The Southern Review and LSU Press—contributors and colleagues—for your encouragement in person and through bighearted correspondence. And thank you especially to the Gehebers—Leah, Philip, Laurin, Aaron, plus Hayes Brian and Laura Bergeron—for welcoming me into the family.
Writer and editor friends, thank you for checking in on the book as well as its author over these past nine years. I’m particularly indebted to the friendships of Olivia Clare, Jenny Croft, Alan Grostephan, Christian Kiefer, Nick Mainieri, and James Scott, and I’ve been overwhelmed by the open arms and kind words of my New York colleagues since returning to the city. Thank you for breaking bread and for your encouragement. Anna Berman, Karisa Butler-Wall, Elana Fishman, Gwen Fuertes, Diana Greenwold, Lily Guenther, Jordana Heller, Katie Lorah, Donna Meredith, Rose Nestler, Gale Orcutt, Faye Reiff-Pasarew, Talia Shalev, and Charise Castro Smith: what good fortune, to have girlfriends like y’all—I find you inspiring every single day.
And thanks to my family, from my earliest baseball games in Omaha with Grandpa Rich to the many, many seasons of Mariners games, in Seattle and Phoenix, with my dad, David. We probably should have paid more attention to the game, but we were having too much fun. Jessi, thank you for being the best sister a gal could hope for. Brian, Dan, and Karen: thank you for making our family better, and for cheering me through the process of writing this book. Mom, thank you for the endl
ess encouragement, the bottomless love, and the good reading recommendations. Keel, thank you for being my partner in reading, dog walks, and everything else—I may have started this book before we met, but I couldn’t have finished it without you and Willow.
A Note About the Author
Emily Nemens is the editor of The Paris Review. She was previously the coeditor of The Southern Review. Her work has been published in Esquire, n+1, The Gettysburg Review, Hobart, and other outlets. You can sign up for email updates here.
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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Copyright © 2020 by Emily Nemens
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First edition, 2020
E-book ISBN: 978-0-374-72049-0
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
FIRST
SECOND
THIRD
FOURTH
FIFTH
SIXTH
SEVENTH
EIGHTH
NINTH