Later that first spring, Jane visited Arizona long enough to order the kids’ beds and a dining room set. She also acquiesced to an afternoon out with the wives: a strained lunch and then a game her husband started, Jane clapping politely after every single strike. Melissa treated Jane to the meal and cheered when Stan Rogers made his outs, even as she resented each one. The team has room for only one ace, and the Lions’ had been Hal, with his beguiling curve, his impossible stamina, his conveyor-belt consistency. What he lacked in speed, Hal Moyers made up for in wiles. (“The Trickster,” players called him in the dugout; “my trickster,” Melissa called him in bed.) Melissa knew the team would still play well behind her husband, but there’s a special oomph the team makes for the number one in the rotation. Because every team wants a guy with twenty wins and an ERA under three. Jane was unconscious of the conflict, all the way through air kisses at the airport. Then, not even a thank-you note. Save for a couple of home-game starts, Melissa has hardly seen her since.