William returns Sheila’s call. First, as always, he reports on the game: runs and hits, walks and strikeouts. Not like she needed the rundown: the Goslins watch first pitch to final out on some three-digit cable sports network.

“Your father says that really was a bad hop,” she says of his error. “Anyone’d have played it the same.” It was his dad’s father’s father’s brother who made the family name a household one. Uncle Goose never had any kids of his own, just distributed among the members of his extended family his bats and gloves and knickknacks, whatever Cooperstown didn’t want. A young Howard came home from Thanksgiving one year with a disintegrating glove and an autographed 1928 ball. That mythology, the signed baseball sitting on the mantel, the glove boxed in glass like it was some sort of rare specimen, planted the seed in young William’s mind. He started T-ball at four and never looked back.

For most of William’s childhood, Howard Goslin, a locally known architect, didn’t care two sniffs about the sport—he was too busy building his reputation and acting like he made a lot more money than he actually did. He couldn’t be bothered to attend games, and saw no more than half a dozen throughout William’s amateur career—and that included the three-game playoff for the state championship. But after the draft, with its $2 million signing bonus, Howard suddenly took a pointed interest in his son’s sporting life. William couldn’t believe the about-face; Howard was delusional if he believed he’d be any help. Did he think they’d play fucking catch in the backyard? More than once this winter, William wanted to drop a dumbbell on the guy’s foot.

“Should we come out this weekend? Your father would like to see you play. He thought we could take you to Taliesin while we’re at it.”

“What? No.”

“It’s one of the wonders of modern architecture, William. I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss—”

William interrupts. “I mean, sorry, no, not this weekend. Tomorrow’s cut day and I don’t even fucking know if I’ll be playing again. Ever.”

“Please don’t swear,” his mother says, and then the line is quiet. He knows she is worrying on the other end. “Are you sleeping okay?” she says. “I’m concerned you’re staying up too late with those video games.” He’d become all but nocturnal this fall, with his friends away at college. Wake at noon, work out until dinner, Xbox until three or four. The console offered a much-needed outlet for his competitive streak. Offers it still—he’d carried the gaming system in the back seat of his car and hooked it up in his hotel room. Most nights, he spends an hour or two shooting enemies, slam-dunking on the opposition. If he loses here, he just presses Restart.

“I’m not, Mom.”

“Have you talked to Herb lately? He’s in Arizona this month and would be happy to—”