Just give me a few days, Jason begs the man on the other end of the phone. After all these decades of hard work, of being the best player in T-ball and in Little League and in high school and in college, after leading the major leagues and then leading them again, his future in the sport has boiled down to a few days’ scramble, to coming up with half a million in cash. The hole is actually much bigger than that, but that’s what he needs to produce now. The man makes an unhappy noise on the other end of the phone.

Just give me a few days, Jason begs again. For the longest time it was just playing cards after the game, a few hands of Hold’em to blow off some steam before bed. For years it was seven-card to pass the time between home stands, two-day tourneys to get his kicks when nothing else short of the season starting up again would deliver that thrill. He was playing with Monopoly money; between salary and endorsements he was bringing in more than he could ever imagine spending. It was just about the competition, the adrenaline that came with putting it all on the line. All in. But then the thrill, his forever rabbit around the greyhound track, is suddenly gone from his view. Is it too far ahead? Behind him somewhere? Or chomped and lifeless on the dirt? Jason senses it out there, but doesn’t remember last seeing it, doesn’t know how to find it, doesn’t have the time to search for it, not now. Now that man on the other end of the line has the capacity to break his hand or shatter his career. Ruin him, one way or another.

A few more days, Jason asks again. Please.

And, remarkably, the man agrees. Friday, he grumbles before hanging up.

THE CYCLE

There has never been an E-flat in “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” at least not when it’s played in its standard key of C. Lester Morrow knows this, but he hits the note anyway. The song lurches; the crowd stutters in their stretch. The Mariners’ shortstop, tossing warm-up with the third baseman, drops the ball into the dirt.

Nothing to do but keep on keeping on, so Lester plays out the line, half humming, half muttering to himself the familiar refrain: “One, two, three strikes you’re out at the ooooold baaaaall gaaaaaame!” He runs his fingers over the keyboard in an upward arpeggio, two hands racing at once. Like a flourish at the end will save him. With the last note he winces at the creak in his left hand, but he keeps the keys pressed down for a full two measures. One, two, three; one, two, three—and release. Outside his open window, the organ reverberates through the ballpark and loosens into the spring air.