Joe Templeton, director of stadium operations for Salt River Fields, starts pacing, heaving his short frame across the small booth in three strides, pivoting, heaving back. Since the season’s gotten under way, the man’s year-round tan has deepened to a strange, dark reddish-orange, almost the color of a tawny port. “Just don’t fuck up again, okay? Nowadays they got computers to do what you do. Just one touch and…” Joe shoulders up to the keyboard, forcing Lester toward the higher octaves. He checks that the machine is off, then concentrates on the many buttons and keys and decides to press a big white one: C, an octave below middle. He holds it down with a fat finger. Lester notices his boss’s cuticles are a mess. “Dun-nuh-nuh-na, duh-na!” Joe sings and lifts his index. “One button.”

“Charge,” Lester says, sounding deflated. Below, the kid hits a soft groundball to second. It’s an easy out.

“Exactly.” Joe crosses the room and reaches for the doorknob. “I know you’ve done this since the Jurassic, Lester, but you’re in my stadium now, and I want it to be right. I’m watching you.”

A quick one-two, the door slamming shut and the ball cracking against a bat, and Lester whips his head back to the field. Jimmy Cardozo has made a solid connection with his first pitch. The ball sails over the shortstop’s head, drops shallow of the left fielder, and starts a slow roll across the diamond-cut grass. The catcher accelerates around first and slides into second, just under the baseman’s tag.

Lester rushes for the On button and places his hands on the keys. He plays fanfare, the rising chords familiar under his fingers. “Dun-nuh-nuh-na, duh-na!” he sings along. Only as the last chord resonates over the field does he realize that the song was performed by a chorus of cats.

“Nice work today, Goose.” Tomás Monterrey pulls his damp towel taut and flicks the rookie in the ass. William Goslin, already bent over to untie his cleats, bites his lip but continues to loosen the laces.

Jason Goodyear, a few lockers down, turns to the pair. “Hey, Tomás. Don’t call him that, he doesn’t like it.”

Monterrey scowls at the left fielder. With Townsend gone, Monterrey is now starting in center—something neither man is used to, nor particularly likes. Corey Matthews, the second-round draftee who looks like he might actually make the team without the way station of the minors, does his best to hide in his locker.

Monterrey continues. “What do I care if he fucking likes it or not? I care if he hits the ball and drives in runs. I care if he covers first like he knows what the fuck he’s doing. Giving his grandpa a bad name playing like that. Mierda.”