The old man stoops to study the mark. He’s so close William can smell him—vodka, plus an aftershave that reminds him of his grandfather. His scalp is dotted with sunspots.

“I am so sorry, sir. If there’s anything I can do, I mean, repairs or whatever.”

The old man beams a mouthful of graying teeth. “To this car? I reckon it’s older than you!”

“Well, still. I feel awful.”

“Right.” The old man squints. “You’re that Willy Goslin kid, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” He feels his face flush.

“Having a go of it, huh? First time out is always sorta—”

A modified golf cart zips around the corner, a wobbly stack of sod flapping on its flatbed. “Hey!” the driver calls. “Hey, hey!” The machine whirs over a curb cut, totters momentarily, and then speeds toward the men, swerving and stopping just behind William’s rear bumper. The driver, a tan man in a polo and too-short shorts, purses his lips and flares his nose.

“Mr. Goslin, is Lester bothering you?” The monogram on his chest has the Salt River Fields logo and under it an embroidered title: DIRECTOR OF STADIUM OPS.

“No, I just was—” William wonders how best to explain the situation. Would they call the cops for something like this? He thinks of the overdue tickets in his glove compartment. That’s the last thing he needs. Sheila would have a conniption.

Before he can come up with a plan, Templeton says, “He’s not supposed to be here. Staff parking’s past third base.” He’s glaring at the old man as he indicates a farther lot.

“It says ‘players.’ I play.” The old man wiggles his fingers in the air and flashes a crooked grin.

“Keyboards don’t count!” Templeton barks and points more vigorously. “Over there, Lester.”

“Okay, okay.” The old man shows his palms in surrender. “I’ll get going.”

“And you won’t do it again.” The short man turns his gaze and makes a concerned face. “Mr. Goslin, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s—it’s okay?” William’s confused more than anything else, but before he can ask what just happened, the golf cart has zoomed off, leaving with a poof of exhaust.

“We all get our knocks, huh, kid?” With that, the old man raps the trunk of his car twice, gets in, and drives away. On his way out of the lot he honks, sticks a hand out the car window, and waves. “Good game, Goody!”

William hadn’t noticed, but Jason Goodyear is standing at the edge of the lot. Did he see the whole debacle? William raises a hand, hello, and the left fielder nods before walking away.