In that same article, they talked about Yankee spring training, where Joe served as batting coach. There was a time when you couldn’t get me out of there, Joe said of the cages, eyeing them wearily. It gives Michael a small swell of pride to remember that bit, to think how he still feels compelled to swing, capable of it. Not that he is better than Joe, but that he has this one thing, and no one can talk him out of it. Not Audrey, worried about his back; not the management, wanting to start fresh with someone who thinks coaching is math; not Jason, too polite to say fifty-five is a little-boy speed. Or maybe, old-man speed. He slaps another ball into the far net.

Michael goes for an hour, feeling good and sore at the end. Walking back through the lot he recognizes Jason’s beat-up Jeep, but the left fielder is nowhere to be seen. Why the guy, who pulls down $15 million a year—more than that with sponsorships—still drives a muddy car from the nineties is a mystery. But thinking about cars makes him ache for the Caddy all over again, so he gets in his borrowed Honda and drives away.

When Michael enters the pool house, Audrey scowls at the bag over his shoulder. As anticipated, she isn’t happy to discover he’s been at the cages—he’s thrown out his back a couple of times in the past few years, mostly by doing stupid stuff with the grandkids, and the doctor says big swings might exacerbate the injury. But she also knows better than to give him an earful when he is in a foul mood. Helen has left him a sandwich on the nightstand.

“I know, honey. I was careful,” he lies as he drops the bats in the corner. He sits on the edge of the bed and starts eating in huge, chomping bites. Halfway in, Michael realizes he’s not eaten since breakfast.

“You talk to the insurance guy?”

He nods, mouth full.

Audrey watches her husband, concern knitting her brow. “You know, we could hire someone to clean up the place. Professionals, so you can focus on the season.” The season. The first few weeks of spring are Michael’s busiest time of year—more than during the Stallions’ season opener in April or anytime down the stretch—because no matter if guys are playing in the Caribbean or mastering their video games all winter, in the first weeks of spring they have to get recalibrated to major league pitching. On day one of workouts everyone wants a piece of Michael Taylor—he understands the mechanics of a swing better than any slo-mo camera or instant replay. A guru, they call him in the clubhouse.