Remember how I said this was a long game? Let’s put it in perspective, consider the history of this place in geological time. Take a look at Salt River Fields’ cleat-pocked outfield and imagine this: the ground under Goodyear’s feet was once a sea, shallow and warm and dotted with coral reefs, clusters of orangey calcium deposits spread like neon inkblots across the seafloor. The water was that impossible, startling blue that makes even an Arizona sky look as though it’s been mixed with a tubful of gray, and sharks swam through the dugouts, finning to the mound and back.

That should make the pitcher feel better about his visits from the bench: imagine an ancient hammerhead in Coach Stu’s place, three hundred incisors and mad at the world. It’s the first game of the spring season, and the pitcher, a top prospect from Notre Dame a few years back but rehabbing from Tommy John, looks rattled after even a strong whiff from the batter. So out comes Coach Stu with his slow walk, his hands jammed in his back pockets. The boy nods back at the older man, his glove cupping his chin up to his nose as he mumbles some excuse. The leather, his glove a dark red stain, is high enough to cover the quaver of his lip but not the fear in his eyes. Didn’t this kid dominate the ACC? Take the team to Omaha—not the championship, but pretty damn close? Wasn’t he looking good in Salt Lake, didn’t the PT and the team physio say he was strong? It’s the second inning, and he’s quaking like seagrass under a big wave. The scar from his surgery is a bright seam around his elbow, you can’t help noticing it.

Today, Arizona is littered with shark teeth, dentin-and-enamel fangs lost in the sand. Some are as small as the top joint on your pinkie, others the length of a tall man’s index. You don’t have to go scratching too far below the surface to find one. With a bit of spit and a thumb rub, it’ll still glow white as bone. What’s past is prologue, a murderer once said. It goes without saying, but there’s some drama in baseball, too.