She finishes her coffee and wants more, but knows better than to rush that poor woman. She’ll come back around soon enough.

“Who you watching?” An older man—the dapper, golf-club sort—slides into the seat next to hers. Most of the stands are still empty before the 1:05 start. Tami came early, stopping at a gas station, where she picked up a few adult beverages. Cheaper than buying them at the stadium by a long shot, and today could use an assist. Power won’t be back on until five.

“No one in particular.” Tami is not interested in making a new friend. She looks back at her program.

“Vásquez’s pitching today.” Not that she asked. The man points an arthritic finger to the warm-up mound. “I think he’s gonna be good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Five bucks says Hal Moyers doesn’t make it through the year. That’s his replacement.”

Tami thinks Hal will last—and not just because she’s seen him naked. “That’s interesting.”

The man starts flipping through a program, and she takes the opportunity to transfer a second wine cooler from her handbag into a stadium cup with a quick slosh. The organist must’ve shown up—fanfare plays over and over, each time moving higher up the keys. Dun-nuh-nuh-na, duh-na! She starts to feel the booze at her temples with each thwack of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt. It feels good.

“What do you think of that Goose kid?” The golfer flashes a page in the program. The nineteen-year-old first baseman is Goose’s great-grand-nephew, the man says. Tami shrugs; she’d read the same article yesterday. Last game, nerves got him in the field—he bungled two easy plays—and he was underwhelming at the plate. He probably shouldn’t even be at camp this spring. He’s too far gone for her kind of help—besides, he is too young.

“He’ll find his stride,” she says.

“I bet he’ll find the exit quicker.” The man is happy with himself for that, and Tami lets him laugh.

It’s a sloppy game for everyone but Vásquez, who pitches superbly, nothing like a twenty-year-old making his spring training debut. Afterward she hustles home, changes into a strappy floral-print dress, and is styling her hair into something that looks less crazy when the house’s lights buzz back on. She winces at her bare-looking face. She skipped most of her rigmarole this morning—moisturizer, cover-up, foundation, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and blush, then her eyebrows and this expensive lip gloss that makes her mouth tingle—but does the litany now, finishing with a puff of perfume onto her breastbone.

She’s only ten minutes late to meet Deidre, who is waiting for her at the bar of Don & Charlie’s. Last fall, Deidre hooked up with a Suns assistant coach. (Tami never got into basketball, but Deidre spent her twenties as a cheerleader for the Sacramento Kings and says she feels about sweatbands the way Tami does about stirrups.) His night-game schedule has made her all but nocturnal, so happy hours are Tami’s best shot at seeing her friend, at least until the playoffs. When Deidre spots Tami the woman does a quick, high whistle and waves.