But I digress. As the land rose, the Pacific plate pulled west and northwest, taking the taffy-soft plateau of Arizona’s continental shelf with it. Stretching, stretching, stretching, until the crust was so thin that a mountain range was able to push up through it like an arc of pimples on a teenage rookie’s oily skin. That thrust of rock was followed by a flow of basaltic lava down the slope as smooth as motor oil, lava that laid a new floor across the plateau.

I know what you’re thinking: Why the history lesson, chief? What does a new mountain have to do with a major league club? Rocks for jocks? Think about this: If the earth’s skin is so thin, imagine that of a man. If the planet’s minute shifting can thrust a whole continent off kilter, imagine the skin of a person, even a strong one. Thin as a gum wrapper, as tissue.

That “no crying in baseball” line is nice but a load of bull: plenty of us walk around on the verge of tears. Goodyear, strong man that he is. On the verge before, after, and during that encounter with Tamara, as he stood by the sparking transformer, as he talked to the cops. Still on the edge when his agent chewed him out at the station that night, and the next morning, when his GM did, too. He’s on the brink of it every damn morning this spring actually, every time he wakes up and finds himself alone.

COOPERSTOWN

“So, back in September, I was watching a client on the Red Sox and I fell down a flight of stairs at Fenway Park. I blame the merlot. Very nice vintage.” Herb Allison pauses. Dr. Timothy Jewell, proprietor of Diamond Physical Therapy, and Sara Jones, Dr. Jewell’s assistant, take the cue to nod politely. It’s clear Herb has told this story before; he knows where to put in the breaks, where to raise his eyebrows, where to smile. He makes a chopping motion with his hand, which stirs the small white dog sitting in his lap; the animal looks around with impassive eyes. “Snapped my left femur, clean in two. Had to have emergency surgery in Boston then two more at Mayo—the Scottsdale one, no way I’d go to Bumblefuck, Minnesota. You guys aren’t from up there, are you?”

The two shake their heads no.

“Good. A few screws and a titanium rod later, this is what we’ve got.” He pats his leg. “They told me to take eight weeks before starting ‘vigorous physical therapy.’” Herb curls his fingers into scare quotes. “I hope you know what the fuck that means, because I sure don’t.” He smiles so wide his eyes scrunch up.

Sara takes notes as fast as she can.

“I meant to start before the holidays,” Herb continues, “but Marlene said you couldn’t see me until after the New Year. It’s okay, things got busy for me and Kirby.” He indicates the dog. “End-of-year paperwork, MLB winter meetings. Shit like that.”