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.”

“Marlene?” It’s the first time Sara has spoken since Herb rolled in to Diamond. Dr. Jewell glares at her.

“His wife,” Dr. Jewell says sharply.

“Ex-wife,” Herb corrects.

Dr. Jewell starts to stammer an apology, but Herb holds up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Trust the universe, et cetera. Anyway, Marlene found your practice and suggested it might be a good fit. Said you were very client-focused, very discreet.”

“We are, Mr. Allison.”

“So here I am.”

“And we’re very glad for that, Mr. Allison. Aren’t we, Sara?”

“What?” The question interrupts her writing, and her pen skids off the notepad. “Yes, sir. Very—glad.”