In the postgame press conferences, manager Dorsey Paine deflects journalists’ questions about his trespassing charge, No comment, No comment, Give it a rest already. Then Dorsey goes back to the clubhouse and waits for Jason to wash up: the two of them are going out to dinner, whether Jason likes it or not—they’re eating together every night this week, Boss’s orders, Dorsey apologizes—the boss being a very ticked-off Woody Botter, the GM. (Trey Townsend, his outfield neighbor, is the only guy on the team who seems to enjoy time with the bosses, and no one quite trusts him for that. Everyone else thinks it’s bad luck or brown-nosing to get to know the owners, but Trey’s relationship with Stephen Smith is its own strange and special thing.)

Meanwhile, another umbrella or three are being spun by Herb Allison, who tries to mend fences with Nike (unlikely) and Taliesin (they gratefully accept a $100,000 pledge). He calls his star every morning, sending Sara to the stadium with bran muffins and coffee for a 7:00 a.m. rendezvous. Sometimes Jason’s waiting for her at the players’ entrance, like they agreed, and sometimes he’s not—when he was fifteen minutes late on Wednesday she went exploring, trying one walkway and then the next until she spotted him coming out of a supply shed with a bashful look. She promised him then she’d say nothing to Herb, but didn’t feel as good about her promise on Friday when she spotted him, late again, at 7:20, crossing the footbridge from the casino to the stadium complex. Your coffee’s getting cold, she said when she passed him the cup, which they both knew meant Fuck you.

At least Jason has umbrellas, people trying to preserve his image and performance, attempting to keep him dry and protect that perfect, conical peak. When no one’s protecting you, or when they’re protecting the mountain next door: you’ll get soaked, and worse. With enough water, enough wind, enough relentless force, the earth of your slopes will start to slide away.

WEDGE SHOT

The waiter weaves across the shady patio and deposits the men’s margaritas, double pours of the elder’s favorite reserve gold blend, onto the table, then stands at prim attention. The older man inspects: a tan, almost milky tint. He licks the salt along the rim and tilts the drink toward his lips.

Stephen Smith closes his eyes: yes. It’s sour, then a line of sweetness, then the round, toothsome taste of the aged agave fills his mouth with swelling, subtle heat. He flashes a smile of straight bright teeth at the waiter and watches the man’s retreat between the planters of aloe.

Stephen and Trey Townsend, the Los Angeles Lions center fielder, have caught each other up on their holidays and starts to the year. Trey spends the off-season in Grosse Pointe, and is hardly in touch when he winters in Michigan, so this happy hour feels like more than an afternoon chat—it’s a reunion after several months apart. It’s strange to Stephen to have a friend so present for half the year, then nothing, a light blinked off. Stephen takes another sip.