There was another element at play in the mountains’ demise: water. So much water. Hard to believe it on a day as blue-skied as this one, the stiff-armed saguaros the only green beyond the stretch of Salt River Fields’ irrigation, I know. But it did rain, for days and weeks and years. And that falling water traveled in flashes down the new mountainsides, pushing for an extra base with all the momentum it could muster. With each rain, the water was widening the base path, picking up stones and carrying them down, carving until there was a clear route, one that cut deeper and quicker than any other. Water flowed into a divot that became a crevice, a crevice that became a canyon, a canyon that became the bed of the new Salt River. And the Salt River became a path to follow, all the way to the now-far ocean.

By dust and by deluge, diminishment. It is inevitable, in mountains and in men. But over the following week, as news of his run-in at Taliesin spreads, Jason’s team sweeps into action, holding up so many umbrellas over his head. A whole bevy of folks, attempting to keep him dry. Damage control, they call it, trying to hold up the mountainside. Jason has never been one to seek the diva treatment, doesn’t like an entourage or attention, the kind of thing most people expect out of celebrity athletes. He’s a good leader in the clubhouse, stoic but kind, highly motivational or slightly goofy as the situation requires, but he hardly socializes off the field—which makes this spring’s babysitting, the rabid-with-concern attention, that much more frustrating. He holds his own umbrella. No, better yet, he wears a raincoat.

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.)