I wish I could say everyone loves the surge, the newly fertile soil that sends sprouts growing an inch a week, that puts the Lions at the top of the spring standings. Silly, boastful ledes: The Lions are going to maul the division. These Lions are ready to pounce on the competition. The surge is good, yes, but of course good is bad for some. Some plants drown in the too-deep water. Others get overshadowed by their neighbors’ broad leaves and wither without enough light. Some plants get ripped from the ground by passing water, their roots not strong enough, and are carried so far from where they started they don’t even recognize the land where their wave stops. Is that what happens to Jason, when he walks into the casino after dinner and comes out squinting into the morning sun with a game—a real game, a baseball game—to play? Does he recognize that morning, does he know that night?

Some dead stalks stay put in their shriveled state, reminding the rest of their hardships. But more often those unsuccesses are erased entirely, washed away or ground back to dust by wind and cleats. Those poor plants, the ones who will become rootless and overshadowed and incidental to all but a few best friends and lonely fans, in the churn of spring training are treated like they’ve already been pulverized into the soil even when they’re still coming out of the ground. Like Greg Carver: he was cut before he ever had a chance, considered so expendable that Jason Goodyear let him see everything. What’s a witness when you know he’ll disappear? No sort of witness at all.

CUT MEETING

A bright afternoon: blue sky, a sharp diamond of sun. Greg Carver is standing on the rubber and a man—the catcher—is jogging out to the mound. He knows this guy, this fireplug of a ballplayer with the long scar on his cheek, the flat nose of a boxer, a nickel gap between his front teeth. He knows him and his name is … the pitcher tries As and then Bs, running down the alphabet, Casey, Dave, Elliot, as the man approaches, lumbering under his gear. J. Jimmy.

Jimmy’s wearing a Lions uniform, as is Greg—white with black pinstripes, gold LOS ANGELES across the chest. This is surprising. The last time they played together they were both Stallions. Black and gold, too, but a different creature, with hooves. A different place, Salt Lake, no red mountains rimming the horizon.

“What’s up, Jimmy?” Greg glances over his shoulder, to the left-field scoreboard. It says that the Lions are winning over the Padres, 5–2. It says it’s the sixth, that they have one out. He sees a runner on second, the man’s hands on his hips. Greg turns back to Jimmy, who’s staring at him.

“You okay, Carve?” Jimmy asks. His gold catcher’s mask is pushed high on his forehead, a halo.