Jimmy and Greg were drafted together, came up through the farm system together, fought like fiends to keep climbing—together. Until September 2009. End of the Salt Lake Stallions’ minor league season, Jimmy got bumped up to the Lions’ expanded forty-man roster. That was the season when Coach Mike finally taught him when not to swing, no excuses, and Jimmy’s batting average jumped twenty points, from atrocious to all right. Over the moon, they were. Greg? He’d been 5-1 the second half of the Triple-A season, his ERA hovering around 2.80 in August. He and Jimmy were certain he’d get a call, too.

But when Greg’s call came, it was orders to meet the team doctor in Irvine. The physician had “heard” Greg’s elbow was bothering him. Sure but—Greg stammered. His elbow ached some, but it was manageable, and he’d not said a word, not to anyone but Jimmy. He couldn’t figure out how they knew, what he’d done to give himself away. Don’t be worried, the doctor said, trying to sound kind but coming off more like a snake-oil salesman. He had him stick his throwing arm in a contraption the size of a camper. It’s no big deal, just a quick scan. Rat-a-tat for thirty minutes; it sounded like a nail gun going off next to his head. Then he had to “wait for the imaging” to determine if his life was ruined.

The GM called. This was the second time they’d ever talked; Woody Botter had called Greg to congratulate him after the draft. Greg’d been twenty-one at the time, still so stunned at what, by major league standards, was an extremely modest signing bonus, that over the course of their brief conversation he could only blubber out every variation of thank you.

This time Botter told Greg he was getting Tommy John. Another option? Greg’d wanted to know. Retirement, Botter said with a laugh. Greg could stay in Triple or maybe slide back down to Double-A Kansas, but his arm was nearly shot. Maybe it’s not hurting bad now, but it will, he had said. Your whole elbow is hanging on by a thread.

Greg had heard about high schoolers and college boys getting their arms done before they were drafted, before eligibility even, in order to avoid this exact situation. And the vets who go under the knife, the John Smoltz or Billy Wagner types, already had a guaranteed spot on their clubs’ rosters. The young guys, the old ones, they could afford to take the year out of their career. Greg Carver could not—2010 was going to be the season when he finally made the team.

You’re twenty-five, right?

But I won’t be back until I’m twenty-seven.

Botter harrumphed. That’s a fine age. Greg disagreed, but swallowed it down, tried to steady his voice and not sound like he was terrified. Which he was; dizzy and queasy and on the verge of tears. All goes well we’ll get you back for the 2011 camp. Then we’ll see, the GM said in a way that made it clear there would be no more discussion.