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.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Greg rubs the ball hard with his thumb, trying to ignore the sensation in his elbow. It’s coming back quickly, the pain a drumbeat that keeps hurrying up.

“You seem a little … spacey.”

“I’m fine.”

“What did Coach Stu say?”

Greg has no recollection of a visit from Coach Stu, no idea who that is or what he said.

“Nothing much.”

“The wing?” Jimmy glances at the cut, the pale skin and red seam, the scarred-over eyelets of the stitches. Twenty-six. One for every year, the doctor had said, like it was a good thing to be reminded of his station, that he’d be twenty-seven before he threw again. All winter Greg had worn his sleeves long to keep from seeing it, but this afternoon is too hot for anything more than the jersey.