That night, after he heard Barb shut the front door behind her, Phil silently pledged his devotion to his mom, whom he now realized could have dropped his father at a nursing home years ago. Alone in his room, he cried for her. He promised himself that he would be her partner from then on, no matter what. He would drive home from college as often as he could. He wouldn’t leave Maryland as long as she lived there.

And that’s why he was here in Annapolis, stuck with a bunch of strangers on a country club’s lawn. Phil would give her whatever she needed.

Nancy had shared the wedding details with Phil in one rambling sentence. Barb’s son Matt had met the bride at law school in Raleigh. She was from Ellicott City, Maryland, only about twenty minutes from where Phil had grown up. She was rich. Her dad was a lawyer too.

Fascinating, Phil had thought sarcastically, as his mother continued with the background.

Phil never understood people like Matt Fee who had jobs at law firms and banks and companies, how they could wake up every day and go to work without slipping into depression. Phil loved his job, despite how the world perceived it. He worked security at a ballpark, but as the boss of the operation it wasn’t like all he did was kick people out or tell them not to smoke. It was difficult to explain to strangers, but his profession was far more complicated than that.

As head of security, Phil oversaw a staff of 130 people who were responsible for up to forty-five thousand baseball fans over the course of four emotional hours. The job took great concentration and coordination, and the profession became more complicated every year. On some nights Phil took charge of the welfare of a specific high-profile player, usually someone like Alex Rodriguez, to make sure he could get around without getting mobbed by fans or enemies. Phil had also been assigned to watch over celebrity baseball fans at least a dozen times. Last season, when the Red Sox were in town, a few famous actors from Boston showed up with their entourages at the last minute, asking to watch from the owners’ box. The Orioles front office was happy to comply, thrilled about the publicity. Phil sat with the famous Bostonians to make sure no one got hassled on their way in and out. Phil loved to tell the story, about how one of the A-list actors didn’t eat anything for the entire game, even though the owners had sent up rows of dogs and wings.

“And that’s why I’m not famous,” Phil would tell his friends, patting his stomach. “I like not having an eating disorder.”

Some nights Phil would take it upon himself to stand in the ballpark’s family section to make sure no one got drunk and raised a middle finger around the kids.

And something unexpected would always happen during games, something that made his job feel more like psychology or anthropology.