“I always do it in private,” the kid continued in a rush. “But I’m on vacation with my mom and dad and my sister and we’re all in one hotel room, and it’s been four days and this is the first time I’ve been alone and I just had to do it.”

Phil couldn’t believe this. He wiped his forehead as the kid continued.

“My sister brought her friend Hayley, and I’m sleeping on the floor next to her and—”

“Kid,” Phil said, not wanting to hear any more. “You don’t have to tell me this stuff. You’re not in trouble and I get it. But you can’t jerk off here. Just don’t do it again. Now go find your parents and watch some baseball.”

Usually the real work came after the games were over. Phil’s job required him to stay late at the ballpark and fill out a log of everyone the guards had kicked out during the night, adding a special note about those who had been arrested. His favorite part was writing the “reason for expulsion.”

“Fan peed over railing.” “Tampa Bay fan spit on young child in Orioles hat.” “Male Blue Jays fan made unwanted sexual advance toward Orioles fan.” Only when he wrote this stuff down did he realize how ridiculous people get when they drink.

Phil never thought he’d still be working at the ballpark in his late thirties, but what started as a summer job during college had become a career. He’d worked his way up the company ladder and now sat at meetings with people in the Orioles front office. The players knew him by name. Some called him Mr. MacGowan.

His favorite part of the job used to be chatting with those players. Ten years ago he was in awe of them. Now, though, he was at least a decade older than the stars and wise enough to see that most of them were punks who didn’t realize how lucky they were to get millions a year for doing what they love.

These days his favorite part of the job was managing a crop of college kids who worked part-time security, just like he had in school. He liked being a cool boss. He let them leave early and sent them home when they looked hung over. He gave them nicknames like Shrek and Seatbelt.

The baseball schedule was inhuman of course. It was almost impossible for Phil to see anyone besides his mother from April through September, and that had sent at least a few women running in the other direction. Women always told Phil they understood baseball—the fact that there are 162 games in a season and that half of those games are home—but they would always act surprised and betrayed come spring, when Phil could no longer make plans for Saturday nights. They were angry, as if he hadn’t warned them.

And now, as he settled into his white folding chair, which under his weight sunk into the perfect Annapolis lawn, the smell of his suit thankfully muted by the more powerful scent of the salt water nearby, Phil looked around, suddenly taking notice of how things looked at a formal event outside the ballpark. Everyone seemed to be paired off or in groups. He sat alone, with an empty chair on either side of him, feeling more unattached than he had in a very long time.