The Cactus League

by Emily Nemens

  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.

  “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.

  “It’s fine.” He flaps his elbow to indicate as much. The pain had been small, rounded soft and smooshed to fit into the palm of his hand, but that up and down sends it spinning into a larger shape, all sharp angles.

  The catcher’s eyes jump to the arm and back. In Greg’s mind, the scar is glowing. The scar is leering. The scar is six-foot-two, brown haired and blue eyed, a minor league pitcher trying to make the team. “Think you can finish out the inning?”

  “I’m getting them over the plate, aren’t I?” The scar talks, the scar listens. The scar answers to the name of Greg.

  The catcher studies the pitcher’s face. What did he see from behind the plate? What does he see from a foot away? The sweat dripping down Greg’s face? He wipes at it with his shoulder.

  “Mostly, yeah.”

  “It’s been six innings?”

  “Well, five and a third, but yeah.”

  “So.”

  “So—” Jimmy’s face bursts into a wide, crooked smile. That gap again. “You got this.” He smacks Greg on the butt, trots a few paces, and turns back. “Oh,” he says, putting the web of his glove over his mouth, “this guy hit thirty homers last year, so keep it in.”

  As Jimmy returns to the plate, Greg Carver looks around: the sunny afternoon, the impressive, unfamiliar stadium. The seats of the lower deck are mostly filled with gold-shirted fans. The red mountains he recognizes from Arizona springs past. This is Lions spring training. He’s pitching.

  Jimmy squats, flashes a signal between his legs. Greg nods, not that he remembers what the signal means but because he knows to nod back. Jimmy spreads his feet, settling into his ankles to receive the impact of the pitch. That he recognizes, his best friend’s posture when he’s expecting a breaking curve. Greg looks at the ball in his hand, adjusts his fingers. He takes a deep breath and readies himself for a rocket of pain. And with it, the ball goes flying.

  * * *

  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 2.8 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.

  We’ll see. Greg tried to tell himself there was hope in those words, a waver of it under the monotone. But the alternative, that backslide from three As to two, a career with the Kansas Oilmen, making a home in Lawrence, fifteen grand a season. That wasn’t any life.

  So he agreed. Within an hour of Botter’s goodbye some woman called and scheduled him into surgery for the first week of October. Greg watched Jimmy and the Lions from his hospital bed: they were the wild card team that October, won the divisional round in a three-game sweep but then got swept themselves in the ALCS.

  * * *

  “How’d you sleep, Carve?” Jimmy plops down in the grass next to Greg, throws a thick leg out in front of him, and tries to wrap a finger around his cleat. He gets as far as his ankle and surrenders, pulling at his sock like that’s what he’d meant to do. While Carver was going under the knife, Jimmy spent the 2009 postseason playing backup catcher for the Lions. Even with his shitty bat he managed a couple of clutch hits that, along with his goofball grin, made Angelenos love him right out of the gates.

  “Fine.” Greg and Jimmy had always bunked up, in spring training and during the Stallions’ season, an efficient two-bedroom in Salt Lake and double-queen hotel rooms on the road. But this year, with his starting role, Jimmy elected for a single room, his own California king; Greg, feeling as shaky about money as ever, asked the clubhouse coordinator for a new roommate. He got some kid bullpen catcher who snored like a chain saw—Greg has yet to sleep through an Arizona night.

  “That hotel they’ve got us in is kinda ghetto, yeah?” Jimmy says, switching legs. They’ve been there four weeks, two weeks just of pitchers and catchers, and now two weeks of the season. “Found a gnarly bug in the bathroom this morning.” He struggles for his right foot. “Looked like a damn alien.”

  Back in 2009 Greg could’ve told the Lions Jimmy would be their starting catcher, but who would’ve listened? No, Jimmy had to prove his worth in Los Angeles, and did: the least number of passed balls in the league through the first half of the season. American and National League, Jimmy would correct if he was trying to impress someone, usually a lady. Made pitchers look good, catching everything they threw. And all of a sudden every Lion liked to toss to the backup catcher. Even Stan Rogers, the team’s ace, asked for Jimmy rather than their old starter. Herb Allison signed him on, the other catcher went packing, and during this last off-season Jimmy renewed his contract for eight times as much as his last. When Greg heard that—Greg, living with his parents, struggling through four-a-week PT appointments at some dingy complex full of geriatrics and high school athletes, just starting to throw again, and without any sort of strength or control—his ears roared with a jealousy that came on so fast and strong it frightened him. Jimmy had been his catcher, before the team’s even.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” Greg reaches for his ankle and feels a sharp pain in his elbow. He winces but tries to lose the face before Jimmy spots it.

  “You okay?”

  “It’s nothing.” He waves. “Postgame stiffness. I’ll ice it today, good as new.”

  “All right, brother.” Jimmy pushes himself up and flashes Greg a smile. “Gotta go warm up the kid.” The kid is Vásquez, a big guy from the Dominican Republic, so thick he’s nearly fat. He signed with the Lions the moment he turned sixteen and has been working his way through the farm system fast.

  Jimmy looks down at Greg, adjusts his belt a notch tighter. No one’s told Greg outright, but he knows that he and Vásquez are both vying for the four spot. Any other team there’d be five starting pitchers, but Woody Botter is set on a four-man rotation and a deep bullpen so they can get Rogers on the mound as often as possible. That leaves one spot, two right-handers. Greg’s not a reliever, not since his freshman year—of high school.

  “Don’t worry,” Jimmy says. “He’s a big kid, but doesn’t have near the control of you.”

  “That’s a relief,” Greg says, but he’s thinking Jimmy’s the one to find Vásquez’s control, to steer and aim and cajole his young arm into shape. He’s thinking Jimmy might be loyal as Lassie, but that won’t keep him from catching another guy, and catching well. “Have a good game, buddy,” Greg says, but Jimmy’s already jogging off.

  * * *

  As the stadium starts to fill, Greg runs out of the complex, up the arroyo, and through the municipal golf course. In the year after surgery, conditioning was all he had: six months of long runs, stairs, and squats before he could even pick up a five-pound weight with his right hand. March of last year, he could run twenty miles but couldn’t open a jar of pasta sauce.

  Eighty-five percent success rate, the doctor had said, and that’s what he keeps telling himself. Guys return stronger than ever—the doc had said that, too. He jogs alongside the dry riverbed, the banks of the channel paved in concrete. It hasn’t rained since he arrived in Phoenix.

  He spots a figure running ahead of him, another nut exercising in the ninety-degree heat. Greg is going faster than the man, and the distance between them shrinks until he’s only a few strides away. It’s Jason Goodyear, the left fielder breathing hard, covered in a sheen of sweat. His soaked T-shirt is tucked into the waistband of his shorts. Greg slows his stride. To pass the All-Star would be disrespectful.

  A few blocks later Jason looks over his shoulder. “You gonna creep back there the whole damn run? Come here.”

  Greg strides alongside him. “How’s it going? I’m Greg.”

  “I know who you are, Carve. We got you from Notre Dame in oh-five.”

  “Right.” Greg wishes he could do that first line again, better. “Didn’t want to assume. A lot of new faces this spring.”

  The silence stretches, grows. He’s been in proximity to the All-Star other springs, taken showers at the same time, caught a few balls he sent back from left. But this is the only time they’ve spoken. What should he say next? I’m sorry about your divorce? Jason probably doesn’t want to talk about it—isn’t that why he got himself into trouble at Taliesin? “Got the afternoon off?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Jason spits to the side of the trail. He’s meant to be a man of few words, but today the left fielder is so short he’s nearly surly. “Dorsey put some kid in left. Wants him to play a game before he’s cut.”

  Cut day. What a different thing it means for Goodyear and Jimmy, assured of their spots on the roster. For them, it just means the locker room’s less crowded, they’ll know who’s going to be hitting before them and cleaning up after. Greg, on the other hand, is staring down the end of his option this spring, and dreads every Friday morning, expecting the worst. If he’s cut he’ll be released, and no one will sign him, his arm being what it is. Working but not working right. A part of him is amazed he’s made it a month without anyone noticing. The team doc has asked for a checkup, but he’s so busy with hamstring pulls and back pain he hardly seems to care that Greg keeps rescheduling.

  They go another mile. The sun, if possible, is even hotter; both men are sluicing off sweat.

  “How far you usually go?” Jason asks, watching Greg’s stride out of the corner of his eye.

  Greg could answer ten miles, fifteen, twenty, or he could say the truth: however far it takes to be so exhausted that he forgets about his arm for a while. But he senses the left fielder is flagging, even as the man keeps pushing to stay in step. That Greg can best the star in this one thing gives him a small surge of pride, but he pushes it back down. Today’s gift is the time with Goodyear. He’s known to be a solitary creature, superstitious about routines and rituals. Everyone in the clubhouse knows it’s best not to interrupt, not to invade his personal space. Trey Townsend was let inside just a bit; they spent some time one-on-one. But Trey’s gone now, already in Florida, settling in with the Braves after a trade absolutely no one saw coming. “I’m cool to turn around whenever.”

  “Good.” The men stop, about-face, begin r
unning again.

  A few miles back toward the stadium, Jason points left. “I’m going this way.”

  Greg says he’s happy to follow, thinking he’ll do anything to extend their time together—as if proximity will make him a better ballplayer. Jason looks him up and down and nods. Not a yes, but not a no.

  With that, Jason turns off the arroyo path and onto an arterial, the sunbaked sidewalk shimmering with heat. Some cars honk as they pass—because they recognize Jason? Or because they are two fit men, shirtless and glistening, running down the midday street? Jimmy, always a few hours away from a conquest, has been telling Greg about the women of Scottsdale, how they are all hungry for spring training and the young men who descend on the retirement town. Like cougars, they spring—that’s what Jimmy’d said.

  Jason’s route loops them east, past a sign welcoming them to Pima-Maricopa land. They overshoot the stadium, the hulking casino the only thing between them and the mountains. Instead of turning back toward the field, Goodyear turns toward the casino.

  “Where we going, Goody?”

  The left fielder nods at the casino. “Five bucks says he’s going to go eight innings. You in any rush to get back?”

  Greg can’t bear to think about what’s happening back at Salt River, how well Vásquez is likely pitching. He is in no hurry to see that. “Lead the way.”

  At the casino’s entryway, Jason tugs his soaked shirt from his waistband and pulls it over his head. Greg does the same, though the cut-up T-shirt hardly seems appropriate. “If anybody asks, we weren’t here,” Jason says as the automatic doors whoosh open.

  The afternoon crowd’s mostly blue-hairs at the penny slots, a few retirees playing hands of poker, one guy shooting at the craps table. Jason scoots between the felt tables and rows of chirping slots—it’s all Greg can do to trail him—and bellies up to the count room window. He speaks to the teller and comes back with ten chips in his palm, a shit-eating grin on his face. “What do you think?” he asks Greg, his voice buoyant. “I’m thinking blackjack.”