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shag balls under the afternoon sun.
    â€œAny good prospects?”
    Golden scanned the field, as if evaluating the players. “Some of the California kids look pretty good,” Golden said.
    Lofton nodded. “Which ones?” Golden himself had gone straight from college ball to the majors. Lofton remembered his glamorous rookie year: how it had culminated, like a television movie, in Golden’s marriage to a beautiful young woman who had admired him all summer from the third base bleachers. What he really wanted to ask, of course, was how Golden felt. Was he bitter? He held off asking, partly out of respect, but partly because of Golden’s reputation for moodiness, his tendency to lose his temper suddenly and without warning.
    â€œTim Carpenter, if a place clears for him. Sparks, maybe. His arm looks good, sometimes,” Golden said.
    Because the West Coast papers had made a fuss over his resisting the draft—one labeled him the “California Dodger”—Golden and his wife headed for Canada. But the papers soon forgot; Golden’s name dropped from the headlines. So Golden did his stint in obscurity, pitching semipro for the Alberta Stars, working part-time as a sportswriter, copying scores from the wire services. By the time Jimmy Carter had granted amnesty to draft resisters, Golden’s pitching arm was gone, his wife confined to a wheelchair—multiple sclerosis—and the rookie bonus spent. After Golden failed at a comeback, Cowboy told him about the Holyoke job. Now he counted the gate for Brunner and filed scouting reports to California.
    â€œThe players, they excited about being in the Blues’ organization?” Lofton asked.
    â€œOf course they’re excited. They’d be foolish to be otherwise.” Golden bent over, picked up some trash, and pitched it into a can. He walked away from Lofton, into the clubhouse.
    Though the score did not change, and the Redwings were not threatening, the fans let out a cheer. Batting now, with two outs in the sixth, was Randy Gutierrez, the Nicaraguan shortstop whose wife and kids were waiting back in Managua until Randy had something firm with the Blues’ organization. Gutierrez was popular with the local fans, particularly the Puerto Ricans. Good field, no hit—that was the line on Gutierrez. Unless he started hitting soon, Gutierrez might find himself back in Managua.
    Gutierrez made the sign of the cross before stepping into the batter’s box. He took a called strike, then backed away from the plate.
    Lofton had assumed until a few days ago that Gutierrez’s slump was just a slump. Maybe there was too much pressure on him to make the big leagues; maybe he felt too much uncertainty about his family back in Managua. Tenace, however, had another explanation. Gutierrez had gotten carried away in Holyoke. He spent his spare time getting coked up with the ballpark honeys. His seven hundred dollars a month—a double leaguer’s salary—disappeared, Tenace said, quicker than a sneeze in the air, so now Gutierrez was in debt, playing worse and worse, digging himself one deep hole.
    Gutierrez took another strike, moving his bat this time but coming around too late, after the pitch had hit the catcher’s leather. Lofton hoped there weren’t any Blues scouts in the stands.
    Gutierrez’s decline was a story he thought he could sell if he played the angles right, maybe to the Globe or a sports magazine, for more money than the Dispatch paid. He would have to interview him, get some quotes about the slump, label him a hot Blues prospect—true, in a way—and rely on Tenace’s insinuations to get drugs and women into the story. Then, at the end, a thin ray of hope, maybe the religious angle, the sign of the cross.
    Gutierrez stepped up to the plate and watched a pitch float over the outside corner. Ball one. His partisans yelled encouragement, a smattering of Spanish and English. He