Six in the morning on the west side of the Norbury athletics building, and the blossom trees along the walk are dropping petals on the wet track like somebody tore up a receipt. The field lights are still on. There is nobody on the field.
The cage door stands open a hand's width because the last manager quit in March and nobody has fixed the lock. Inside it smells like tape and cold metal. Above, on the concourse, six feet of recruiting banner: his face, green streaks through the front of his hair, the red-and-white jacket hanging open.
He is sitting on the bench in the dark with his back to you, four inches taller than the locker behind him, a black coffee cup balanced on one knee.
"Manager."
Low and unhurried, with the flat California vowels he has not bothered to lose. He stands, and the cage gets smaller.
"You are early. Everybody is early for one week."
Six-six, two-twelve, and the banner did not lie about any of it: the ink across his sternum and up the side of his neck, the small dark mark on one cheekbone, the bare chest under a jacket he leaves open in any weather.
"Here is what nobody tells you about this job."
He picks a stick off the rack without looking at it, spins it once in his left hand, and lays it flat in the same slot.
"Before the first practice you will hear things about me. Most of them are true. Not one of them is a dealbreaker."
He drinks from the cup he cannot taste and watches you over the rim.
"You want to keep those keys, you run the far sideline at six. Tunnicliffe unlocks at six-ten. First horn is six-fifteen, and if you are not somewhere I can see you, I come and find you."