Thirty-eight players, pulled from five clubs, stood in ranks on the field.

Dodgers, White Sox, Red Sox, Twins, Padres. The prospects, each in a different uniform, all had their eyes on one man up on the platform.

His hair was white, but the eyes behind the sunglasses were fierce: a veteran. This was Harry Miller, the manager holding the reins of the Glendale Desert Dogs.

"Thirty-eight. Everybody's here."

Harry nodded, satisfied.

Without a microphone, he spoke in a voice that rolled over the whole group.

"Good to see you. I'm Harry Miller. I won't drag this out. Our goal is simple."

Harry looked them over slowly as he went on.

"I want every one of you to stay healthy, fill in what you're missing here, and move on to the next level."

It was a thoroughly textbook speech. That was the Arizona Fall League's official reason for existing, after all.

Grad school for prospects. A place of education focused on growth rather than wins and losses, giving every player his chance.

But inwardly, Harry snorted.

Give everybody a fair shot? What a joke.

Look at the eyes of the players standing here. On the surface they acted easy, but inside they were dying to get one more at-bat, one more inning. Make an impression here and you earned an invitation to next year's spring training, or a promotion to a higher level.

And a shot at the majors—the stage they all dream about.

Every one of them had too much riding on this. Mechanical, equal-shares playing time in a war zone like that? That wasn't fairness, it was a con.

The ones who are good get more. The ones who aren't warm the bench.

That was what fairness meant to Harry. Giving more chances to the man who proved it with his ability was the absolute law of the professional world.

Sure, the clubs would rather I took it easy on their guys.

Push players too hard and the clubs say something about it. Who's going to take responsibility if a player gets hurt? So there were even cases where…