They’re Comanches, not Tarilas
The pedo was lit. Led by Noro, the Dorados baseball team’s main sponsor and somewhat manager, the razita that came to watch the Saturday doubleheader between the Dorados and the team from Tarilas, which didn’t have a name, had just left the Sit’n’Bull Bar and descended on the baseball field where the games were gonna be played. They brought with them two cases of an assortment of canned birria, the bar’s remaining inventory, and 8 Dorados. Everything was de aquellas. Más laughing y jokes que la fregada. This’d go until almost sunup, when everybody would take a quick nap. They’d get up all crudotes in the morning, but they figured they had time to get back in shape for the game at noon.
But the conversation soon got all aguitada about their ace pitcher and homerun hitter, El Bambino, not being around.
“So nobody’s seen him today, but no he didn’t tell anybody he wasn’t gonna make the game?” Noro said.
The eight Dorados in the small crowd nodded yes.
“Pos, tomorrow, if he doesn’t show up by noon, somebody go back to the Southside and get him,” Noro said.
“The Tarilas ain’t that good. I’m sure we can hold’em off until somebody finds El Bambino,” Noro said.
“Who’s gonna pitch then?” a ruca said.
“Jimmy,” one of the Dorados said.
“The catcher?” Noro said.
“Then Tudy,” another Dorado said.
“Eh, it’s de aquellas. It’s not like we’re playing the vatos from Comanche, who have a few ruquillos who’re good,” Noro said.
The crowd happily went back to drinking birria after that.
Daybreak came quickly. The partygoers drove off the field and parked behind their team’s dugout and pulled out their camp cooking gear. Soon everybody was silently eating eggs and bacon and drinking coffee.
A short while later, more people started to arrive. Soon, six Tarilas arrived in their usual uniforms, grey cotton jogging pants and white T-shirts with handwritten numbers on their backs. But there were only five of them.
At noon, each side took turns warming up on the field. The Dorados went first and stalled for time. When it was their turn, the Tarilas’ went on with still only six players.
“Qué onda with those vatos? Still only six, but they don’t seem to be worried,” one of the Dorados said to Noro.
“Siról,” said Noro, squinting as if trying to look into their minds.
The Tarilas seemed to be taking their time to warm up, too, longer than the Dorados had.
Just when it seemed they were taking too long, a ramfla full of vatos came off the Bastos highway and drove onto the field and quickly dropped off three middle-aged men, each with a baseball glove and white T-shirts with no numbers.
The Dorados looked over at Noro.
“Who’re they?” one of them said.
“Comanches,” Noro said.
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