Eye For An Eye, Tooth For A Win — 1994

Despite the physical similarities, the Fabens Wildcats were everything his team of misfits wasn’t. Both teams had a healthy collection of fourteen and fifteen year-old Latino boys still carrying some baby fat and some waiting to fill in their bean pole frames but that’s where the similarities ended. The San Eli team was every bit the rag tag bunch their school was known for.

Their uniforms were fitted for a varsity team several years prior, passed on to successive varsity teams every year till 1994, when the older bunch got a new set, meaning the JV was getting a “new to me” retro uniform. There were other schools, those with the large man-children and then those with the all-too-visible wealth, evident in their multiple uniforms, matching shoes and shiny new bats with that awkward alloy sound when contact was made yet neither advantages made them superior. Normally, those were among the excuses their predecessors rattled off as to why they couldn’t compete but that year’s San Eli JV baseball team was mowing down opponents without prejudice or consideration for size and tax brackets. Previous JV teams would disband before the season even ended, mostly because they couldn’t field a team of players that could pass their classes but also because there was only so much losing they could take before they bailed.

This JV team was different. The incoming class of freshmen had played together since T-ball. The unit would go on to stay together for over a decade. They would manage to make their respective league championship every year, only to lose to a team from, you guessed it, Fabens. While they’d manage to beat everyone in their district that season, Fabens had gotten the best of them at their field and now they were coming to visit San Eli, giving them their chance to get revenge, once and for all, till the next year, of course.

The varsity baseball team was good too, they’d won district the year before and were in contention all year until the end. Yet this JV team had held their own. Not only had they been able to field a team all season long, they’d won twice as many games as they had lost and had a better record than the varsity team. It had to be said, they weren’t necessarily a better team head-to-head against their varsity team but, within their league they were miles better and everyone in the program knew it.

There were no stars on the team. Reason being, if someone was good enough to be a star on the JV team they’d be on varsity. That said, the team won often because they were good as a unit. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses and needed little coaching. Eventually, the school allowed one of the school’s janitors and another teacher to volunteer as coaches. That season played out like most of the seasons in their little league careers, they won the games they were supposed to win and split the games against tough competition. They’d beaten every one at least once, except the hated Wildcats.

The scene was set, Fabens was coming.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Carlos wasn’t the star of the team but he was one of the vocal leaders. He was, however, good enough to occasionally moonlight on the varsity team — earning the undesirable distinction of making the last out of the varsity team’s season on a failed suicide squeeze. His semi-varsity designation earned him enough pull to feel like one of the stars. In addition, he’d been on a pretty impressive tear. He’d gone 4–4, 3–4, and 4–5 in the previous three games, earning him some rare praise from the vice-principal over the morning intercom earlier that week after their Tuesday game.

He was feeling it and really wanted to try his luck against Fabens to get that taste of failure out of his mouth. The last time they played, while he was on varsity, he went 0–3 with three pathetic strikeouts and missed two balls in center field. One went right over his head, even though it was debatable if anyone would’ve gotten to it anyway, and one embarrassingly went right by him during a typical Fabens spring sandstorm. Those Fabens sandstorms had been foiling him since his first little league game almost ten years earlier.

He still had nightmares about that game. The thick raindrops pounding his back and head, his glove covering his face, blocking not only the painful rain but the sand from getting into his eyes. The Fabens field was really a caliche field with no grass and what appeared like imported sand evenly spread all over. When the wind blew the mini-sand clouds would cover the field one to two feet from the ground. He could still remember hearing the crack of the bat, the dugout screaming his name. “Carlos, grounder!” The ball bounced a couple times above the sand cloud and he waited for it to reappear, then waited some more and then realized it was gone, he’d lost it. It wasn’t until he noticed the right fielder chasing after it that he realized the ball had rolled right past him. He wondered what the scene was from the dugout’s perspective. Did they see the sand clouds too? Did they understand his visibility issues or did it just look like he stood there like a five-year old T-baller, with his glove on his face, while a sharp grounder went right past him? What an embarrassment, he thought.

He almost quit baseball that day. It wasn’t just the grounder, or the fly ball that got behind him, or even the three strikeouts that made him feel overwhelmed. He wasn’t having fun, and worse yet, he wasn’t playing with the people he’d grown up playing with.

Needless to say, he was back on JV the next week and he wouldn’t quit.

Fabens week was winding down and the game was a few hours away. He was restless all day in class. He couldn’t wait till three rolled around, to go out there and go 4–4 or 5–5, something absurd like the previous few games. He felt he couldn’t miss. For some odd reason, he’d found a stroke that he’d hope would never leave him. He had stumbled across a very simple — and presumably common — trend. JV pitchers were not the most accurate creatures on the mound. With that knowledge in mind, he understood their intention, about 99% of the time, was merely to throw strikes. As such, the most important pitch of every at bat for these JV pitchers was the first one. Couple that terribly-kept secret with a nice, consistent swing and you’ll stumble on a few four-hit games.

The one positive about being a full-time JV player, albeit purely for ego, was he now got to wear the six-year old uniform the junior team had to wear. The tighter fitting dark blue outfit did him a favor in the looks department as opposed to the varsity’s white with blue pinstripe getup that fit him so loose he looked like the ball boy for the 1927 Yankees. Look good, play good, he thought to himself as he walked to the field from class that afternoon.

Weather-wise, they couldn’t have asked for a better stage. The standard El Paso April heat was in full force. There was no wind to speak of which, in baseball terms, is great for an outfielder but not for one who had to stand on a field that had just recently been covered in six inches of manure. At least they had grass now. The one terrible side effect, aside from getting cow shit all over you when you dove for a ball, was that sometimes, on days like this, super hot with no wind, the outfielders could get nauseous from the smell. Carlos had worked at a dairy farm since he was 12 so he was immune from the odor but the other outfielders weren’t as lucky, that included opponents.

All in all, the cards were stacked in his and his team’s favor, he thought. Right then, when the stars seemed to be aligning, when everything that could go right was, it hit him, literally and violently, right smack in the face.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Diego Montes was quite a specimen. He was a lean yet muscular teenager who was much more man than he was a boy by that point. The eldest son of a Mexican immigrant mechanic, who no doubt helped his father around the shop, carried about a massive pair of hands, supported by equally impressive popeye forearms. If a baseball scout were to spot Montes, a freshman, standing on the baseball diamond they’d start making some calls to the parent club. That is until they’d watch him play. For all the physically visible gifts, Montes was a six foot, 170 pound bag mix of discombobulated bones and muscle. He had absolutely no talent, or interest for any sport for that matter. In fact, Montes wouldn’t last on the team as he’d fail out before the end of the season and never play baseball again. He had one skill however, and it got him a spot on the team. Although rarely was anyone turned away. Montes was intoxicatingly strong. Everyone imagined, if they could get him to throw straight, or if he could hit a baseball, just imagine the possibilities. It never panned out and Montes would walk away with no regrets, except maybe for one, the time he almost killed his teammate Carlos.

Montes was a hard but wild thrower. He was never allowed to pitch, though, for everyone’s safety. He was rarely allowed on the field even, but they carried him around for some reason, maybe in case they ever needed someone to run over a catcher or to change the water pump on the bus? On this day, he was warming up by left field, chatting it up with another disinterested party, when they noticed the entire team had finished warming up. The other player began jogging to the third base dugout when Montes, trying to show off the arm, attempted to throw it as hard as he could from left field to his buddy, who by this point was near third base. Montes unleashed a rocket, a wild, stray, furious missile that overshot its target.

Carlos felt great as he warmed up. He stood just outside the third base dugout taking practice swings, still testing out the bats. During his recent streak he’d been toying with lighter bats but he was hoping to eventually get back to his usual, a 34 oz stick. As he took his swings, he took measure of the Fabens team. They weren’t much different from them, really. The featured a bunch of short, stumpy Latino kids, like his team. Sure, they had a couple lanky tall kids but they didn’t seem much of a threat. As he’d learned growing up playing baseball, size is no factor on the diamond. Heck, that goofy bull they carried around, for all his strength and muscles, was as useless as a third-string kicker in football. He turned around to walk back into the dugout when someone engaged him in some conversation. As he spoke to the person sitting on the bench, he ignored the two guys running in from left field, and he didn’t hear the warning as a baseball hurled through the air straight at his head.

He didn’t see it coming. All he remembers was a large thump on the right side of his jaw, the loud ringing from his ears and realizing he was on one knee, halfway into the dugout. The entire team was huddled around him, their faces ranging from concerned to outright scared. Montes rushed over and attempted to help him up, apologizing constantly and appearing very sincerely sorry. “It’s ok Diego, it was my fault, I should’ve seen the ball coming,” he said, but noticed the rest of the group sitting on the bench shaking their heads.

“Nah,” said the catcher, a long-time friend of Carlos and a charter member of their little league team, “this fool almost killed you, he’s a pendejo.”

There was little time for worry, what felt like a few seconds passed by before the umpire called for the lineup. They needed to submit the lineup but they didn’t want to scratch him off it if at all possible. Your chances of beating Fabens drop dramatically if you don’t have the guy who was averaging four hits a game over the last two weeks somewhere in the lineup.

“Will you be able to play?” Asked one of the coaches.

“Yessir, I’m fine,” responded Carlos, discovering that his right molar was not only shattered but also stuck to his cheek. He decided to keep that fact to himself.

“Son, you’re bleeding from the mouth,” the other coach pointed out.

“This is Fabens, coach.” Nothing else needed to be said.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The game did not start well for Carlos and the team. He was bleeding from the mouth, significantly, so he had to breathe from his nose, which rendered his cow shit ignoring superpowers ineffective. So now he was bleeding from the mouth, most certainly concussed, and dizzy from the smell of hot, wet manure. Tough it out, its Fabens, he’d have to keep reminding himself while he stood, a little wobbly, in centerfield. His first two at bats were not terrible but not great. He’d switched to the heavier bat and was able to make solid contact, except that each time he’d hit it straight to an outfielder. He was 0–2 and the score was tied 1–1 by the fifth inning. Both pitchers were dominating, which meant he’d have a hard time getting four at bats. If he had any hope of making an offensive contribution he’d have to do it in the third and possibly, final at bat.

The left fielder was a replacement, as the starter had been called up to varsity so Carlos spent the majority of the day telling the kid where to stand and yelling commands at him when a ball travelled anywhere near. In the top of the sixth, with a runner on first, a batter who had gone to left field twice before came up again so Carlos warned his field mate to move up as he was playing too deep, surely for fear that a ball would get behind him, as it had done a couple times already. The kid ignored Carlos and when the ball dropped in front of him ran right past the ball, missing it. Carlos, aware that he’d need to cover the guy on every ball, was in place and picked the grounder in time to notice the runner from first was headed to third, thinking the ball was headed to the fence. Carlos made a quick and accurate throw to his third baseman’s left shoulder, allowing him to catch it and swing the glove down, tagging the runner for the third out.

Like any kid, Carlos was out there enjoying himself being productive on the field, as best he could with a shattered molar and cut up cheek, while the adults, worried they had a potential liability issue on their hands, placed a call to his mother. It’s not known for certain who made the call, and if they really used the words “broken jaw” but within minutes of getting the call his mother was standing behind the dugout, waiting to take him to the ER.

As Carlos ran from center in the middle of the sixth, the catcher gave him the dreaded news. “Your mom is here.”

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Few if any defied Carlos’ mother, by now a known commodity around the team and the community. She was known as a tough, no bullshit authoritarian with a look that could make hardened criminals weep and school employees rethink their careers. She was the matriarch of a family that had over eight kids, a mix of cousins from three families, along various grades in the school. Carlos was her only son in school by then, and while she’d rarely been involved in his high school affairs, this was the mother of all exceptions to the rule. And yet, on this critical day, she was outsmarted by the catcher, Roy Guera, a short, cheeky kid who was one of her favorites.

As Carlos walked near the dugout, Guera tossed him a helmet which eliminated the need for him to walk into the dugout. He had handed his glove to the left fielder and walked over to the on deck circle, as he was the second man up that inning, the entire time focusing on the field and the new pitcher warming up. Mom, not to be ignored, walked over to the fence and stared at him, without saying a word for a few seconds. He could feel a hot, burning sensation coming from those eyes zeroing in on his soul. He noticed the entire group in the stands looked at him with the worried yet hopeful look bank robbery hostages give the one armed security guard.

Eventually she started slowly whispering his name. “Carlos, mijo.”

He didn’t want to turn around, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t know if he’d start crying, embarrassing himself in front of the entire school, and the Fabens baseball team, or if he’d play it tough. But his worry was if he did turn around, she’d see his swollen face and bloody mouth and she’d run onto the field and drag his ass off by the back of his collar. He was not going to risk it. He’d suffer the consequences later but he felt he’d make her understand. If she’s going to get pissed about it she’s already halfway there, might as well make it worth it, he thought to himself. After all, this was Fabens.

The first batter walked and, as he strolled over to the batter’s box, Carlos began the most scrutinized walkup in his young life. The fifteen or so feet to the box felt like two hundred yards, the entire time hearing his mother calling him. “Caaaaaarrrrlooooos…Caaaaaarrrlooooos, hijo de la chin…..”

By the time he got to the box the catcher and the umpire feared for their own lives. They both stood there straight, looking at him with a look of two timid co-conspirators. “Let’s just do this,” he’d tell them and they both nervously nodded and got in place.

He’d switched back to the lighter bat and didn’t have much faith in his hitting anymore. In fact, after that game he’d go hitless for the remainder of the season, two more games, one on JV and one on varsity. He looked over at the third base coach for a sign but the volunteer coach was rethinking his place in this world, which was a dead giveaway to Carlos — that’s the sonofabitch made the phone call.

No sign, just a nervously clapping middle-aged man. For some dumb reason, he, instead of turning right to step into the box, looked left, to the dugout but by mistake made eye contact with his furious mother. As soon as their eyes met, he knew he had a shitty poker face and, like an idiot, smiled at her, thus showing her his bloody teeth and mouth. His mother, along with the entire crowd that saw it, gasped as she covered her mouth. “Dios mio!”

Carlos, with his fate sealed now, turned to the field and settled into the batter’s box. He had nothing to lose and all the glory the Fabens/San Eli JV baseball rivalry had to gain.

— — — — — — — — — — — —

One sign of his hesitancy or insecurity on the diamond was when he’d start tinkering with his batting stance. It was always a peculiar exercise in self-defeatism. Over the years, the serious card collector that he was, he’d tried several batting stances and none worked or felt right. The obvious ones, Griffey’s, Bonds’ or even Will Clark’s were amazing and wonderful, but they were lefties and he could never feel he’d get them right. Then the righties like McGwire or Ripken just didn’t feel right. Eventually, Carlos would end up adopting a lefty’s stance after all, Andy Van Slyke’s, and would emulate his mannerisms as well, including the nervous shirt tug between pitches.

The pitcher nodded, did his windup and fired a straight, no frills, no movement, JV quality fastball. Carlos didn’t get a chance to think and thankfully, second-guess himself, and took a quick, short swing, slapping it hard, deep into the gap between center and right. The runner from first would go around to score and Carlos would end up at second. They were now up 2–1! All the stress, the drama and, literally, pain, he’d endured during the last few hours had paid off. As he stood there on second, hearing the crowd cheering, his teammates rattling the fence and even his mother flashing him a smile, he knew he’d need it all to survive the next few hours.

The team would do him a solid and strand him at second, after three straight batters made outs and he simply walked to center as the left fielder brought him his glove. By this time he noticed the crowd, while happy he’d put the team ahead, was now suffering some Stockholm Syndrome and was beginning to feel bad for his mother. He was turning into the villain in this story so he needed the game to end soon, and for all of this to be worth it. He also had a pounding headache, a sore cheekbone and a strange clicking noise in his head every time he took a step.

The outcome of the game was never in question again, as they retired the Fabens batters in order to finish the seventh, the game ending on a wild diving catch by Carlos right in front of the timid left fielder and directly behind the shortstop. He was the hero but now there was no celebration, he’d have to go ASAP before his mother went DEFCON 1. He’d miss the high fives, the handshakes with the opponents and even the team’s chant as he rushed straight off the field onto his mother’s car and to the hospital.

No good deed goes unpunished and his sacrifice cost him dearly. The hospital was only able to detach the cheek from the molar and confirmed he had a fractured jaw but it would not require them to wire it shut. He’d be fine as long as he took the prescribed pain killers and ate soft food for three weeks.

“What about the shattered molar?” he asked. That was actually the most painful part, now that the adrenaline had worn off.

The nurse, tired of dealing with the classic cast of characters an ER sees during a Friday night in El Paso, gave him the only response he deserved. “We’re a hospital, not a dentist’s office, you can see one on Monday.”

He would go on to spend the weekend popping Demerol, watching the walls move and eating Campbell’s chicken noodles but it was all worth it, because they beat those bastards from Fabens.