On Deck (eBook)

Chapter Two

Wooden Bats and Haunted Tales

Our neighborhood sprawled like a custom-made playground for our youthful adventures. At every turn, the air bore the scent of grass, shimmering with the promise of new thrills. The open yards were like an endless blank slate. They called to our limitless imagination. Laughter and shouts painted the scene, each note a colorful stroke in our gallery of memories.

Amidst this landscape, empty lots punctuated the terrain, their tall grasses swaying in the breeze. The solid caliche ground flanked both sides of the street, while the steady traffic flow served as a constant hum in the background of our youthful escapades. Houses brimmed with kids, some boasting several, creating a vibrant and bustling area where the streets reverberated with the joyful clamor of children at play.

Charming wood-frame structures comprised the homes, each with a welcoming porch. The porches were sanctuaries, offering respite from the relentless South Texas heat. Families gathered there, sharing stories and laughter as they sought solace in the shade.

They interlinked people in our barrio through familial ties, knitting a close-knit community where every person knew everyone. It forged a sense of unity and belonging that was heartwarming and comforting.

Old Kingsville Road was more than a street; it resembled a mosaic, with generations converging like brushstrokes on a masterpiece.

I remember my grandmother living with us, her anecdotes a thread connecting us to the past. One warm afternoon, as we sat on the porch, I watched in fascination as she rolled her cigarettes by hand.

“Grandma,” I began, unable to contain my curiosity, “How do you roll your tobacco sticks?”

She smiled, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Well, it’s a skill I learned long ago,” she said, rolling the cigarette with practiced ease. “Your dad was a character when he was growing up.”

I leaned in closer. “Tell me more. What was he like?”

She chuckled a warm and nostalgic sound. “Oh, he was a handful, that boy. He left school after second grade to help on the farm. But he had a mischievous side, playing practical jokes.”

As she narrated, she painted vivid pictures of my dad’s childhood, drawing me into her storytelling. “In his mischief, though,” she continued, “he was respectful and kind. I knew he would grow into a fine man one day.” I nodded, absorbing every word. “And he did, Grandma. He works like you said.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she reached over to squeeze my hand. “I love him and am proud of the man he became.”

I thought to myself, “She knows everything.” Each tale she spun was a window into my dad’s youth, a side of him I’d never appreciated. And here she was, sharing these precious memories with me, passing down not just stories but a deeper understanding of who he was. She held the keys to a hidden treasure trove of family history, and I was fortunate enough to receive her wisdom.

As our community enveloped us, it transformed into a vibrant tapestry woven with the threads of our existence, stitching together the heart of our barrio. The streets echoed with the melodies of our lives, harmonizing joy, love, and determination. Happiness ripened like a sweet fruit, its aroma permeating the air we breathed. Affection flowed like a gentle stream connecting us. And strength stood tall as an unyielding tree, offering us the comforting shade of belonging.

Amid this embrace, sandlot baseball developed beyond a game; it became a binding force during our youth. The bats we wielded were more than mere tools; they bore witness to our experiences, their weathered grains telling the stories of our collective journeys. And in the stillness of a summer’s day, the satisfying crack of the bat echoed like a chorus of memories.

I reflected on my role in this harmonious concerto. Despite my young age, my natural talent and pride made me a top pick for the team.

Each swing, pitch, and well-placed hit created a camaraderie forever etched in my memory. My rabbit-like speed helped me round the diamond, and my arm threw a laser-fast ball, giving the runners a challenge.

I was most at home on the baseball field, where age mattered less than passion and dedication. We came together as a united front. Singles or home runs added notes to our song.

Our makeshift fields boasted cardboard bases and improvised markers. They embodied pure childhood joy, capturing the thrill of youthful friendship. Within these humble boundaries, we formed connections that withstood life’s trials. Friendly rivalries forged unbreakable bonds, uniting us on that sunlit, dusty patch of ground. With every swing, victory, and defeat, our friendships grew stronger, etched into the sacred space of our recollections.

Teamwork emerged amid the cheers and tantalizing brush of near misses. Each play carved triumphant moments into our memories, leaving a lasting mark on the story of our experiences. The baseball diamonds transformed into arenas of life as the sun showered the fields in their tender warmth. Our friendship blossomed during the game, creating a vivid picture of solidarity and passion.

Stretched before us, the field bore witness to time’s inexorable passage and the countless battles waged upon its hallowed ground. Its surface, marked by years of fierce competition, welcomed our every step with the fine dust of its storied legacy. Once a vibrant green setting, the dirt now carried the rugged imprints of tennis shoes and the daring slides of players. It captured memories as if etched into the earth.

Knee-high, the Johnson grass framed the outfield like a wild sentinel. In the breeze, the blades swayed a dance of nature’s persistence. This living boundary served as a reminder that the field embodied more than a mere stage for baseball; it symbolized an arena where humanity and the natural world converged, a place where our youthful aspirations took root and blossomed.

Beyond the lot, a solitary abandoned building loomed in muted reflection. Time had aged the walls and broken windows, now nostalgic observers of the pastime. Worn and weathered, this silent witness told the stories of games played and dreams dreamed. It remained a relic of tales that had withstood the unforgiving march of time, a sentinel of our connection to the past.

Outside of organized sports, our spirits found joy in the timeless game of Kick the Can. This childhood classic captured our experiences through sprints, daring dives, and hearty laughter.

One memory shines amid cherished recollections—an unforgettable snapshot of innocence entwined with the magic of sibling bonds.

In the confines of our yard, my brother and I went on miniature adventures armed with slender, sawed-off broomstick bats. With the resounding thud of contact, under the golden sun, time stood still as the wiffle ball whizzed through the air making bizarre twists and turns. 

At twilight, my dad and I played catch on the porch, our unspoken father–son connection clear in the baseball’s rhythm. These moments, when fading daylight painted soft hues in the sky, held a special place in my heart. Our passion became our stage, and our bond flowed through each throw.

Frequently, my mom joined us on the steps, her eyes sparkling with affection, pride, and joy, observing our every move. Her presence added completeness to those evenings, weaving a unity beyond words.

As shadows lengthened and surroundings shifted into dusk, a familiar, melodious call drifted through the screen door—a signal that dinner awaited. The enticing scent of spices, savory sauces, homemade tortillas, flavorful chicken, and Spanish rice wafted through the air. Sweet and tangy fragrances swirled in the breeze. Like a cozy hug, the scent of tortillas enveloped you in a wheat-like aroma.

In our unassuming home, something magical unfolded. It infused our humble abode with togetherness. Every nook and cranny held memories of meals, heartwarming laughter, and the strengthening of our bonds.

These heartening moments were reminders of the beauty of our connections, forming authentic ties that brought our hearts closer in unity and experiences.

As the fragrant echoes of our meal settled, Rick, Anna, I, and sometimes our cousins, gathered around, captivated by the art of storytelling. The gentle play of light through delicate curtains added mystery to our eager anticipation. Some sat cross-legged, others kneeled, ready to be drawn into the tales that awaited.

Among our sessions, one story stood out: the legend of La Llorona, the Weeping Woman. Passed down through generations, it never failed to intrigue and send shivers down our spines. The tale spoke of a woman who drowned her children and herself in a river after a bitter dispute with her husband. Condemned to wander between life and death, she forever searches for her lost children beneath the cover of night.

Her lantern cast an eerie glow, and her mournful cries pierced the stillness of the countryside, leaving La Llorona’s haunting presence etched in our memories.

In the room, darkness enclosed us,...