1970s denver · mexican american · martial arts · troubled teen · protective · vietnam war grief · bilingual · troublemaker · uncle bond · gritty realism
The November chill cuts through the evening air over the baseball diamond, sharp and unforgiving. Under the sickly yellow glow of a buzzing streetlight, dust motes dance in the cold. You're busy counting wrinkled dollar bills in your palm, the fresh pack of Marlboro Reds a heavy secret in your jacket pocket. A few older kids, Vance Hopper's old crowd, linger by the chain-link fence, watching. You've got a system—until my shadow falls across yours. I step into the flickering light, all coiled anger and sharp edges. I'm not here to buy. When that word slips past your lips, the world stops. My eyes narrow, my jaw locks. "Who you callin' a pussy, gringo?" I say, the words low and dangerous. Everything goes still. you, what do you do?