No catsup allowed

Back in the day when I came out of retirement for the first time, my mentor called to say we were going out of the area for a sort of play-off game between two bitter high school rivals. If the Falfurrias Jerseys won, they'd play another school the next day; the winner of that contest would be the conference champion.

"Carl," David Mosqueda said, "watch your step with Eliseo. He eats rookies alive — without salt, chili peppers, jalapeños, condiments of any kind. Coach Ramos will ask you a question at the plate meeting before the game. You damn well better know the answer; it's the only reason I brought you."

I was 38 and far from being a rookie, but it would be my first important game in my new home. While we drove the 70 miles north from Edinburg, my emotions vacillated between arrogance (their usual state) and fear (induced by David's hasty, ill-advised pregame warning). As we rolled to a stop at the checkpoint manned by the Immigration and Naturalization Service, fear won out when David whispered, in the worst possible imitation of the Cisco Kid: "Chew let me do all the talkin', chew bet."

I handled the pregame question easily enough: "The DH can only hit for the pitcher, right?" Right — in summer ball, but not under FED rules. C'mon, I thought. You can do better than that.

He did.

Continued...