Page 1 of Serving Bunt

Diaz

Roasters 22–35

Ihad never given much credibility to conspiracy theories . . . or conspiracy theorists, for that matter.

Aside from Abuelita, of course, who to this day took every opportunity to share the deeply harrowing and “absolutely factual” tale of her encounter with El Chupacabra behind the garden shed, back in the summer of ‘71. Laugh if you want, but it had made for one hell of a bedtime story when I’d been seven.

Lately, though, I had begun reconsidering my position on conspiracies. I was now about seventy percent convinced—seventy-three percent on bad days—that there were unseen forces actively plotting against my teammates and me.

Spirits. Demons. El diablo.

It didn't matter what you called them. They were out there and they were fucking me.

Sideways . . . and without lube.

Take it from this sweet Catholic boy who, much to my grandmother’s horror, only saw the inside of a church on Christmas these days. There was a fine line between superstition and full-blown “the government is turning the frogs gay” delusions, and nobody straddled that line better than baseball players.

Baseball was just as much of a religion as the rest. Only we prayed with pine tar and worshiped at the altar of playoff beards. So, it was only natural that when a winning season started to tilt sideways, suspicion started to creep in.

Maybe it was just team mechanics, or maybe . . . the Rose City Roasters were cursed.

Dum dum dum.

“Strike three.”

The umpire’s voice sliced through the stadium noise like a guillotine. From the top step of the dugout, I watched Bennett freeze for half a second at the plate before stepping back, his jaw tight.

It was a rare thing, seeing my friend caught off-balance like that. Bennett was so much more than our catcher; he was the team’s backbone. The guy could read a pitcher’s tells like subtitles and call a game like he’d written the script. He carried himself with quiet authority that could make even the biggest bastards cower in fear.

Little did they know there was a big, old teddy bear with a sweet tooth lurking underneath that catching gear.

It’d been nearly six months since Bennett had moved out of my spare room, but we’d lived together long enough for me to recognize his tells—the stiffening of his shoulders, the way he avoided eye contact when he passed his bat off to our bat girl, Daisy. He was fucking pissed, and rightfully so.

This was our eighth loss in a row.

It sucked. We sucked. Any day now, the organization was going to rebrand and start selling tickets to Suckfest ‘26.

Now there’s a shirt I’d buy.

On second thought, it sounded like a gay porn flick, and not a good one at that.

I leaned against the railing, staring out at the field and hoping for a sign.

Something.

Anything.

El Chupacabra, even. That would certainly make Abuelita’s day.

Sadly, only the women in my family inherited the brujería gene. The spirits had jack shit to say to me.

Bennett jogged back toward the dugout now, helmet tucked under his arm, his expression carefully neutral. I forced my hands together in a bright, performative clap.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“It’s not your fault, mi pana,” I told him. “It’s the curse.”

He rolled his eyes.