We are the Riff-Raffs

When I was little, my Dad played on a soft-ball team, the Riff-Raffs. Thinking of those long games bring back memories of hot summers, boredom, blue candy and dirt covered kid faces, grown women in halter tops and beads in their hair chanting:

We are the Riff-Raffs
the mighty, mighty Riff-Raffs
Everywhere we gooooo...
People want to knoooow...
Who we are.....

So this year, when Dad asked me if I wanted to go to the Memorial Day game while I was in town, I knew I was in for the long haul, but I was compelled to go. The game was in Madrid, an old New Mexican ghost town on the way to Sante Fe. The baseball park has not changed since the 1920's, when it became the first park in America west of the Mississippi to have lights. The stands and roof are entirely made of wood and I remember feeling anxious as a little kid looking up at the decrepit wood ceiling.

The weather was perfect, so we took Dad's motorcycle there. Nothing is like riding a deserted desert highway on a motorcycle, especially when you are not driving. The word freedom doesn't even begin to describe it. It's more like a medatative, out-of-body state.

We were the first to arrive. Killing time, we walked around the (former) ghost town expressing disgust at the tourist take over and talking about how it used to be.

When we returned and started to mingle, it was neat for me to be surrounded with "the adults" I grew up with, their children I went to school with, and their children I had not yet met. As the game began and was interrupted with the sound of dozens of motorcycles, I instantly remembered the tradition of the local biker gang flooding the field with machines and making sure everyone stopped to look. It cracked me up to notice that they all had matching vests, with the exception of the women's version that had "Property of boyfriend's name" on the back.

As the game progressed, I noticed a familiar face, a man called Papa Smurf, that used to play on the original team with my Dad. He was a spectacular hitter, but I guess the extra pounds were too much to carry to the bases, because every time he sent one soaring, a young guy I went to school with, Lester Gonzolez Jr., would sub-run. I wasn't the only to notice, because after the Riff-Raffs came ahead 15 or so points the other team was furious about the duo. Before I knew it, a pushing a yelling match broke out on the field and could have easily escalated into a full blow riot if the ump. didn't break it up with a threat to forfeit.

The Riff-Raffs weren't through though. Immediately after the altercation, Lester Jr. hit one out of the park, took the time to rip off his shirt, loosen his belt and run all four bases, showing his bare backside to the opposing team and the entire audience. It was the funniest display I have ever been privileged to see at a sporting event.

After we won that day, the trophy plaque was brought into the afterparty at the local bar. The crowd of chanting players stopped right at me and Dad, and I realized that the hooks were above us. There was nothing left to do but stand on top of the bar with my Dad and put the plaque in it's home.....at least until next year when the Riff-Raffs will have to defend it!