Part One: Flight of the Bonita Bandito

It is told throughout the land of Fullerton that when unsheathed from the scabbard of the bullpen upon the dragons mound that the moon and stars would join as one and reflect a light of a thousand torches off the blade of Titan Baseball and blind those brave enough to step into the box against him. From a ¾ arm slot comes sovereignty and the late life of a fastball adorned with the deadly tail of a Manticore touching 94 and charging through the zone. Light weight and balanced for battle from pommel to Foible massive amounts of torque rise up from the long lean leg strength of the hilt and explode across the high waist gate of the quillions. Arcing like lightening from the double plane break of the blade cometh a bolt sweeping 10 to 4 flashing above average slide across the sky. Fearless as the night that wields him in his approach to working fast, throwing strikes and Bustin in on batters comes the fog of war exhausted through the nostrils of serpents that encircle his grip bringing with it gasps of change. With solid arm speed and considerable tumble, it doth spill across the dish bearing forth weak contact, whiffs and blood shed to thine enemies. With the knuckle duster gauntlet upon the left hand, mound position is defended and what remains wedged in the stone of the mound when the smoke and fog clears is the perfect weapon of war, the sword of Titan Baseball, Mex-Calibur.

Where the story ends only the pale moon above Avalon can testify, however where it began was in a small village north of Tapachula, Chiapas Mexico. On the steep hillsides of Bonita, under the hot humid skies, days are hard for family coffee growers during harvest season as they are for a high school baseball player and decisions on what’s best for the family way even heavier upon a father’s back than the loaded large baskets of ripe beans being hauled out for sorting and drying. His young son was skilled in the game of baseball beyond many others and soon his talents would outgrow the confines of his humble village.

In addition to the skill of picking beans one by one separating ripe from green without damaging the branches or shoots, Mijo could establish a fastball early in counts, play short and would complete his high school career batting .391with 20 RBI’s his senior year. Throwing his first pitch at the age of 6 while laboring under an unforgiving sun, his overall playing level increased exponentially season by season. His sophomore year begun with the sun and a mountain of work to climb down from; with an ERA of 29.40 drenching the rugged terrain of a rocky start and an early season encounter with the Claremont Wolfpack he scaled the steep embankment of varsity baseball. By the end of the season the” coach’s dream” stood staunch upon the hill against Covina and went CG rendering only 6 Hits, 0 runs, 2 walks and 7 K’s and at the end of the day you could hear all the villagers say, the kid is on his way.

The 2011 Hacienda League Baseball season begun has the coffee bean harvest was winding down when The Bonita Bandito ascended Mt. Sac in search of a bountiful harvest. The tally of his opening day yield read like a grower’s almanac with a predicted reign of 6 Innings Pitched. Tide tables noting the tide coming in with 7K’s and going out with 0 runs rendered and the astrological guide setting suns, orbiting moons and dispatching Spartans on only 5 Hits and 2 Walks. The coffee harvest of the 2011 season was not as bountiful and had been in decline in the area since 2003 but things on the mound continued to improve and on May 20, 2011 the son of a coffee grower threw down another CG, allowing only 2 Hits and just as many walks in the shut out effort VS. The Bell Gardens Lancers. The yield from that years coffee crop was not enough to carry them through the fall but the totals from the slab were Bustin’ at the seams; leading the Hacienda League with 13 Wins in 13 starts and ERA of 0.51, second in conference with 75 strike outs and deed holder of 7 Complete Games.

It was time to move, the love of the game had long been percolating and the coffee crisis that had plagued their village since 2003 denied them their dream of prosperity and needed to be changed like a filter after the morning brew. Small satchels were packed under the cover of night and only the essential were made room for, all else must be left behind. The ties that bind family and community would now be severed and although deep down they knew it was forever they pretended it would only be a temporary lapse in time before they were reunited.

The 2,630 kilometers from their home to the border crossing was harsh and primitive land, populated by drug runners and thieves and if one made it past their preying eyes the elements came up from behind to take ones ghost. Normally the stars and the moon would light the path at night but on March 3, 2012 there were no stars out for a rustled group of Colts and has the family held their breathe inches away, they saw the Colts corralled by 7 strike outs through 7 frames, lassoed by 1 Hit, 0 Walks and in the end not one made it home. Mijo knew the score it was 1-0 and it would be them against whatever evils the badlands could summons upon them.

Littered on the dry ground on their path were the carcasses of the Diamond bar Brahmas and the bodies of those that chose to pack more valuables and keepsakes then water. Their empty canteens still open and clutched within a death grip of 4 Hits and 1 BB over 7 and pilfered luggage squandered and flailing across the desserts like a 9 K day laid testimony to the fact that the harshness of the land was as unforgiving as the boy on the bump and as sure as the sun that scorched would rise again from the cool escape of the night to parch the life out of hapless wanderers so would be the top half of every frame on that Thursday afternoon in April

Trudge on they did for they knew the real danger in the trip awaited them ahead in two forms, one being that of a 145 meter smugglers tunnel that would take them under the Rio Brave river into the promised land and the other being likened unto the militarized American border that awaited them under the umbrella of operation Gatekeeper, the 2012 CIF Southern Section Baseball Division 3 Playoffs. Corrupt federales had picked up the trail of the group they had been travelling with and their intentions were far more malice than even that of the drug smugglers, horse rustlers and thieves. With the noose closing in on them they set their sights on the infamous Chavez Ravine. Fedarales, for the purposes of human trafficking and playoff elimination had been tracking down Bearcat teams of border jumpers in search of the promise land since 1951 and the group of ’12 was now making a run for it.

The sound of jeeps and artillery echoed across the valley bringing terror and urgency to the fleeing family. The mass amounts of torque that could scare up from the lower half seemingly from as low as his ankles and be generated across the aerodynamic frame of the boy that threw like a man were now hitting 94 on the gun and Mijo knew he would have to step up and put his familia on his back and make an impact on every game of the 2012 post season. Feverishly they swathed a trail across the hill tops picking up an 18-1 win on San Gorgonio and Mijo climbed higher on the upward slope of 5IP 1Hit/1Run and 8 Strikeouts. Avoiding almost certain capture while attempting to catch their breath in a Grove of Gardens they were surrounded and the score knotted at 2 apiece. The Bonita Bandito came in from the pen for the 3 inning Save but there would be no more time to rest with Pirates of the San Gabriel Valley now joining the melee.

Attempting to drop down into a gorge that led to the stream that originally carved the walls of the ravine they wandered into the Pirate hide out and had to pitch and steal their way out. Fighting like coffee growers with nothing to lose they put their ace on the mound. And disappoint he did not, under the consuming pressure of what he had achieved the year before and the burden of ’51 looming he once again went Complete Game and stole a sack that led to a run and the narrow 2-1 escape of the Bearcat border jumpers.

Diving into the rushing stream they were swept up in the rushing tide and heading for the loudest roar they have ever heard when they came to a fork in the stream, one split led to a lagoon with a the safety of calm waters and shorelines on which to rest. The other course took them into unpredictable waters that seem to be cascading to the falls. The coyote that had been guiding the group was a Knott over the decision but went with number 2 believing it would give them the best chances of escaping the Ravine as champions. The waters raged on, escalating intensity and frenzy with every frame but it appeared the right decision had been made with the sign of ‘Think Blue’ coming into view. However they were rushing towards the falls and a feeling of lack of control came over them. From out the pen emerged the hero of La Verne once again and saved them from what was becoming Gladiators school, retiring the side in order and anchoring him to the slab allowing the Bearcats safe passage into Chavez Ravine and the CIF Championship for the first time since 1951.

In the Ravine they encountered a group of Moors and without uttering a word they both knew that only one of the clans would walk out of there champions of the journey. The Bearcats struck first in the first but in the second the Moors were sure to even the score but at a cost. The hit in the second that scored the run would be the last hit and would also be the last run of the 2012 Alhambra Moors. The Bonita Bandito looked like he had just swam through a bowl of alphabet soup, Adorned with a W and another CG to compliment the thrill of a lifetime CIF S.S. D-3 title he proudly hung around his neck as anxiety crept up from within because all knew what lie ahead, the tunnel.

When they arrived at the tunnel all the death and despair they had encountered along the way could not prepare them for what was to happen next. Behind them lay consumed in the belly of the badlands an excursion nobody apart of it will ever forget. How could they, the Tribune Player of the Year and the SGV Player of the year cemented a legacy in stone above the Valley and served as a reminder of the 2012 season and in tow the 12-1 Win/Loss, 0.72 ERA, the 101 Strikeouts to 88 Innings pitched, the omnipresent 8 CG’s, 2 Shut Outs and 3 Saves. Unfortunately, more bad news was dropped upon their doorstep by the locals of the river. Storms to the north had caused severe flash flooding along the Rio Bravo and soon the run-off tunnels and subsequent spider tunnels would be flooded. The rest of the group decided not proceed any further but for Mijo and his family they knew it was now or never and they dove head long into the tunnel, damning the consequences.

The first part of the tunnel was not so bad were one only had to walk with a slight hunch and lighting and ventilation fans hummed. Then came the noises and the tunnel grew darker with every step. Soon there were no more steps to make but inches to crawl at a time upon your belly through waste of human and animal alike. The stench of death and excrement choked the air from the tunnel and they wondered if they hadn’t strayed into a dead end. The strange noise only increased while the hum of the ventilators and the lights from the first part of the tunnel were long gone. To their horror they realized the source of the noise. With the keen senses only animals in nature have every manner of species that occupied the tunnel was now stampeding for high land for they knew the tunnels would soon become a watery grave and they all converged at the same point in the tunnel. Swarming about the refugee family, crawling over them into their clothes down their shirts into the mouths that gasped for air were bats and rats, colonies of roaches and army ants, black widows and various other creatures the go bite in the night. Mijo’s Madre and Padre became unconscious under the barrage of bites, stings and scratches so he dug in and bore down and drove home with as much torque as he had when he threw down from the mound. He pushed and dragged his family towards the exit. Nearing unconsciousness himself and half the tunnel filled with raging waters his body began to give out but he fought on until he could no more. Then, like the spirit of Guadalupe the outstretched hand of a matriarch reached from the light of the tunnel exit, took hold of the family and brought them from their would be grave’s into safe haven.

To Be continued……