It was the bottom of the seventh when it all started. I was sitting in the stands, right behind the catcher. I had a historic view, though I didn’t know it at the time. Our Venezuelan stadium was spilling with emotional fans, half were shirtless, all were on their feet. None were quiet. Being the closest to the players, I and those around me had an obligation to our country and to our team to be the most fanatic group in the stadium. Virulent swears were cast, and many personal attacks on family, sexuality, and physical prowess were made in detail towards the batters. I often wonder how much my words tipped fate that night.

The Caracas Bulls had been collectively slumping all game, the big city team was getting demolished by the much less renowned, and by all metrics worse, Barinas Reds. The score was debatably twenty-to-one, but scorekeepers would later relay conflicting accounts due to events that were about to take place. The Bulls’ home crowd was ready to explode and were given the opportunity to do so. With the Bulls’ star catcher Eriko Santana up at the plate, the pitcher, whose name was also lost in the myth of the moment, beaned Eriko in the ribs with a ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastball, and clearly meant to. Next was a moment of great factual debate, but let me tell you gringos, I saw it all with my own two eyes, honest to God and my mother. Here is what happened:

Eriko, recovering from the pain of the pitch, threw his eyes at the pitcher who was playing coy on the mound. Bat still in his hands, a great sprint ensued, the fastest I’d ever seen the old catcher run, and on that mound he beat the poor pitcher to death. On a normal day, fights like this were ended before any major injuries, it was all show, but this wasn’t a normal day. Instead of players and umpires rushing in and pulling the fighters apart, we, the fans, cut the net! I rushed in myself, rabid with loyalty for my team and alongside thousands of others. Together we helped beat and kick the poor pitcher and then the whole rotten team until there was no more to beat or to kick. We won the game.

Once the unfortunate athletes were properly dead, our fanaticism grew into something greater. Eriko was lifted up above our heads and placed on a ripped-out chair from the stands. We strode with him as our king, his bat in hand, pointing us onwards. We broke out of the stadium, our numbers only increasing, and paraded through the streets of the city. The umpires, apparently held complicit in the score, were hung along the road from the street lamps. The same fate was met by any Reds fan unfortunate enough to attend the game. Eriko took well to his new position on top of us and showered us with passionate outcries on baseball and life. “The Bulls are loose!” he repeated again and again with his great moustached smile that often burst with laughter, “Ándale! The Bulls are loose!” I marched behind and felt an utter sense of loyalty. I screamed at the hung fans as if they were alive, just so they knew I hated them. I threw rocks and bricks through windows just because I could. I’m not ashamed of these actions mis amigos, it was in the heat of the moment, but what came next I relay to you in great shame.

The direct area around the stadium was rapidly seized in the name of Eriko, not by his command, but rather as an act of coronation from the fans. Eriko, the great Bull, sat on top of the city’s finance center, a building chosen for its height, and he broadcast his message on as many radio and television stations as the fans could acquire for him. “There are more bullfighters left than just those dirty Reds! The Bulls will never be fully free until ALL the bullfighters are dead!”. His admonishments were not specific, but, Lord save me, they gave a fated path to follow. House to house, apartment to apartment we knocked, entered, questioned, and killed. Loyalty to the team had to be absolute, despite the fact that I had heckled my own team only hours before! Please, as I tell you, do not forgive me, there is no forgiveness for the killings of families, of women, of children (O Cristo!). I only tell you now because you must know exactly what happened and have faith in the truthfulness of our correspondence so we can all return to peace once more.

The city was purged in a mere two days, and Eriko, from this point forward, whether he liked it or not, became a revolutionary. As he spoke over the airways his myth became vast and noble, and his following flourished. “I speak softly but I carry a big bat!” was his slogan—entirely unoriginal, but nobody cared, we all wanted to win what he started. Nobody, even today, knows the politics behind the revolution, if there are any they are kept secret somewhere inside Eriko’s mind, however, our fervor at the time was beyond reconciliation or any type of peaceful resolution. We were ready to die, but we didn’t even know what for!

In just another fated event, word got around that the members of the Venezuelan national assembly were present in the capitol building at the time of the game, and, to the horror of the CIA—I kid! Ay! Don’t give me that look!—to the horror of everyone, the building was surrounded and assailed by thousands of fans, protected only by a small loyal militia. Government troops were called in from the outside of the city, but it was a hopeless effort. After three days the building was finally stormed and all members of the national assembly that did not commit suicide were brought to the roof of the finance center to be judged. Eriko himself had assembled a small cabinet of officials consisting of teammates and influential fans who were ready to shape their companies (and thus our country) to his will. At this point I had cast off my extremism and was at the church most of my time. I prayed for forgiveness while others prayed for their team to win. Nevertheless, I could not escape what I had helped create.

The Sunday after the game, which had taken place only six days before, Eriko officially took national power. Fans called it “bobblehead night,” though there was no baseball game, nothing of the sort. With the national committee corralled up on the roof and surrounded by fans, myself among them, a trial was held for each politician. The Bull’s ace pitcher stood sixty feet away, while Eriko personally, with his burly moustache and small chubby frame, walked up to each of the prosecuted and asked him a simple question: “What is the goal?” The politicians were stumped, and I must say, so was I. They murmured in tears, they screamed hate in protest, and some stood somberly in silence. All however were beaned. With God as my witness, I profess to you, every pitch I saw the pitcher throw landed right between the eyes! Never in any game had I seen him so accurate! After the ceremonial beaning, which often knocked out the receiver (and hence “bobblehead night”), the crowd was let loose, and the persecuted were judged harshly. Each criminal was thrown off the building as a form of execution.

At sunset, when the old president was finally beaned and thrown to his death, Eriko walked to the edge of the building and looking down remarked: “The answer, my fans, is none of what you have just heard.” The crowd now was intently silent, partially for the dead we now saw, sprawled on the street below, and partially because Eriko’s voice enraptured us. “Our goal is not in nationalization, not in reform, we want nothing to do with the obvious corruption of this once great country. Our goal, my fans—” he paused, “no, my friends. Our goal, my friends, is to WIN THE WORLD SERIES!” Everyone went wild, I confess, even myself. We sang and danced and watched as beautiful explosions of color shot out from the nearby stadium and into the sky.

So you see commissioner and Mr. President, this is not just an insurgent force looking for war, in fact, we want nothing of the sort. Eriko and his government have sent me here today for very simple negotiations that I think you will find more than reasonable. We do not want additional land, nor resources, nor even continued leadership of Venezuela. We do not want any of those things on two conditions: Firstly, you and your forces, Mr. President, must de-escalate military tensions with our country, tensions that will no doubt cause massive amounts of death in our state and of your people, more than, I am afraid to say, has already occurred at our hands. Secondly, commissioner, we look to you as the leading authority in the world of baseball. You, knowing what you have seen our team do, must allow the Caracas Bulls a chance to compete on the biggest stage of all: the World Series. Men, once these demands are met, I am happy to tell you that we—Eriko, I, and our government—will be more than pleased to initiate a peaceful transition of power to authorities from your country. Make these demands happen and I believe that all of our sides can achieve great good. This all rests in your hands, caballeros. There will always be another matador, but, at the same time, it is only right to spare the honorable bull. I trust you both will make the right decision.