OF COURSE! How could I expect my family to take it easy on me this year? Surely it would anger my dead Aztec warrior - Conquistador ancestors to skip the traditional vigorous spinning of the young pinata matador. Large, warm hands grip my miniscule shoulders. I can see my feet - a clear upper hand in the game. Adrenaline sets in as I fool the crowd into believing I am truly without sight. I shake my head just enough to see through the gap created between the blindfold and the bridge of my nose. Little do they know I am way smarter than my tia, who is dulling my vision with an old bandana. I can’t disappoint them, but they better back away and let me do what I came to do. Dulces Mexicanos and American candy if we’re lucky. Parents are warning the littlest kids salivating over candy that will surely rain down from a shattered pinata. Will I ignore the savvy grown-ups and their auditory directions? Nerves strike as I wonder if I will ruin the party by accidentally nailing an innocent bystander.
He’s a trickster and will make me swing for my life. I can feel his evil plan lurking in his eyes.
Will I miss repeatedly, without ever connecting broomstick to pinata, and embarrass myself again? Will I approach this year with a new strategy? Who is pulling the tethered rope this time? I think it’s dad. I was the next batter up, but this was no baseball game. I remember being nine years old and feeling my heart pounding in my chest. Nothing gives a higher sense of power than the grainy wooden handle of a broom, or a real baseball bat in late adolescence.
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