His father and his grandpa used to spend entire afternoons talking about baseball. Adam would have preferred to put a gun to his mouth and pull the trigger than sitting through one of those conversations. Unlike tennis, a sport he loved because of its fast-paced action, or soccer (the thrill of a goal had no match in his mind), the slow battle between pitcher and batter could bore him to death.

That's why baseball fans drink beer at the games.

Once, during his college days, he got into a heated argument with Santiago that ended with Adam saying: "It's like fucking an ugly woman. You need to be drunk to trick yourself into enjoying it."

And it seemed the Leones del Caracas fans agreed with him. Almost every person in the stadium had a plastic beer cup in his hand; the malty smell of blondes (how people often called that pilsner) permeated the hot, still air that night. Most men and women appeared inebriated, but none more so than the man next to Adam. Beneath his seat, there were a dozen plastic cups; their bottoms filled with foam and warm beer.

"A tourist asked Little Johnny if he could sleep well living in Venezuela," said the drunk baseball fan to his right, slurring the words together as he told the joke. Since the first inning, he'd had a small, old AM/FM radio pressed against his ear to listen to a broadcast of the game. "Little Johnny replied, 'I sleep like a baby. I wake up every two hours crying, hungry and with shit in my pants.'"

Pretending he wasn't listening, Adam fixed his eyes on Lili. She was part of the Barra Pepsi, a group of dancers and musicians wearing blue and red uniforms hired to keep the crowd entertained. They were on a platform near to the metallic bleachers where he sat.

While most of the men played bass and snare drums, the women danced the frenetic Baile del Tambor. Even under the harsh white lights of the stadium, Lili embodied temptation. Once again that night, while she moved her hips to the rhythm of the music, she waved at him. From his angle, reading her lips was easy, "Wait for me."

The crowd cheered, but Adam didn't know or care why. He hadn't laid eyes on the field once since the game started. The loudspeaker squealed, and the announcer shared a stat about the upcoming batter when the drunken fan repeated the same joke: "A tourist asked Little Johnny—"

"I heard you the first time."

The man's left hand clamped over Adam's forearm, forcing him to look his way. Except for his blue jeans and a pair of old sneakers, he wore a replica of the Navegantes del Magallanes' uniform (albeit stained with beer and the green mango he'd eaten earlier with lemon juice and salt).

"But you didn't laugh," his bloodshot eyes were cloudy with confusion.

"Ha, ha," Adam said, making sure the sarcasm would pierce through his drunkenness. God! How he hated being surrounded by strangers. For years, he'd said the only problem with the country was the Venezuelan people.

The sound of the bat on the ball drowned on the deafening roar of the crowd. The drunk fan raised both arms, spilling some of his beer on Adam.

"Watch it!"

The fan smiled at him, shaking his fist, excited.

Before Adam complained again, revulsion overpowered his anger. Countless little legs crawling on his wrist sent a shiver down his spine. He too bolted up from his seat, not to celebrate like the rest, but to shake off the thing creeping on his arm.

Once it hit the ground, a large reddish millipede coiled itself by Adam's feet. For a second, its shape reminded him of the spiral staircase in his building. Whether this bug or whatever scientists called it was dangerous or not, it mattered little to him. All he needed to know was it had to die. I hate these things. He gave it a doubtful glance. How could it be this big? It had to be at least thirteen inches long. That's not natural. He raised his foot to stomp on it.

"Hey!" The drunk's brow creased as he grabbed Adam's forearm again.

"Keep touching me, and I'll make you swallow your teeth," he said.

The fan released his grip. After an awkward silence, he laughed and leaned in closer, as if to share a secret.

"I'm going to the restroom."

"Good for you."

"Here. Hold this."

The drunk was giving him his small, portable radio. The twisted antenna on the gray device failed to go all the way up, and the speaker holes were dirty. Adam didn't wonder how it still worked; he wondered why it wasn't in a trash can where it belonged.

"No."

"Last time they almost stole it."

"Listen, dude—"

"Take it!" the guy bawled.

"Fine," Adam accepted the pocket radio, convinced it would be for the best. At least I'll get rid of this idiot for a while. Getting into a brawl with a drunk had lost all his appeal now that his adrenaline rush had subsided.

Once the device was in Adam's hand, the baseball fan lost all interest in him and stumbled every few feet as he made his way through the crowd.

"Asshole," Adam mumbled and looked down; the millipede had disappeared too.

"The pitcher gets ready and... Strike one!" said the sports announcer on the radio.

I should smash this crap. Adam's temper rose again, but he managed to control it. At least you can shut up.

He pressed the small on-off switch.

"Strike two!"

"What? It didn't work?"

"The game is far from over... Adam."

"What?"

His heart went cold.

"Don't turn this off just yet. You will want to keep playing."

"Impossible," said Adam to himself, his eyes darting between the nearby faces in the crowd surrounding him. No one seemed to hear the announcer but him. "What kind of joke is this?"

"Not a Little John's joke. We know those aren't funny to you."

He flipped the device and removed the batteries.

While it remained silent for a sweat instant, the radio crackled back to life.

"Strike three!"

"Agh!" he said as his ankle burned pain.

"I warned you not to do that."

Adam dropped the radio as if it were red hot and left it behind as he pushed his way out of there, putting as much distance as possible between him and that cursed thing.