The Snowflake Didn’t Melt
The Snowflake Didn’t Melt
By Yvonne Pesquera
When things bother me, I get on my bike. The whipping wind causes my eyes to tear, so it’s hard to tell that I am actually crying. One early June evening, I hopped on my bike to pedal around the neighborhood and let my sadness flow. My relationship had come to an end just as a bright summer began.
I was looking down at the asphalt when the lights of the high school ballfield caught my attention. It was 6 p.m. on a Sunday during summer recess; there’s no way the Taos Tigers would be playing. I swung my bike in that direction and as I got closer, the announcer’s voice boomed clear over the loudspeaker: “Batter up for Taos Blizzard.”
The parking lot was full but who was this Blizzard team and why had so many people turned out? I propped my bike up against the six-level metal bleachers and picked my way through a line of kids and dogs playing chase. I vaguely recognized the announcer from another trivia team at the pub.
The newspaper’s sportswriter leaped out in front of me to snap a long lens shot of the field. He cleared up my confusion, explaining, “It’s a newly formed pro team, part of an independent league. They now play in Taos.”
That news surprised me. Hardly anything new comes to Taos, let alone a professional baseball team. Bigger cities had teams, like nearby Santa Fe and Colorado Springs. But Taos is a sprawling, rural county with just 30,000 people who call it home. We don’t even have a Target. I was born and raised in New Jersey and grew up a Yankees fan. I used to love the way the Bronx ticket guys yelled at us at the gate: “Get your asses inside, the game’s started!”
Now the Taos high school ballfield had a much more mellow vibe. For starters, there were no tickets. On your honor, you went to the announcer’s booth and stuffed five dollars in a hat. I was about to do that––and say hello to the announcer––but I ran into one of my good girlfriends with her husband and children. He opted to pay for my ticket, so I returned the gesture by getting him a beer.
Standing on line at the beer cart, the kids went off running and I quickly caught up my friend on my break-up news. “Relax,” she said, “It’s summer.” I toasted her with a Santa Fe brew. She was right. It actually wasn’t an end, it was a beginning—of what I did not know. But let me tell you: I was transplanted in fertile ground.
Taos is a place of belonging. Its history and culture run deep. The wide, open desert and high-soaring peaks give the air a possibility I have never experienced in a stifling city. And besides, a ball team was in town. I picked up a schedule from the beer cart and saw all the dates I could be out here watching the home team. I turned to face Taos Mountain. I, in fact, was not alone.
My friend went to corral her kids so I slid into the lower bleachers that ran along the first baseline. A team of young men populated the dugout wearing blue uniforms with the letters “TA” on the right side and “OS” on the left of their button-up shirts. Their baseball caps sported a bright snowflake with a hardball in the middle.
We are a town with a world-renowned ski resort in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. We do indeed get our fair share of snowstorms and they come down fast and intensely. I felt pride that the Blizzard name was so apt.
I don’t know if it was the setting sun or the fact that I hadn’t eaten all day and the beer was going straight to my head, but I found myself cheering my heart out for the Blizzard. After all, their performance on the typically sedate high school field had an intoxicating strength. The pitches whipped by at speed; the bats cracked with fury. The races to bases, the dust-ups, and slides––all amounted to utter agony or triumph depending on the ump’s call.
Then suddenly a roar boomed from the bleachers with everyone jumping to their feet as a Blizzard rounded the bases. Everyone screamed Go-Go-Go! and twirled their arms like the third base coach. But terror swept through the crowd as the other team’s outfielder with the solid arm propelled the ball toward his second baseman who, in turn, beamed it to their catcher.
It all turned out okay; our player handily tapped over home plate. All of us on the bleachers high-fived and hugged as beer spilled and franks fell to the dogs on the ground. My friend came back and asked what happened and I simply said, “Our snowflake did not melt.”
When the game was over and everyone was packing up, I couldn’t remember where I had left my bike. It wasn’t chained so it had fallen over and an elderly woman’s quilt had sailed down from the top rung of the bleacher, covering it. We laughed when I whipped the blanket aside like a magician to reveal my ride home.
Instead of immediately pedaling out of the parking lot, I opted to walk my bike slowly and just take in the embrace of town and the spirit of summer. Not only was I going to be okay, but I was very definitely okay now. A tap on the shoulder shook me from my thoughts. It was the announcer; he asked, “Don’t I know you, from trivia?”
“Yes. And now you know me as a Taos Blizzard fan.”
Yvonne Pesquera is a former writer for The Taos News. She recently wrote the Taos chapter in the prestigious travel guide: Fodor’s Guide to Santa Fe: 2021. yvonnepesquera.com
Anne Whiting is an artist and writer in New York City.