Panhandle’s team swings five right, two left, an overloaded formation. Sanctuary’s formation is a reaction to theirs. A classic balanced set. Two on the right, two down the middle, and three to the left. At least one bruiser runs in each pack.

It takes two seconds for both teams to get up to a full sprint, and two more seconds to collide in a crunch of bone and body at center court. Panhandle’s quickling darts out from behind a veil of bruisers, cutting center and bursting through the gap in Sanctuary’s defense. Antonio’s right. He’s the fastest person I’ve ever seen. He highsteps the first lunging tackle, avoids a second swipe, and looks like he’s going to break free.

But a desperate shoestring tackle catches him by the ankle, staggering his strides. On the opposite side, two of Sanctuary’s sprinters have broken free, and they race to cross the finish line, chased by Panhandle’s too-slow bruisers. The horn blows and the first point goes to Sanctuary. Match attendants pull the weak and wounded away as substitutes step in to replace them. “Didn’t I tell you?” Antonio asks. “Sanctuary is brutal.”

The remaining rounds play out the same way. Panhandle steals a few points, but they can’t keep up with Sanctuary’s athleticism. I find myself half watching the collisions and the sprints and half watching the crowd around us. A few rows beneath our booth, a couple’s enjoying the game. They’re about my age, and it looks like a first date. He’s nodding a lot, talking too fast, laughing too loud. She’s nervous, too, though. Every now and again something he says has her blushing like a desert rose.

Down a few rows, a father sits with his three boys. He orders them a bag of salted hardpans and shows them how to crack the outer shells with their teeth. They laugh at a face he makes, and watching them, it’s like they’ll live forever. The crowd’s full of similar moments.

Something about the whole scene has my stomach turning.

The match ends. Antonio heads off to collect his winnings. Daddy tells him to come by around dinnertime. We walk together, matching each other’s quiet. He leads us away from the stadium, but doesn’t take us home. I follow him—the way I always have—and figure out where we’re heading as we reach the outskirts of town.

I frown. “This is your pitch?”

“It’s more of a plea than a pitch, Adrian.”

We wind through the dusty streets until they widen out, dumping us into a red-dusted desert that’s empty of houses but full of ghosts. The graveyard waits at the edge of the city.

“You saw that couple?” he asks. “Right in front of us?”

I nod to him. “Looked like a first date.”