The Mayans have always inhabited Meso-America. Western archaeologists dated their presence back 10,000 years ago and their agrarian communities flourished in spurts governed climate swings, as the land was capable of maintaining a growing population. The culture reached its apex from 250 AD to 900 after which the civilizations of Copan and Tikal retreated from greatness and the Mayans depopulated the Yucatan.

They remained the dominant tribe, resisting the other kingdoms, the Spanish, and Mexicans into the 20th Century.

Their physical features haunted the generations. Faces were related across Central America, even as they suffered the fury of their mestizo overlords in Guatemala and Mexico.

Forced to flee their rural homelands by violent drug wars and climate collapse, the Mayans have flooded across the US borders with their families in tow.

They are hard-working and honest, but their offspring’s DNA has been subjected to modification from GMO foods and Gringo Culturelos. There is no escaping Barbie or Fast Food.

I recently saw a tall Mayan.

At least six feet tall.

They were never tall in the last century and in 1988 I had spent a summer on the Yucatan. On Isla des Mujeres at the Posada del Mar. $20 a night with a Pina Colada by the swimming poll inclusive.

The Mayan staff were super friendly and we played Basketball in the town square. At 5-10 I was the center, but we bested the taller gringos with speed and my fouling.

Deep into summer a team of Italian women showed up at the court. A fishing boat washed ashore by the previous year’s hurricane provided shade. The Italian were tall. Our squad’s height was 5-6 at best. The Italian women were all over sex feet. We played for fun. They were an organized team. We accepted the challenge. This was our home court and it was a hot day.

AJ Koo our captain said, “No substitution.”

We were only five. They were eight.

Most gringos faded after fifteen minutes in the heat.

It was an advantage.

We matched up against our opponents. Townspeople and tourists stopped to watch. Ki’in our point guard with wicked range said, “These are women. We will play like caballeros.”
Gentlemen.

“Game to fifteen. Win by two.”

“7-0 shutout wins.” The blonde center grabbed the ball. “Visitors take out.”

“Losers buy the beers.”

The center sneered at me. They had uniforms. Good trainers too. Our sneakers had seen better times. The center introduced herself, “Cara.”

The center sneered at me. They had uniforms. Good trainers too. Our sneakers had seen better times. The center introduced herself, “Cara.”

“Pedro.”

The first time down the court, Cara posted up back to the hoop. The guard passed a bullet to her and she spun around with an elbow to my head. I saw stars and my knees buckled. The center bumped into me on her way up court. Aj Koon came to my side and asked, “Caballeros?”

“Pok-ta-Tok.” The Mayans nodded their head in unison and said as one, “Pok-A-Pok.”
The ball game had been played by the Mayans for over a thousand years. Considered the first team sport Pok-a-Pok helped to resolve bitter disputes between rival cities or as a proxy for war. The Maya also saw the game as a battle between the gods of death and the gods of life or between good and evil. They also saw it as a reminder of the Hero Twins, who overcame death and became demi-gods themselves according to historyonthenet.com.

This was their court, their town, their Yucatan.

“KO’ONE’EX.”

“Lets go,” explained Ki’in and he took the ball town court tgrough the flatfooted Italians and scored an east lay-up

1-1.

It was a battle. I mercilessly fouled the center, who was sweating bullets. She tried to dunk on me several times. I pushed her off stride with less than gentle hand checks. She called them fouls and I called her a hypocrite. She understood my meaning. Hypocrite was ipocrita in Italian. I sang the word to her like Romeo under Julitte’s balcony. They led 8-5. The center blocked my shot twice. Luckily Aj Koo rebounded both for easy shots.
Pok-a-Pok had been played between two and four players a team using arms, legs, and hips to place a ball through a stone hoop. The game could last two weeks. According to Archaeologists the losers were ritually sacrificed upon defeat. This game was merely win or lose. Neither side was playing for a draw.

The sun took its toll on the Ts’ulo’ob or strangers. They slowed down and got sloppy. Cara couldn’t I scored on her with two hooks. Neither could I. The crowd had grown to a hundred plus. Tourists cheering on the Italians. Townspeople Los Mayans despite their traditional prejudice against Los Indios.

10-9 Italians.

I blocked Cara’s upfake and chucked the ball down the line to Ki’in’s brother, who hit from the corner. The Italians were dying of thirst. We got bottles of water from friends. we battled every point, but the Italians were better than us.

13-11.

“I can’t wait to drink my cold beer.” Cara had just bested me on a spin move.

14-11.

“Non finito.” Ap Koo grinned like the blood from a split lip wasn’t his and scored two easy buckets.
14-13.

The Italians only needed one score to win.

They were running on empty. I was the only one breaking a sweat on our five.
I passed to Ki’in.

Whish.

Tie score.

My lungs were burning, but I stole their point guard’s lazy pass to Cara. down court pass to Ap Koo.

16-15.

“Victory,” cried Ki’in and the other three congratulated ourselves.

“Game was to win by two,” protested Cara.

“Rules changed after you elbowed me. Beer time.”

We walked off the court to the cheers of the town. The Italians stormed off without buying beer. I took care of that. Inwas the Mayans’ gringo and not a Ts’ulo’ob. Fifteen beers came to $20. Big beers. I limbed back to the Posado Del Mar. My left knee was wobbly. I fell into the pool without my sneakers. My body thanked me. I drank two Pina Colados. My soles were growing blisters. All for a good cause. Cara and her teammates showed up and bought beers. They were good losers. We were all good losers, because no one wins all the time.

The next day I brought Cara to snorkel through the coral caves under the temple bluff. She was fearless with the barracudas. The team left that evening in Cancun. I wasn’t invited. My lips were sealed about their loss. It was just a game of pick-up. Just one of thousands and no one wins them all.

Still it was better to win at Pok-a-Pok than lose and the same went for hoops.