Following The Fastball

During the day, Campeche feels like a ghost town.

The heat is so intense it pushes everyone inside. Off the streets, out of sight. You’ll see the occasional pharmacy open, maybe a quiet coffee shop, but otherwise it’s still. Empty. Like the city is holding its breath.

And then the sun goes down, everything changes.

This wasn’t just any night, it was a playoff game. Game 3. Series tied 1–1.

From what we were told, Campeche hadn’t hosted a playoff game in years. And it felt like the entire city decided to show up at once.

The stadium itself was a small college baseball size field, but packed in a way that made it feel ten times bigger. There was an entire section dedicated to drummers, and they did not stop. Not between innings and not even between pitches. It wasn’t background noise, it was the game.

They gave me and one of the other wives general admission tickets, so we found seats and settled in like normal fans. We lasted about five minutes in our seats until the Diablos manager spotted us, walked over, and told us we can’t sit there because it was not safe.

Which is exactly what you want to hear right before a playoff game starts.

We were quickly moved to sit with the Diablos media team, directly above the dugout, slightly more protected, but still very much in the middle of everything.

Campeche is a far trip from Mexico City, so there were essentially no Diablos fans.

Which meant we stood out immediately. My friend is Japanese, and me very obviously American. Both of us wearing Diablos jerseys in a sea of Campeche fans who had been waiting years for this moment.

Justin got the start. And I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous for a game in my life.

Every single pitch felt like it mattered more than it should. The entire stadium was locked in reacting to every ball, every strike, every swing.

And then, first hit of the game… a cannon goes off next to us, that’s sitting right above the dugout. I’m talking, full body shock. The kind where your ears ring and your brain needs a second to catch up to reality. This canon went off every time there was a hit or home run.

Through all of it, Justin pitched five innings. One run. Calm, steady, and somehow blocking out the drums, the cannon, the energy of an entire city pressing in on every pitch.

And then the ending. Walk-off home run. Campeche.

The stadium exploded. Not cheered… EXPLODED.

The fans were screaming, jumping, throwing beers, celebrating like they had just won the championship itself. The noise and the chaos all hit at once.

And in that moment, sitting there in the wrong jersey, in the wrong section, very clearly not from there… my friend and I were honestly a little scared.

We didn’t linger.

Security moved quickly, and we were escorted out as the crowd poured into the walkways, still yelling, still celebrating, still fully in it.

Outside the stadium, the city that had been completely silent just hours before was suddenly alive, loud, electric, and awake.

Baseball in the U.S. feels like a game.

That night in Campeche it felt like an event the entire city had been waiting years to release.

And we just happened to be sitting right in the middle of it.

A few days later the Diablos win the series over Campeche, 4-1. 

I had flown back home after Justin’s electric start in Campeche, and I watched the Diablos parade around the stadium with the trophy from the south division series championship.

This would be their second championship in a row and their second shot at the Series Del Rey! This time against Guadalajara.

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