Canchas chanchas

In the mornings it is a completely deserted place, except for the occasional splinter that woke up there in the middle of the urines of its contemporaries and empty bottles (or full of pisses) of Tonayan. In the afternoons the elderly usually play a kind of volleyball so, but so slow that it prevents their hip from being broken by osteoporosis or you can also find one or another frustrated coach who teaches all kinds of flutes that they dream of becoming Cristiano Ronaldo, but how much they will get is to be soccer players of llanero football behind the light company or on the tianguis courts. Already at night it is a nest of marijuana ninis that are usually standing there and wasting time with all their cronies vitiating the air to marijuana, with the italikas (probably with theft report) and with their iPhone X (probably also stolen because if barely enough for a cheap grass churro, I doubt that they can go to the iShop to buy a cell phone of that caliber) listening to reggaeton to everything it gives. It is a place where you can see how low a human being can fall either as a child (because of the lousy little children that swarm there), as a young man (for the nini-drugs), as an adult (for the frustrated trainers who may have been in the Mexican national team but the meniscus was screwed) or of the elderly (for the IMSS pensioners who are going to live there while they wait for the crumbs of the following month). That's right, ladies and gentlemen, decay from cradle to grave ...