incomplete first draft again

"Yeah, you boys don’t know how good you got it" Ralph Sanchez leered mockingly to the boys huddled by the tailgate, not quite looking at them, but rather blankly observing the area behind them. They watched him stern-faced and cross-armed, all consciously and strenuously making an effort to repress anything that would reveal their puerile nature. Observe, imitate gestures, be quiet; that was there place in the group. And they knew it. They knew that it was necessary to restrain their juvenility not because the men would condemn them for being boyish, but instead because they would be ignored, causing their presence among the men to be regarded as trivial, ultimately ostracizing them from the group. Nothing oppressive, just the fundamental behavior men of different generations and experience face when interacting with one another -- in essence, a natural hierarchy. Eventually however, all of the boys would blurt out some platitude that would cause the men to look over callously at the boy who made the remark and then resume the story they were engaged in, leaving the boys no choice but to leave the group. But when Ralph Sanchez started to tell his story, the group meeting was still developing and the boys’ concentration on retaining acceptance in the group was at its peak.
"Yeah life was war back then for us. Every day was a goddamn battle. I was the type of fucker who would just hit you without warning. I would say nothing at all. You don’t need to. If some punk comes around talkin’ shit to me I’m gunna respond by fucking punching that motherfucker in the throat." Ralph continued, amused at what he was saying, this time looking at the men leaned up against the side of the truck bed across from him. They all had beers in their hands and were all gathered around a white truck, which was then surrounded by three other trucks on a slope over looking a baseball field.
Most of the stories started off the same way; the men would acknowledge the boys’ generation and (inaccurately) reduce their life to simply an existence of ease as if it was an insult to live without struggle. Once they had established this, they would tap into this nirvana and would boast stories of their pasts, filtering out bad or mundane events, leaving only the fond, humorous events that glamorized growing up as a bold troublemaker or hoodlum. The men knew better but the boys were captivated, even envious and once they--after having interrupted the men’s stories with some trivial remark -- would leave the group, they would venture off into the dark fields to practice their new learned words and find a way to produce stories of their own.
"Growing up my dad liked to go to bars after work" this time Kennedy spoke. He was a man with a soft voice, but had angular and rigid features, paradoxical to his voice, which seemed to throw off people who were just hearing him talk for the first time. "We could always hear him come stumbling in around two in the morning, muttering about god knows what. Well that shit got old fast. Then this one night, around 2 in the morning, we got a phone call home. It was the bartender telling us to come pick him up cuz he and his drinking buddy were too drunk to drive each other home. My mom and I got in my car and drove down there so she could pick up his car and I could drive him home. Well when I got there, I left the car running, stormed into the bar, grabbed my dad by the back of the shirt collar, and said ‘Dad, were leaving’. I led him to the car, grabbed him by the back of the pants and threw him in the backseat head first." Then Kennedy and the men who had been quietly listening, started chuckling, repositioning their bodies and seizing the opportunity to sip their beer.
"Grandpa was an alcoholic?" a voice asked abruptly from the tailgate. The group got silent, glanced over at him for a second, then let their heads return back to listen to the stories. "Yeah."
On the slope that overlooked the fields, you could hear the boys yelling obscenities to one another, and you could observe the boys --sipping beer with the other men, not saying a word – play smear the queer in complete darkness. You could sit up that slope until three in the morning, drinking down the sorrows and regrets of your youth, watching in silence until a voice booms from the hill "Yo guys, Let’s go. We’re leaving."
"Kyle, you need to call your mom, I don’t want your dad driving you and you brother home like this." I took Mr. Vega’s phone and called home and explained to my mom that we were still at the fields and that she needed to come get us