On location in London #1

I'm covering the 2012 Summer Olympic Games from July 27 through Aug. 12 in London for the Virgin Islands Daily News. These notebook items and photos were published in the print edition.

Cheers, from London!

All seven of the U.S. Virgin Islands Olympians made it to London on time for an eventful Opening Ceremony on Friday night. One certain sportswriter, however, did not arrive in a timely manner and did not get a ticket to the festivities.

But on my connection flight from New York City to England – which was delayed almost three hours because of a storm over JFK airport – I still managed to mingle with other islanders.

I met a man from Antigua who helps manage and sell yachts all over the Caribbean. He's been to the Rolex Regatta on St. Thomas and then asked what I was going to do while in London.

When I told him I was headed there to cover the Olympic sailors from the USVI, he almost spilled his complimentary wine.

“The Virgin Islands has athletes in the Olympics?” he asked.

Because I wanted to settle down and watch a movie to pass the time, I simply handed him a few editions of the V.I. Daily News that featured the local sailors.

“Those are on the house,” I said before I put on my earphones and tilted my seat back.

He read the articles with intense interest and then tapped me on the shoulder to interrupt my slumber.

“How much are tickets?” he asked.

Empty seats and ticket woes

The British media has exploded in the last two days and criticized Olympic Games organizers for the amount of empty seats that have been evident at major sports like volleyball and swimming.

Premium tickets to the sold out Opening Ceremony on Friday ran as high as $2,708 a pop and more than 65,000 people jammed into Olympic Stadium for the spectacle.

But the finger-pointing has already begun about who is responsible for the vacant sections at the different venues.

Eight percent of all tickets have been given to sponsors while 75 percent have been reserved for the general public. Another 12 percent go to the different National Olympic Committees while a measly five percent get divided up between the International Olympic Committee and the trustworthy media.

IOC officials have promised to correct the problem. So far, the solution has been to ask the idle military security guards to stop looking tough at everyone and have a seat, preferably in the direct view of the television cameras.

Island time, England style

What should have been a 3 1/2-hour bus trip from Weymouth in south England to London for the Opening Ceremony turned into a marathon mission as USVI sailors Cy Thompson and Mimi Roller got an extended tour of the host city.

“I'm not sure the bus drivers know what they're doing,” a frustrated Thompson said. “It's already a long trip and because they were not organized, it added another hour and a half to the trip.”

The sailors eventually made it to London for the Opening Ceremony. Barely. The way back the very next day was the same story.

“The trip back took twice as long – like six and a half hours,” Roller said. “It was sort of an ordeal.”

The USVI sailors start their competition today and they have already reached out to a local safari for a ride.

Feel(ing) good story

Among a huge heap of scattered papers, empty energy drink bottles and a random baseball on my desk, I came across a letter from one of our valued V.I. Daily News readers.

Usually, people just leave crazy, F-bomb-riddled voice mail messages on my office phone to let me know I'm doing such a wonderful job covering sports in the territory.

Well, this reader ignored the phone book and typed out a lovely letter for me. It was in response to an article I wrote about a high school football player who found success amid early struggles.

The people who call the shots at the paper liked it so much, they put it on the front page and it was one of those true journalistic moments when sports transcends into news.

Or they just had nothing else to go with that day.

Please don't laugh too hard at our website design and check out the story at this LINK.

The only reason I found the buried letter is because the lady who wrote it just dropped in to discuss the article further with me. She did not know him personally, but if you read the article, I think everyone on island knew of his antics.

We talked for a while and she pleaded that I write more stories like it because there are plenty of young people that are trying to turn their lives around.

"And if you keep writing about them, the kids will read about it and try to do the same with their lives," she said, while holding my hand and trying to hold back tears.

"Wait, let me get this straight, high school kids are actually reading the newspaper?" I asked to break the tension. I think she wanted a hug.

Apparently, they do. Which is why this newspaper somehow still turns a profit. And that's probably why we haven't updated our website layout since 1990. Hmm, interesting.

Running into appreciative readers is always a breath of fresh air.

Like I said before, it does not happen often. When it does, it's pretty awesome. Especially when it comes in the form of a random grandmother with soft hands and kind words.

Touchdown City

Some time in between filing my game story from inside a greasy stadium concession stand and being woken up by a high school football mom while taking a nap in the stands, it hit me.

High school football on this island ain't too shabby.

The U.S. Virgin Islands high school territorial IAA varsity tackle football game (that's a long title for a game played in the outfield of a baseball stadium) was held this week and the timing was not ideal for this dizzy sports scribe.

I'm was totally consumed by the annual Paradise Jam basketball tournaments and the football game was penciled in between the men's and women's tourneys. That's why I stretched out on the top bleacher, relaxed my eyes and took a nap during the JV All-Star game.

"Hey, I know you," the mom said as she sort of nudged my knee. "You're the guy who went to Florida or Mexico or something. The guy from the paper..."

My mumbled response sounded like, "Yes, that's me. Is that why you woke me up?"

Gridiron Mama: "Oh, I just wanted to let you know that you have a following here. I enjoyed your articles. Are you covering this game?"

Lethargic writer: "Yup, front-page exclusive."

Gridiron Mama (not taking a hint): "That's good. These boys are the future of football here."

The future? What was this woman talking about? They don't even play with field goal posts here. A lot of my friends are bewildered by that fact. The simple response is they go for a 2-point conversion every time. Opening kickoffs are laughable (and that's if they stay in bounds).

I'm supposed to talk to my boy Linval Joseph about that next month. I call him my boy because it sounds cool. The truth is I've met him in person only once and we've talked on the phone a few times.

Joseph plays for the New York (football) Giants and he is from St. Croix. He asked me last year what he could do to help out football back home. He wanted to do something different compared to the normal "giving back" tactics. New uniforms, pads, a sponsored all-star game -- all things the USVI players desperately need -- were off the list. He asked me to thing outside the box.

"Three words," I told Linval. "Field goal posts."

He was amazed they didn't play with them. I told him that by comparison, it was a success if a game even kicked off within two hours of its scheduled start time of if the stadium lights actually worked.

Linval laughed at my antics but I assured him that I was telling the truth and it was a bad scene back on the islands. They need his help. I'm going to see him again soon and will tighten the screws on his alleged hometown commitment.

After the mom left me alone, I went back to sleep until the varsity championship. Charlotte Amalie High won its sixth straight title, 38-20. Moments after the game, players from both teams joined the cheerleaders for an impromptu dance party on the 50-yard line.

I thought that was hilarious. They didn't have any field goal posts they could tear down in celebration so a little grinding with the booty-happy cheerleaders sufficed.

Meeting in the middle

How did this all start? Remember those books back when we were kids and you could choose the ending or at least the next sequence in the book? I think they talked about it in the movie 'Big' with a young Tommy Hanks.

I was sitting in the Rockfish in downtown Annapolis enjoying a happy hour drink when the V.I. Daily News called me on my cell. I went outside the pub because that's what a respectbale young man does when potential employers call.

There was snow on the ground – I think it was right after a blizzard. It was very cold and I left my coat on the back of the bar chair.

It was OK because my future employer wasted little time and got down to brass tacks, which impressed me. He offered me a job to be the lone sports writer for this little publication in paradise. I had initially applied to the newspaper from my iPhone while standing atop a mountain in Maine a few months earlier.

Now at that exact moment, I was standing in the snow without a paying job or a coat and this question was asked of me.

“Would you like to work for the V.I. Daily News?”

I told boss that I would call him in the morning, thanked him profusely and politely hung up. Since I didn't even know where the U.S. Virgin Islands were located, I immediately called a good friend who is the only person I knew who had ever visited Rock City.

I could tell he was happy with the news but it also struck a nerve in him. At that moment, Nick Wassum was completely motivated. He had to come here. I think for Nick, it was already determined before I hung up with him (and even before I accepted the gig).

“Oh yeah, Nick has been wanting to live there for years,” his older brother, Jon, told me. “I think he's been mentally preparing for the move since his first visit.”

I won't get into the specifics that surround Nick's debut on these islands but it would put that Max Tucker guy to shame.

Less than a month later, my beautiful girlfriend and I were living in a one-bedroom bunker in the brush near Charlotte Amalie and I was annoying high school volleyball coaches with nightly phone calls about how their team performed in the game that night.

I think I started this blog the day before I flew here for good. To some unknown island in the Caribbean. That I have never visited in my life.

At about the same time, Nick started a mental countdown in his head for when he (and his lovely girlfriend) would join me in paradise and everything would be bliss. The only treacherous obstacle: he had a killer job, wore a suit to work everyday and was getting paid a lot of money. His girl also had a solid gig and went to work with great mutual friends.

Why pick up and leave?

Now I'm not saying that reading my shock-and-awe rants on this bloggy blog poured fuel on the fire. I'd like to think it did. I'm selfish like that.

It will be two years for me this February. Nick and Kerrie moved here three months ago. And I might add, they are killing it here. This kid left a great job, followed his dream and is chasing it before it slowly hides behind the horizon. Kerrie, who had never lived anywhere outside the D.C-metro in her life, is doing the absolute same.

They are riding the big wave that life sometimes throws you. I freaking love them for that.

Just the other night, Nick said, “We haven't been in you blog because we haven't done anything yet.”

I couldn't disagree more, my friend. On this island -- you can ask other misfit veterans -- people come and go. Drinking buddies, fellow sports fans and genuine good people spark your whole social existence here and then before you know it, they hit it big in Dallas, feed the Alaska fix, sail the Mediterranean Sea, get engaged to a French girl and move to London, take it easy in Illinois for a few or decide to travel the country and not have a worry in the world.

You know who you are.

Having Nick and Kerrie here is a new blend of life for me. Great people I grew up with in Herndon, Va. moved here to share this dream with me. It's a priceless gift and if I don't show appreciation more often, then I must apologize.

Wow. Strange memories inside this sweaty hotel room on St. Croix. For some reason, I wanted to pick the right night to write about these good people and tonight, I hit the parlay. (Calm down Chico, I got a great one in the works for you, my friend).

And on that note, I believe it is time to rest my weary head. I'm truly blessed to have such chronic friends on this island, Rocky City, New Jersey, Virgina, So Cali, Albuquerque, New Mexico, Cleeeeeeveland, Oh-hi-Ohh (OK, time to take Sublime off Pandora).

Salud! See you guys on the flip side. And good night.

Boating adventures and booze

I don't know why everyone loves that movie, Almost Famous, but do you remember when the main character wrote the lead to his story in Rolling Stone magazine? Something about flying over the ocean and "we're all going to die..."

Well I'll do you one better, chump.

Two weeks ago, I was with some friends on a boat and we were powering our way from St. John back to St. Thomas late at night. The ride usually takes no longer than 15 minutes. During the excursion, the boat shut off completely. Our drunken giggles and the sound of the whaling engines were suddenly replaced by severe silence as we started to drift in complete darkness.

The boat doesn't have a gas meter so we all thought we ran out. Perhaps the battery? It didn't really matter because we were in a pickle and the situation looked grim.

As everyone retreated to their cell phones and attempted to call boating heroes at 2:18 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I took off my shirt and stared at both shores. Which one was closer, St. John or Rock City? Could I swim it and be the hero? If I did make it to shore, then what?

All these questions annoyed me so I did what any rational person would do in such a situation.

I popped a bottle of champagne.

"I've been in a lot worse predicaments than this, folks," I said in attempt to chill everyone out.

For some, it really didn't matter. My girlfriend and another girl we were with had already hunkered down in the front of the boat. It looked like they were going to sleep this one off and wait for the sun to rise in a few hours.

So you can imagine their reactions when they heard the steady stream of urine hitting the warm Caribbean Sea in the middle of the night. They were really irked when they heard the cork pop off the champagne bottle.

I thought it was a great idea. It was a minor celebration to mark the end of a great adventure.

It all started about 10 hours earlier when Brianna and I met Scottie H and Benji at the marina, where they keep their boat. It was raining when we arrived and we just sat in our cars and waited for the storm clouds to push off.

"Shit will burn off," Brianna said while mocking one of my favorite island quotes.

For some odd reason, Moose and Marcus bought about two cases of Schaefer beer. You know, the good stuff. The cans are only 10 oz. so that justified the need to crush at least 20 of them before we got to shores of Cruz Bay.

Once there, we picked up a few more beach beauties and went to a nearby bay for some scurfing. What is scurfing you ask? Well if you didn't waste your time clicking on that link, it's basically like water skiing but using a surf board. We did that for about an hour and a half. Maybe that's how we ran out of gas?

After the scurf action, we decided to go back to shore and visit the fine establishment otherwise known as Woody's. We had already crushed our Schaefer supplies, mixed vitamin water with Cruzan dark and I guess we were all had the happy hour shakes. What turned into "one shot and we'll move on" turned into a shot frenzy and a $362 booze tab.

If there was a break in the sloppy conversation, Scottie H would lock eyes with you and tap his wrist with two fingers. In most civilized cultures, this gesture usually references what the current time is. To Scottie ("Boating!" was his war cry), this meant it was time for another round of shots. Though I didn't take part in each of them, Jager bombs, Cruzan 151, Washington Apples and Statue Of Liberty shots -- the one where you light your finger on fire -- were all consumed.

It's during those critical hours that follow when I want to hire a stenographer. For obvious reasons.

I do recall wandering into a sophisticated bar called Castaways where Scottie H grabbed the soda gun that servers use to refill drinks and shooting different liquids at innocent bystanders.

Later on, there was a debate with a cute bartender named Ricki. No, not about another gaudy bar tab. The bartender grew up on St. Croix, as did Scottie, so a little trash talk about their rival high schools started up. Since I cover high school sports for the Daily News, I felt I had some knowledge on the subject and decided to chime in on the discussion.

What did I say? I'm not too sure. I don't really remember. All available stenographers, please send me your resume.

At some point, I remember watching the Mayweather-Ortiz fight at another bar. I had a great conversation with a Islander who was a huge boxing fan. I told him that I wrote the article about the USVI professional boxers earlier in the week and he hugged me. Then he bought me a shot. It was a great symbol of respect shared among two sports fans.

The blurry St. John experience started to fade when we got back on the boat in Cruz Bay and warmed up the engines for a return trip.

Later on, when the engine went dead, the champagne was drank and after Moose proved his vast knowledge of 90's alternative music via Pandora to me, a savior joined the party.

Our friend Emily, who was also on board, somehow got in contact with a friend of a co-worker of a former roommate of a dental assistant and he rolled up to our drifting boat on a dingy with a 5-gallon drum of gas. We offered him money and he passed and he wouldn't even take a sip of champagne. A true American hero who did not seek any praise.

After a few pleasantries, he set off back to St. John and we were able to start the engine again. Most people would go straight home after such an ordeal and be happy they didn't have to spend the night out at sea.

What did we do? We got to shore and stopped into Caribbean Saloon for one. Make that many.

It was just another typical Saturday in paradise.

Swimming with friends

The other day, one of our prized copy desk editors at the V.I. Daily News informed me that a shirtless photograph of me has been published in our fine publication twice in the last year.

I can only assume that's above average among past sports writers at the paper. That's just a guess though.

I competed in the 8th annual Beach-to-Beach Power Swim on St. John this past weekend and as soon as my plans to swim it went public, the top brass wanted me to do a first-person perspective story.

Please forgive our amazing copy desk editors, they forgot to attach a headline to the online version but the photos were awesome and I'd like to think the content was just OK. Here's a link to the story.

Gimme the loot

So I came into work early today because I'm working on a story about a local public high school that will not have its football field ready before school starts. The school's gym is under construction too which probably means no football, no volleyball and potentially no physical education program for the upcoming semester. If there's no P.E., then the school will potentially lose its accreditation and then the real shit storm starts.

Not to mention these kids will have nothing to do when the final bells rings at 2:30 p.m. everyday. You want a gang problem -- you go it.

Anyway, I sit down at my desk and instead of hitting the phones, I open The Daily News and find that we started to publish the names, positions and salary of every single government employee on the island. There's almost 10,000 of them so this will take all week. Today's section: the V.I. Board of Education.

I couldn't help it but I had to look up the salary of every teacher, coach and athletic director I interact with on a daily basis. It was intriguing. Some of them make a lot more than they are worth while others are definitely getting screwed.

Which brings me back to the field. Who the hell is going to pay and get this field ready?? Are these kids getting compromised so this guidance counselor ($68K) or that JROTC instructor ($90K) got an extra few bucks?

The field has freaking trees -- I'm not joking -- tress growing on the 50-yard line. It's been this way for three years now!

Meanwhile, the public works director won't answer my questions about why this public high school football team has to practice at a nearby arboretum and play its home games in the outfield of a baseball diamond almost 12 miles away.

Well, I know how much he makes. Should be a good ice breaker.