Selling the youth

Last week, I spent five straight days chasing 11- and 12-year-old boys around town.

At the baseball diamond, at Pubelo (our local grocery market) -- I even saw the little buggers at the beach.

Two ballplayers from Aruba spotted me at Linbergh Bay and started yelling, "Newspaper man, newspaper man!" As I attempted to waste away the afternoon under strong sun rays, it was just another reminder that I can't escape the rigors of my job.

St. Thomas was the setting for the Caribbean Region Little League Baseball Championships and yours truly was "Johnny on the Spot" with amazing local coverage. The winner would advance to the Little League World Series, which is televised on ESPN, so you know it was a big deal.

I spent most of the week suffocating inside a cramped press box. With sloppy politicians to my right and random, rowdy children to my left, it was just another moment for me to freeze-frame in my mind and ask the question: "So this is my life?"

There were teams from Puerto Rico, Curacao, Aruba, the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas, St. Maarten and of course, the U.S. Virgin Islands. There were actually three USVI teams involved -- not sure how they pulled off this attempted coup -- but all three faltered and to add a little drama, one of them advanced to the championship.

Since there were teams from all over the Caribbean and I was writing feature stories about these kids, I thought it was important the visitors had a chance to view our tremendous content. They didn't sell the newspaper at the hotel where many of them stayed and I couldn't blame them for not venturing into downtown (St. Thomas is getting a tough guy reputation among the islands these days).

So I threw an idea at my boss. It went a little something like this:

Employee of the Month: "You know, I'm not sure that a lot of these parents even know about the coverage we're giving this tournament. Maybe we should send out a delivery guy to the games or set up some deal with the hotel?"

Boss: "That's a great idea. Let me talk to Ms. blah, blah in circulation and set that up."

E of the M (under his breath): "That's right. Everyone in the world deserves to read my words."

Fast forward to Saturday's championship game. It was supposed to start at 4 p.m. but guess who was at the ballpark an hour before the 1 p.m. consolation game with a stack of 100 copies of the Virgin Islands Daily News?

Apparently, the powers that be acknowledged my earlier suggestion as more of an offer to volunteer my services.

So there I was. Hung over. Sweating my ass off. Standing on the side of the road, next to the stadium, holding up the Daily News so passer-byes will buy them from me. And just like that, I became the very first white person to ever sell the newspaper in the history of said newspaper.

Most of the motorists gave me the double-take because they thought I was playing a joke. A white guy selling the Daily News? You could read the question mark on their faces.

A friend stopped in the intersection and rolled down his window: "Aaron, what the hell are you doing?"

I wasn't really sure. I mean, I didn't have a good answer for him. So I just improvised: "I lost a bet. Wanta buy a newspaper?"

He dug out a dollar bill and handed it to me with a concerned look on his face. It was actually my first sale. I'd been on the street corner for almost 25 minutes.

So instead of getting embarrassed by normal folk on the road, I figured I would work on the baseball parents in the stands (and continue to embarrass myself). The consolation game had just started so the parents that were watching were not very interested in reading about how their teams blew it the night before.

The same concerned look my buddy gave me earlier was shared by all the USVI fans that started to stroll in for the championship game. Many of them recognized or knew me. A few laughed. When others started to bargain with me -- 2-for-1 and hot dog trade attempts -- I knew it was time to hang up my newspaper usher reins.

I ended up selling about 30 copies and then I quit because I had to start focusing on my other job. You know, that whole journalism thing.

In an angry fit, I threw the remaining 70 copies in the back of my car. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and right before I grabbed my camera, note pad and voice recorder, I looked back at the crowded baseball diamond.

"So this is my life?"

Puerto Rico - Day Seis

So I'm walking out of a USVI baseball game and I run into this young fella. He tells me his name is Juan and that he is from Columbia. He then started to tell me about how he couldn't find work in his home country and came to Puerto Rico to make the big bucks.

Real estate? Nope. Stocks? Nah. Pyramid schemes? Not even close.

Juan has decided to sell Vuvuzelas to the fat-wallet spectators at the CAC Games. In a totally unrelated story, the sale of headache medicine has skyrocketed in Mayaguez.

Now if you even gave the World Cup a gander, you surely saw these Vuvuzelas in action. It's basically a plastic horn that people blow into to make some low-tone buzzing sound, that disturbs and drowns out the normal sounds you can hear at a CAC sporting event: athletes cursing in Spanish.

I decided to ask him a few questions. At first, he kind of ignored me because he was busy ripping people off for $4 a horn. Then he kept calling me "bro," which I thought to be condescending. So of course, I had to fuck with him.

Me: Hey, gimme a horn. I'll blow into it and help you sell them.

Juan: No way, bro. Four dollars.

Me: But I'll work it off. I'll help you sell. In America, it's called pitching the consumer. Don't you know anything about sales?

Juan: You're from America? I couldn't tell.

Me: What? Is that supposed to be an insult? What happened in the 1994 World Cup? The only thing Columbia is know for is Chavez. Or is that Venezuela?

Juan: That's Venezuela, bro. We had Pablo Escobar.

Me: Yeah, yeah -- I saw the Entourage episode. HBO taught me the history of your country, my friend. What do you think about that?

Juan: HBO?

Me: Never mind. How about I give you three dollars for the horn?

Juan: No. Four dollars, bro.

Me: Please stop calling me bro. Do you have change for a five?

Juan: No.

Me: Alright, chief. You sonofabitch. Gimme a horn. Here's a five spot.

He handed me a horn without looking at me and then gave me a dollar in change. I immediately started to blow patriotic U.S. songs with the horn just to annoy him. I also started to scare away his customers, which really started to annoy him.

Juan started to give me the evil eye and blowing the horn got old fast. A little boy walked up with his father and wanted a horn. Right before the dad asked Juan how much, I handed the horn to the little kid and told him to have fun.

Immediately after I cheated Juan out of another sale, he started to yell in Spanish to one of the stadium security guards and that was my cue to leave. A security guard started to walk toward us and I just grabbed my camera equipment and headed for my rental car.

"See you in the promise land, bro," I muttered as I walked by him.

I couldn't help but smile as I arrived at my car. I showed him, huh?

In retrospect, I was not proud of my juvenile behavior but I rarely am. It was just another example of the pure sportsmanship and crisp demeanor that have soiled these CAC Games.

Puerto Rico - Day 5

Maybe it's the beard? Or perhaps, the charm and good looks.

For some reason, young PR girls keep coming up to me and asking me questions. The questions are always in Spanish and then they see the polite confusion on my face and run off giggling with their friends.

It's starting to really annoy me. It's like I have a 'Kick Me' sign posted on my back and I don't know it.

A waitress at some steakhouse last night said I could pass for Puerto Rican if I didn't say anything and just nodded all the time. I guess it was a compliment. She said the second I talked, it was very obvious I was an American.

Like there's anything wrong with that.

The other day, I was at La Piscina -- that's 'pool' for all you non-Spanish speaking bastards out there -- for the swimming relay finals and these two girls that worked security or something got right in my face and started to bark questions.


I tried out my best Smokey impression: "I don't understand the words that are coming out of your mouth..."

Then they got mad and moved on to someone else. I guess I looked prominent or something. I later found out they wanted to know if that was the last race of the day and if they could finally go home. Apparently, some child-labor laws are being broken and the teenagers in Mayaguez are getting over-worked for these CAC Games.

I started to vent with some of the USVI boxers the other day about my lack of communication. I think I was just happy to talk to someone in free-flowing English.

Clayton Laurent, a USVI heavyweight boxer, was already making an impression on the PR faithful.

"I just ask if they speak English and if they don't, I just move on to the next chica. The ladies here are spicy," he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about. Spicy? It's like I finally found someone to speak English with and I'm still shaking my head.

Then a group of older women hollered at me when I returned to my hotel two nights ago. I was exhausted and half a sleep by the time I made it back around 11 p.m. They were drinking and hanging out near the extravagant hotel pool and almost in unison, they gave me a construction worker whistle, like it was something straight out of Ugly Betty.

I raised my hand to acknowledge them but never stopped walking. Normally, I would have made new friends despite the language barrier but they caught me on the wrong night.

I was a tired Gringo, which means dumb white boy. At least I'm learning a little Spanish.

Puerto Rico - Day 3

It took me coming to the Central American and Caribbean Games to realize how small and sometimes insignificant the U.S. Virgin Islands can be when compared athletically to the other countries in the region.

The athletes have repeated that same theme to me multiple times as I interview them for another losing story.

The USVI has only about 100,000 people. Puerto Rico has 5 million and even though their fans have showed up in force to support their countrymen, they are hardly the most-populated country here. Countries like Columbia and Venezuela are cleaning up at the medals podium and have sent teams of journalists to cover all the action.

The USVI has not won a medal yet and they sent me, a photo/writing extraordinaire.

The newsroom is packed with dark-haired Spanish-speaking reporters yelling into microphones for reasons I do not understand. Web casts? Audio clips? I'm not really sure. All I know is that it's very distracting when I'm trying to dictate quotes from an athlete who spoke to me on the sideline of a packed gymnasium with a DJ who had a ridiculous volume preference.

The music here is garbage. Maybe it's because I don't understand Spanish. Yeah, that's probably it because you can see all the fans mouthing the words to the songs.

I was hoping for a little help from The Buzz, an alternative rock radio station that I listen to while on island. It broadcasts out of San Juan and here's the kicker: it's EN INGLES! As soon as I got to the western quadrant of Mayaguez, nothing but static.

I didn't bring any CDs and I forgot a wire for my iPod. So my 20-minute ride to and from town are consumed by my own singing. It is not a pretty sight.

Well, I'm about to go watch the USVI women's basketball team take on Jamaica for the bronze medal. Hopefully, the ladies can pull it out or it's going to be another "close but no cigar" story.

Cuba is not participating at the CAC Games. I wouldn't mind a cigar right about now.

Puerto Rico - Day 1

Jeez, Puerto Rico has mountains! What a freakout.

These things were huge and I almost crashed my rental car while trying to maneuver my iPhone for a picture. My boy, Johnny Colucci, warned me of the mountains but I did not expect this.


Driving on the right lane was refreshing and I hit 80 m.p.h. while negotiating the island. I wasn't in a hurry. It just felt good to put the pedal down for once (the speed limit on St. Thomas is like 35 m.p.h.)


Flew into San Juan this morning, rented a car and drove to the West Side (always the best side, right?). The whole trip took about two hours and I made a stop at Burger King. I really don't like that place but they do not exist on St. Thomas so I felt like getting my yearly Whopper fix.

I'll be in P.R. for the next 12 days to cover the Central American and Caribbean (CAC) Games. It's a precursor to the Pan Am Games and Olympics. The USVI sent like 100 athletes so it should be a good time.

Right away, I'm looked at differently when I speak English to these people. Still trying to figure out how to politely say, "I don't speak Spanish. Please answer my questions or I will punch you in the face."

Nah, just jokes there. I would never physically harm anyone. Well, maybe Palin. She deserves a swift kick in the mouth. Wow, now I'm getting political. My head hurts.

Anywhoo, I didn't have any more cash for one of the toll collectors on the highway, which set up another uncomfortable scene.

Drove past my hilarious hotel three times before I saw the sign, face down on the side of the road. I picked it up and leaned against the post to be a nice guy.

Then I saw the dump. Old. Crappy. But it does have a pool.

Like always, it looks nothing like the pictures from the website.

When I asked if it may be OK to switch hotels later on in the week -- my current one is about 20 minutes outside of Mayaguez, where all the CAC Games action is -- the hotel owner said it would be difficult because they are so busy this time of year.

I didn't say anything and just shifted my head outside toward an empty parking lot. No, I'm sorry. There was one car out there. It was my car.

He told me they have a pool. Did I mention that already? And cable TV. I gave it a quick remote surf before I went to the first USVI baseball game this afternoon and there were exactly 12 channels, mostly in Spanish.

Go figure.

LeBron in DC?

This has nothing to do with anything. But as I sat inside my newsroom, listened to the 1-hour LeBron Decision special and wrote a blurb about the V.I. little league baseball teams getting pummeled in Puerto Rico, it suddenly hit me.

LeBron James + American Idol = playing for the Washington Wizards.

I'm sure it rubbed a few people the wrong way when LeBron made a big stink about where he would sign as a free agent. He could have just held a press conference like everyone else. Instead, he wanted to do it live and ESPN's SportsCenter probably earned its highest TV rating of the summer.

Stay with me here.

He should have just listened to my boy, Ryan Seacrest, and turned the whole saga into an American Idol results show.

He's young. He can play anywhere (i.e. D.C.) for the next five years and have a good time. Why is he in such a hurry to win some rings?

Money, huh? Well, I got you covered, King James.

The show could have been set up where people call in or text which team he should go to and that he would have to play there. If each call/text cost like $2.99, he would make his base salary on one night's work.

Imagine all those saps in Cleveland who haven't seen a winner in decades. They would have sunk every last construction and mining penny into that bastard to stay in Ohio.

Chicago wants to move on from the Jordan years and I'm sure Obama would have cast a vote in the form of some expensive stimulus package.

There's gold practically flowing up on the shore in Florida and around Miami. I'm sure some of those rich fellas that ride yachts around wouldn't mind paying for LeBron sprinkles to go on top of their Wade-Bosh cake.

And New York City? Fffugetaboutit.

LeBron would have scored mad duckets if he just listened to me. Why didn't I think of this plan earlier in the week?

I could have hit him up on Twitter. Yeah, I'm following his ass.

While the increasing-by-the-second basketball faithful in South Beach will celebrate tonight for what looks like an NBA coup, I wonder if the Wizards will ever get a chance to buy a winner.

Probably not. Do I care? Not really.