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 reflections #1

Ahh, where to begin?

I remember how I felt when I barely made it out of this stadium alive. The USVI men's basketball had just dropped its bronze-medal game and even though the gold medal match between Puerto Rico and Mexico didn't tip for two and half hours, the mayhem unfolding outside was scary.

Fans were going nuts and trying to grab a good spot in the line outside the front entrance. Music was playing, booze was flowing and it started to look a little dangerous. A stadium security guard couldn't believe it when I asked him if I could leave. He gave me the "it's your funeral" look and opened the door as the drunken savages made a quick attempt to enter the venue.

I had a laptop bag for my computer and bag over my shoulder with three expensive cameras inside. I was a sitting duck -- but this duck had moves. While wearing flip flops, I broke through that raucous crowd like Brandon Jacobs, which meant a few innocent bystanders felt the wrath of my lead shoulder and elbow.

After I cleared the fray and during the walk back to the car, I realized that the game I just covered was the last USVI event at the CAC Games and a little euphoria came over me. I did a damn good job and felt like celebrating.

Passed a ghetto barber shop on the corner. Yeah, why not? I needed me a tight fade anyway.

Walked into the joint and like a lot of my entrances during this 2-week excursion, the record screeched to a halt. Actually, it wasn't a record but some ass-jiggling Spanish reggatone rap video that was playing on the TV was suddenly muted just so all the barbers could take a gander at the stupid white boy that just walked in. The barbers even pulled the chairs around so the clientele could get a look.

For some reason, there was also a pool table in the middle of the room. Which I found just adorable.

I took off my camera bag. I put my laptop computer bag next to it and looked around. No one spoke English. Or at least they acted like they didn't.

Finally, a guy with a pool stick in his hand and a snazzy haircut told me in broken English that they were closed. Almost relieved to leave the room, I shrugged my shoulders and grabbed my luggage. I must have walked about 40 yards down the city street when the same guy came out and yelled to me. I couldn't understand what he said but he motioned for me to come back. So I did.

I walked in again and he started to clean off the only open barber chair in the corner of the room. I put my bags back down and then asked him a great entrance question.

"What, did you lose?"

"Nah," he answered. "I never lose."

And then through some interesting descriptions, I told him how I wanted my hair cut. It was the first time I had been in a barber shop since I moved to the V.I. in February -- my girlfriend takes the clippers to my dome -- so it was refreshing to sit there and let this guy line me up.

He really put some effort into it and gave me the best haircut I'd ever had. A lot of people thought I looked Puerto Rican during the trip but this little enhancement sealed the deal.

He charged me $7, I gave him $13 and I walked out of that inter-city Puerto Rican pool hall/barber shop a new man. It was a great feeling.

I felt so good that I decided to celebrate by having a few beers across the street at a similar establishment. But instead of haricuts, this particular place specialized in cans of Medalla Light and warm shots of tequila.

Yes, it was a fun night and it was just getting started. But I'll leave that story for next time.