Pelótas, Putas y Peones!

The USC Baseball Team Takes On Castro's Finest

Reportero: Pete Alexander

exclusivo de ChinMusic.net

We were still trying to scrub the Cheap Ho stench off our bodies after rolling in from a barnburner at the Body Shop when the damned limo arrived.

“Whattaya mean the sun is coming up? We just got started, man!”

“Shut up and get in the limo, Shemp.”

Yea, it was going to be a thing of beauty, I could tell already. Somewhere out on the tarmac of LAX sat a TACA Airbus, waiting to wing us down Havana way… along with the USC baseball team and God knows how many alumni. Knowing the specter of Tom Ridge would be watching our every move, we held out faint hope of even boarding, let alone departing. Yet after all the formalities were taken care of at check-in – and we had forced some rancid breakfast burritos down our throats, courtesy of the fine folks in the Bradley International Torture Terminal – we managed to board the fishy French A-320 Airbus. For the uniformed, all Airbus seats were designed using the guillotine as the comfort standard. But what did we care? We were going to Fidel’s House! On a side note, legendary USC baseball coach Rod Dedeaux was with our group of 200-plus loyalist freedom fighters.

Through the crafty efforts of a former Trojan punter turned international trade specialist, a series of games were scheduled between the USC squad and the Cuban National team… or so we were led to believe. With visions of baseball, mojitos, Cohibas and mamacitas dancing in our heads, we surfed a phat tailwind direct to Jose Marti International Airport, arriving a mere 5 hours after departure, under cover of darkness.

Being Americans, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
It didn’t take long for the wonders of the Third World to filter into our skulls. Customs lines were of interminable length and there was little logic to the process “flow”. Things only improved as the hodad Cubano tour guide tried in vain to be disarmingly self-deprecating while attempting to build “group cohesion” on the bus ride to the hotel. Sit down, Shecky! Naturally, check-in was a fiasco, with most rooms not being ready. Yea, right… more like they wanted to make sure the bugs and phone taps were working. Fortunately, the have a great deal of experience with crisis management down there, so we were quickly shuffled off to the reception area. There, we discovered an unlimited supply of Cuba Libres standing at attention, like little soldiers of the revolution, awaiting their demise in the hands of the invading hordes. Eventually, we were situated and, despite the late hour, agreed to stage our preliminary urban reconnaissance mission on downtown Havana. We had but one thing in mind… a few drinks and cigars on the side would be an added bonus.

For the gentlemen in the audience, let me give you perhaps the best piece of advice you will EVER receive: Drop what you are doing and go to Cuba. RIGHT NOW! It makes Thailand seem as expensive as Milan, if you know what I mean and I think you do. I was in and out of the Havana Café in less than 20 minutes, and it proved to be an adventure I will not soon forget. HOLY COW!!! This, as it would turn out, was just the tip of the iceberg, and over the ensuing 6 days, I would go on to enjoy some of the most beautiful (and affordable) companionship I have ever known – or could have dreamed of on the web. But I digress… its baseball you’re interested in, so lets get back on topic here, shall we?

Over the next few days, the Trojans would play some games against the Cubans. Unfortunately, it was not against their best but their second (or third) string. As we would discover later (on TV, no less), we had arrived in the middle of the Cuban League’s season, so it was All-Star break. The first game was held at night in a small stadium about an hour out into the countryside. The USC contingent took over the first base side of the stands, outfitted in appropriate battle fatigues (Hawaiian shirts) and headgear (Che Guevara berets). As we ate fresh-carved turkey and pork sandwiches, guzzling smuggled beer, commenting on the pathetic state of dogs in Cuba, avoiding the so-called men’s room (where you can be CERTAIN to find WMD’s) and generally doing our best to ingratiate ourselves, we watched our boys dismantle the hosts by a score of 12-3. We wrote it off as a cursory warm-up game, which was not far off the mark.

Game two, the next day, was held at a larger stadium in Havana proper. Once again, it was a massacre, with the Trojans coming out on top 20-10. USC third base phenom Joey Metropoulos enjoyed a career road trip, smashing everything he saw and flawlessly fielding everything he touched. The picture was getting clearer now, so most of the faithful began wandering off early to sample yet more 17-year old rum and freshly rolled cigars – to say nothing of 17-year olds themselves. These three elements made up our three critical food groups during our stay. The earlier concerns about what could – and could not – be taken back to the States were starting to wane, and greed began setting in on the minds of the vulgarians.

By the midway point of the trip, average cigar consumption had reached 6 or more per day, while mojito consumption was easily on the order of two-dozen or more per day. And that was pacing it. “Havana Daydreamin’” was becoming a reality, especially for the forward deployed strike team, of which I was a founding member. Many of the faithful began turning to us for insight, leads, negotiating tactics and phone numbers. Fortunately, it was a seller’s market, so large quantities of Jacksons were changing hands throughout.

The final game was held at the premier baseball facility in Cuba, the Estadio Latinoamericano. Regrettably, no local turnout was in order, so we essentially had the cavernous stadium to ourselves. Another fiasco in the making, the game was called in the 7th with USC on top 16-0. Wherever the great Cuban Baseball Dynamo was, we never caught a glimpse of it anywhere. It’s too bad, because it seems pretty clear the Trojans could have likely taken on anyone the Cubans could field. But such is the way with Cuba and the avarice of El Supremo. Trojan baseball coach Mike Gillespie stood up and apologized to the fans, but expressed his appreciation for all of the support and had no regrets about taking the trip. Naturally, we couldn’t have agreed more and shoved a mojito into his hand. At that point, we just saddled back up and took off for the Malecon and whatever further adventures awaited us.

Our final full day in Havana was spent conducting every possible scam and grift we had become attuned to during the 5 days prior. In what can only be described as a noir film classic scenario, our constantly evolving wolf pack took over a small sidewalk bar / café, just off the Parque Central, near Havana’s “gut”, late in the afternoon. As the curvaceous skank paraded their wares along the walkway in front of us, I sat pensively, nursing a non-stop flow of cold Bucanero beers, sucking down a Montecristo, watching the drama unfold. Having just visited Hemingway’s house, I couldn’t help but notice the poetic timing of the storm clouds rolling in from across the Caribbean. Some members of the crew were working black market cigar deals across the street in the plaza, while others were negotiating suitable fees for “service contracts” with some dusky dolls. The foreign tourists present – all shocked and deeply disappointed to find Norte Americanos present – just stared at us with total fascination and disgust. Naturally, we fed off their negative energy, until the rains began to fall, the winds began to whip and all hell broke lose. Not certain of the original catalyst, I returned from a head call to see the table breaking up and bodies scattering in all directions. I immediately went into self-preservation mode and beat feet for the taxi, patiently awaiting our return. In all honesty, it was more like a Blackhawk extraction from Somalia. Two guys split into the gut with a couple of gnarly hooks, while the rest of us held our own to the increasing slurs and catcalls coming from the ever-present Socialista broads who give Alanis Morissette a good name. Chaos ensued as the rain pelted us and blackened skies swept over the scene. Fortunately, we all got out without taking any hits and enjoyed a good laugh – along with our smokes – all the way down Embassy row back to our hotel. Yes, we had left two behind, but you’ve got to expect a few losses in any big operation. As fate would have it, they returned under their own power about an hour after we arrived. Once again, the Ugly American is alive and well, and I am proud to have done my part to keep an ancient tradition alive!
Unlike the University of Washington baseball team, which had been thrown out of Cuba four years prior when a player was caught stealing a box of cigars from a shop (typical Husky moron), we actually departed under more genial and civilized conditions. Eight long, tedious hours later – including endless ground delays in L.A. – we finally re-boarded our limo and disappeared into the chilly 2 A.M. night of the City of No NFL. We were filthy drunk, reeked of abusive cigar consumption, our clothes were tattered and our hair matted, we had open sores and viscous wounds… yet we waltzed through customs unmolested and had left no one behind. It was as if we had never left…

Cuba is, well… Cuba. A land of dichotomies, mixed metaphors and layered deceit, it remains a beautiful image in my mind, populated by some lovely people (unlike their forlorn brethren in Miami) and stuck in a time warp. There are the 50’s era cars, the classic architecture and the images of decades long gone. There are also cops, security guards and informants everywhere, a noticeable lack of respectable dining establishments and a general population that is sick and tired of being bled to death by a government that long ago imploded under its own weight. Then there is the myth of baseball in Cuba, and maybe it is just that after all… a myth. Sorry, Duque – you may have been the last…