Working for Coke

Working for Coke.

We were halfway through Malachi's chaotic practice baseball game this morning when the scouts showed. I could tell right away something was up. The league founder/president came walking up with a lady holding a clipboard. She stayed standing next to first base near me while he went out to the mound to talk to the coach.

I could hear them talking, like a manager visiting the pitcher. They pointed and nodded and something about, "...fifteen minutes from now," and he turned around and walked slowly off with the clipboard lady.

About 15 Dominican minutes later (30 minutes U.S.)  they came back. The game was ended and all the boys were called over to the sideline to gather around the lady. She was a talent scout, sure enough. But not from the major leagues. She was looking for boys to be in a commercial for Coca-Cola and a local cell phone company, Viva. She was going to take a picture of all of them and then do a short video. In the video they would swing the bat then look down sadly like they had just lost. She would forward the photos and video on to Coca-Cola and Viva. If Coke chose you to be in the commercial, you would be paid $4,000 pesos (About $100 U.S). She should have waited to mention that.

The group instantly erupted. They shouted and jumped around like they had just won the World Series. For a moment they were uncontrollable, turning and facing each other and imagining all the ways they would spend such riches. Poor Malachi was the only one with no clue what was going on. He just stood there and watched the craziness around him.

Finally they were calmed down and in line. Baseball could wait, it was showbiz time. One by one they faced the camera and smiled. Big grins, forced grins, gap-toothed grins; a wide array of cute little boys eager for their chance at fame and fortune. They each swung the bat for the camera and then showed a terribly sad face that only an ice-cold Coca-Cola could cure.

After the practice, the marketing rep came up to Abby and me. There was a second audition specifically for the cell phone company if we'd like to bring Malachi. We are still without a car, but another very friendly parent, Emily, was taking her son and told us we could ride along.

A few hours later we were there. It kind of looked like a house outside, but inside it was clearly a spacious office. The same lady was there with a few others. She explained more of the specifics. If our son was chosen, Coke would pay 4,000 pesos the same day as the video shoot, which would be next Sunday. If it the other company, Viva, chose him, the video shoot would be a long day but would pay 8,000 pesos, 80 days later.

Our girls came along and she asked if they'd like to try out, too. So all three, along with Malachi's teammate Daniel, got their picture taken again and made a brief statement about themselves for the camera. Well, almost all. Amelia got the picture, but in spite of all her prep in the living room with me an hour before as she showed how she would sell lotion on Spanish TV, once the camera came on she froze and wouldn't say a word.  

So now we await a call. Or more likely not. But either way, it was a fun experience and memory for the kids. The day they tried out for the big time.

If you were the last one on earth, would you give to charity?

If I were the last man on earth, would I need to give to charity?

Sometimes I have weird questions go through my head. Like that one. If I were the last man on earth, I suppose charitable giving wouldn't be the first of my concerns. Speaking of that, I like the line I heard from some unromantic shlub who said he wanted to be the last man on earth just to see if all those girls really meant what they said.

But I digress.

The question entered my mind as I read about the subject of tithing. Keeping less than you earn is as old as civilization itself. And as crazy as it may sound, the surprising answer is, yes. Even if I were the only person on earth, I would need to give a tythe, a portion of my earnings to charity. Or more specifically, to God. Even though no one else would benefit.

And here's why.

The primary purpose of giving away some of your earnings isn't to benefit others, it's to benefit yourself.

That statement may sound selfish and counterintuitive on the surface, but let me explain.

When Cain and Abel, the 3rd and 4th people on the planet, became old enough to produce a living, they did not keep it all for themselves. Cain raised crops, and Abel raised livestock. They took some of what they produced and destroyed it. Just burnt it up. They didn't give it away to the poor and needy (seems Mom and Dad were doing fine.) They didn't build a new school or a church with it. They sent it up in smoke.

How would you respond, if after passing the plate at church, the ushers took the money out to the back parking lot, threw it all in a burn barrel and had themselves a little bonfire? Well, for one thing, you'd probably start using a lot more checks than cash.

But beyond that, you wouldn't be inclined to give much seeing those kind of money management skills from the leadership.

However,  this was exactly what God wanted Cain and Abel to do. The story talks about how Abel gave right away out of the first of his flock, but Cain did so grudgingly whenever he got around to it. God didn't like Cain's attitude and let him know.

When Noah got off the ark, what was the first thing he did? Do you remember? (Well, maybe after falling on the ground and kissing it like a crazy relieved fool.) He built an altar and killed and sacrificed a bunch of the food animals from the ark.

And yes, the Bible specifically says "clean animals," that's the kind they could eat. Not the lizards and bats and mosquitos. He used the good stuff, the steak, bacon and egg providers. Now remember, ALL living things were gone from the earth. Sending out a hunting party for more game at that point would have been a futile trip. It might have been tempting for Noah to say, "I don't know, since there is no food anywhere on the entire planet, maybe we don't destroy part of our food supply and instead save for the future."

Now, I'm all for planning ahead and putting money and assets aside, but here's the point. Noah knew, Abel knew, and Cain should have known where it all came from. Cain gave an offering to God because Dad and Mom told him to, and little bro' was making him look bad by having his own sacrifice. He completely missed the point.

Noah and Abel knew the food came from grace and goodness of God, not from themselves.

When they sent it up in flame, they were telling God, "I don't depend on this livestock, or the crops, or anything else. I depend on you."

I don't need the stuff, I need the One the stuff comes from. If I have Him, I have it all.

God told Moses, "Thou Shalt have no other gods before me." When we tythe, when we give to charity right away from our paychecks, we destroy again that easy temptation to make money our god. We remind ourselves it's not the money we need, but the One who gave us the ability to earn money in the first place.

The primary purpose of tithing isn't to benefit others (although it does that, and now with other people on the planet, I don't encourage intentionally burning your assets), it is to remind us that we need God. The primary purpose of tithing is to strengthen our relationship with our Creator, the source of everything. There is nothing more important in life than that.

I need God. I need to constantly remind myself of that.

And that is why, if I were the last man I earth, I would still give to charity.

Dominican Baseball

Every major league baseball fan knows that a couple of their favorite players have come from, or have at least played winter-league ball, in the Dominican Republic. This little island country, with about 3% the population of the United States, produces an amazingly high number of top players. Upon arriving here, I expected to discover the secret. It has been harder than I expected.   

A team affiliated with the Cincinnati Reds plays in late Sept, 2011.



Infield practice. More exciting with rocks and divets in the way.

 So what is the secret of Domincan baseball? We have an "in" to discover it.

Malachi loves baseball. And football. One of his biggest disapointments in coming to the D.R. is not being able to play football this fall. He was finally old enough for tackle, and he was looking forward to plowing into other kids. But his solace was the legend of baseball in the D.R., so he could at least do that.

Strangely, at first we couldn't find anyone who actually played the game. We couldn't even find a baseball field. We're in this giant city, millions of people, and no baseball. The small parks that are around are filled with trees and shrubs, nice for shade, but leaving no room for throwing a ball or batting practice. It seemed weird.

Finally Abby met another women who had a son in baseball. We got the details, and she took us to the field to show us around. It was organized chaos, kinda like at home when you're dealing with a bunch of seven year olds. Only even stronger on the chaos and weaker on the organized.

We got lucky. Malachi's age group only practices once a week, and that was today. We were catching the tail end of it. The league president, Enrique Cruz, took him aside to test his skills. Mr. Cruz threw the ball gently to Malachi, his arm now visibly slowed by age. Perhaps arthritis or something else impedes him, but he went through the routine that his body memorized decades ago.

Malachi caught it easily. A few more. Then some slow grounders from 15 feet away. He could have scooped them with his bare hand, but used the glove, tossing them back.

"He catches well. He throws well," is the assessment. "Now let's see how he bats."

As we walk to the batting net, into which he easily hits some soft-toss balls, I think to myself.

"They certainly don't start out with higher expectations than we have in the States... unless they're going easy on the new American kid." I'll soon find out.

Dominican Baseball has an interesting slant in the local papers. They don't follow teams, but players. When Nelson Cruz hit the game winning HR off of Jose Valverde Oct 12, 2011, THAT was the headline. The fact that the playoff game came down to two Dominicans going mano-a-mano was almost bigger than who won.

They love their local boys down here. Albert Pujols, David Ortiz and many more are followed daily in the boxscores. After one game between Arizona and the Giants, the only note was "no jugaron dominicanos." "No Domincans played."




Frightened are the peacemakers

Have you ever seen a fight? Sure, most guys probably have. But I'd never seen one go down quite like this.  Now most of my friends aren't really brawlers, but a couple years ago, I saw a guy punch another player in our Thanksgiving flag football game. He got kicked out and walked to his car swearing and griping about the injustice of it all.

But this past Friday night, there were no refs. And apparently calling the police isn't what you do around here. So it was up to Rich and me to intervene; or at least, it seemed like the right thing to do at first.

Our family was visiting his family Friday night in a fairly typical neighborhood of Santo Domingo. From their second floor balcony of the 5-story apartment, we heard some yelling out on the street. Looking over the balcony rail, we could see a Haitian guy sitting on the 3 foot wall by the sidewalk, with a Dominican really in his face over something. After a moment of yelling, he suddenly swung at him and knocked him off the wall. The Haitian disappeared for a moment on the other side and then was up and back over the wall. The Dominican was a pretty big guy, and eager to fight. The two men faced up, fists raised, right out on the sidewalk, under the street light.

Suddenly a girl from the parking lot below our balcony started to scream at them. I assumed she was the girlfriend or something, and then Rich and Kirsten both joined in yelling at them to back off. They ignored the protests and started in, punching and ducking.

"Rich, you got to go down there!" Kirsten yelled. They knew the Haitian, I discovered. He was the building guard that opened the gate for cars to park beneath the building. They also knew there was bad blood between him and a couple of the building residents.

"I'll go with you," I said, as Rich headed for the door. He grabbed a stick that was sitting by the door, hoping it would help deter the combatants when we showed up. We bounded down a flight of stairs, and out into the gated parking lot beneath the building, heading for the electric gate which was now beginning to open. Somehow I ended up in front of Rich, and I as I neared the gate to the street, suddenly a man came through toward me, a machete in hand. He walked straight toward me, an angry My mind started to race.

In a flash, I had three quick thoughts. It's funny how fast the mind works sometimes. One thought was suddenly wishing I wasn't down here. The second was wondering what it would feel like to get hit by a machete. The third was wondering if running back to the building would be a good move or attract unnecessary attention. He was coming toward me, but he wasn't really after me, was he? I stopped and moved back and to the left, watching him very closely.

Behind me, I heard a flurry of activity. Out of the building  poured 7 or 8 young men, the first one out holding a pistol. With his left hand he reached down and I heard the metal slide as he loaded a round into the chamber. This was not an improvement.

Rich and I had separated to opposite sides of the parking lot. Before us was a guy with a machete. Behind us a guy with a gun. Plus two guys out on the street fighting and a host of young men ready to do who knows what. I moved cautiously toward the group of men behind us.

"Quien tiene el problema?" the guy with the gun asked. Who has the problem. Great. A guy with a gun looking for a problem. The two guys who had been fighting were nowhere in sight, and as I turned around, machete man was heading out the gate onto the street.

"Nobody here has a problem," I said. Some of the other guys who had just exited the building muttered an agreement. Now if everybody could go back inside, I thought, we can end this without anybody dying.

Rich was down toward the street still and some yelling started up again. The gunman ran down toward the sound. I stayed put. No way I was going back down there. Just beyond the wall, voices were yelling out on the street. It sounded like another group had arrived. Maybe from the building next door? A couple guys appeared at the top of the wall yelling into the garage. The idiot with the gun yelled back and then raised the gun, stepping towards them, pointing it and threatening to fire. The men disappeared from the wall. But the shouts and alarm didn't.

You could feel the tension and uncertainty. Is this what it's like right before a riot? Are there sides to this whole thing that I don't know about yet? What side is everybody on anyway? God, please don't let those other guys come back with guns, too. I have a feeling hothead here won't be able to resist squeezing off a few rounds. 

Rich yelled at the guy to put the gun down. I yelled from the back. Another older guy was there now and saying the same thing. (I say older. I mean older like us, 30's, maybe 40's). Finally, the voices on the street quieted a little. The guy stuffed the gun in his front jeans pocket, the barrel sticking out. (For some strange reason I remember wondering if the safety was on. A sudden discharge can be rather unpleasant from that position.)

Rich and Old Fart started to herd them slowly back toward me and they begin to mill around.  It seemed like they didn't know any better than I did what all the fighting was really about anyway.

Now here's the crazy thing. I had just called a taxi to take us home, and we were waiting for it when this whole melee started. So now our taxi pulls up outside the gate in the middle of a growing crowd of people. Calm seems to be returning even as the crowd grows, so I decide to stick with the plan.

"Look," I say loudly.

"That's my taxi. My wife and kids are going to be walking through here in a minute. Take that back upstairs," I say, pointing to Trigger Finger.

"I don't want any guns, or any machetes, or any fighting at all. Go!"

He takes a couple steps toward the door but then hesitates, not sure the action is really over. But now Kirsten is down with us and she lets him have it. What are you thinking bringing than down here and waiving it around? There are families that live here. We got kids coming through. She's pointing and waiving here arms like some crazy Cubana. One by one the guys slip back through the door and I join them to usher down the family.

When we finally all get into the taxi, the driver looks around at the group of probably 30 young people, now girls as well as guys.

"You having some kind of a party or something?" he says as we pull out.

"Yeah," I think. "Something like that."

Little Car in a Big City.

"Firsts" are always an adventure. In a new country you'll find many of them, and these are my thoughts on my first ride in a public car, a "publico."

                I needed to go across town to teach my new English class. I walked the two blocks to the main street and waited. Lisa had given me a verbal rundown on what to expect so I kept an eye out for the little cars with the green signs on the top. Once you know what to look for, they're everywhere. The first three I saw zipped by, already full. The next one stopped and a young lady and I both got in, she in the front and I in the back. The cars are all the same. The smallest 4-doors you can buy, beat up inside and out from countless stops and passengers. They comfortably seat four adults, and uncomfortably seat seven.

                The driver takes off the moment we get in and I hand him 50 pesos ($1.25 approx). All the windows are rolled down which aids in airflow and heat control. As I'll discover, depending on who's sitting next to you, the airflow can be quite important.

                We dart through traffic, the driver's left arm resting on the open window, he gestures with his hand. I discover that waiving his left hand is how he signals he has room for more.  Or not. He pulls over suddenly and a pretty girl gets in and sits by me in the back. I'm wedged in the middle now, with a well-dressed young man in dress pants and long sleeves on the other side. Two girls share the lone bucket seat in front next to the driver.

                We're off again and the new passengers hand money to the driver. I don't know why there aren't more accidents. Horns honk constantly and we cruise through lanes and around other cars, trucks, and sidewalk stands with seemingly only inches to spare.

                One eye is always on the sidewalk, and our driver sees a girl wave her hand. He quickly stops. We cram over to the left for her, and now the pretty girl is almost on my lap. Twenty years ago, this would have been a major milestone in my dating life. Should I introduce myself? Or maybe apologize to the guy on my left for the sudden intimacy. No one says much of anything so I just sit there.

                He needs to get out; the guy on my left. He's next to the door, of course, but no one exits on the street side because doing so would imperil your life. We all pile out of the back seat so he can get out and then pile back in. By the time we get to my street, I'm the only one left in the cab. In a few more blocks, he'll turn around and head back the way we came.

                Later on the way home, I'm in the front seat, but sharing it with another guy. I literally hang my head and right arm out the window to create a little more space, making sure to duck in quickly when we pass a tree limb or a vendor's parked cart. On my next ride, I was the one next to the driver while another guy got the window. The driver asked me to scoot over because he was having a hard time steering with my knee against the steering wheel. I thought about mentioning that it could be because he has two guys crammed into the front seat of his car; but I bit my tongue and shifted over an inch.

                It's a crowded ride with constant stops and starts, but pretty cheap and it works if your trip involves the main streets. And it helps if you're little.

Cockroach battle

This cockroach was HUGE. And skinny. And fast. About the size of my pinky, it sat perched on our windowsill, just a couple feet from my side of the bed, it's antennae and flightless wings twitching around like some freaky alien thing.

I thought about trying to smash it with my fist, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I needed a weapon, quick. My pillow? Cellphone? Across the room I saw Abby's sunglasses case. That would have to do. I went over and grabbed it, one eye still on the alien. Abby sat in bed, surfing the web on her laptop, oblivious.

As I walked back across, weapon in hand, the cockroach darted quickly to the corner of the window and turned to face me, sensing the coming attack. I strode closer and then reached out with my left hand and gently opened the window. In a flash, he was gone through the opening and I slammed the window behind him. I walked back over to the shelf and put down the sunglasses case. Abby kept typing away, never looking up. It's a good thing she doesn't check my Facebook page much.