PAN AMERICAN GAMES : It’s Just the American Way

I gotta get outta here.

I am a big baby who needs to be pampered.

After all, I’m an American.

Fly me to Florida with the rest of those red-blooded (well, blue-blooded) American athletes who couldn’t stand to stay in Cuba one more day, even though they aren’t done competing.

I feel just like they do.

What do I care how hard these Cuban people have worked every day to make us feel welcome?

Why should I appreciate everything these people have done over the past several months to make us as comfortable as they know how?

Where is it written in the Constitution that I have to be a polite, gracious, considerate, sympathetic, sensitive human being, particularly to a bunch of Communists?

After all, I’m an American.

I deserve double beds with goose-down pillows and double cheeseburgers with gooey desserts and if Cuba can’t give it to me then, by gum, I am going someplace that will.

Because how am I supposed to stomach it here two whole weeks?

I belong in that Coconut Grove hotel with those U.S. basketball guys, sitting in that spa up to my armpits in Mr. Bubble until they need me down in Castroville for our next Pan American Games game.

I belong up there on that Pan-Am Shuttle, winging with those U.S. bicyclists into Miami for a few days of sun and fun, because how in the world am I expected to find any sun or fun here on this stupid tropical island?

After all, I’m an American.

Some of these people actually speak Spanish. Do you believe that? I mean, the nerve. Nobody warned me or our basketball players or bicycle riders about this.

And our rooms! They don’t even have plush carpeting, or HBO, or mini-bars stocked with deluxe assortments of mixed nuts. You mean we’re actually supposed to sleep here? And then shoot baskets or ride bikes? It’s like living in a cave, man.

Personally, I know how upsetting it has been to me that all I have in my hotel room is a color TV, radio, desk, twin beds, maid service, shower, bath and balcony with patio furniture overlooking the ocean.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Do you realize that sometimes I have to ride the elevator all the way down to the lobby to buy a cold Coca-Cola and an English-language newspaper, or to be served my filet mignon with French fries in the restaurant?

What a hellhole.

How can anybody blame the basketball players and bikers for being so eager to get away? It’s not as if they made a personal commitment to come to Cuba or anything like that.

Oh, OK, maybe they did, but what of it? Who are we offending--a bunch of Cubans? What’s it going to do--strain our relationship with them?

Right now only 24 of our 675 athletes have gone home for a few days, but the other 651 must be saying to themselves: “Why didn’t I think of that?” I know I am. And if Barcelona doesn’t treat me any better during the 1992 Olympics, I’ll be bailing out of that place, too, babe.

After all, I’m an American.

I didn’t ask to come to the Pan Am Games. Oh, OK, maybe I did, but what of it? I can’t get any exercise here. Oh, OK, maybe I can, but what of it? I can’t telephone home here. Oh, OK, maybe I can, but what of it? I can’t eat any fruit, or fish, or potatoes, or rice, or ice cream here. Oh, OK, maybe I can, but what of it?

Get me to Miami with my basketball boys. Now I know why they defeated Cuba by only four points and Argentina by six. Because they actually were expected to sleep in Cuba overnight. If we’re going to torture our athletes this way, we shouldn’t bother even sending them.

I think somebody should have sat down our athletes and explained to them the facts of life:

“The good news, boys and girls, is that you have been selected to represent the United States of America in a distinguished international sports competition in Cuba. The bad news is, you have to go to Cuba. I’m sorry, but we just can’t seem to work around that.”

Yes, they could! They could put us on that Pan-Am Shuttle every morning, ram us through customs, limo us over to the gymnasium or the velodrome, let us do our gigs, limo us right back to the airport and put us on that evening shuttle back to Miami, every single night. Free drinks and headsets.

I have come to expect this kind of treatment, to be spoiled beyond belief until I come to have no regard whatsoever for my hosts or for common courtesy or for anything except my own personal comfort and self-gratification.

After all, I’m an American.

But shhh, don’t tell anybody. I wouldn’t want any of the faces smiling at us at the Havana airport to think we were insulting them or anything.