Selling Ice Cubes To Eskimos

My Pop Warner Football Fund Raising Adventure

I should have known something was up the moment I walked into the meeting room that morning. It was our first team meeting for the Yorba Linda Colts, my son's Junior Mighty Mite Pop Warner Football team, and I was met by an unholy stench; it was an odd mixture of a florist shop, the cosmetics counter at Macy's and my ex-wife's bathroom.

The head coach began speaking. "I know we usually sell candy or frozen pizza as our team fund raising program, but we're trying something new this year. Let me introduce the team Mom."

The team Mom walked to the front of the room, proudly displaying her wares. "This year we'll be selling these beautiful scented candles. They feature double wicks, non-dripping wax, and come in over a dozen tantalizing aromas . . ." At this point, most of the men in the room were groaning, and at least three appeared to be visibly sick. Me, I remained stoic. It was a composure born of a stubborn belief I can sell almost anything to almost anybody. Either that or I was in abject shock.

I've peddled all sorts of crap to help fund my son's various sporting and scholastic endeavors. Frozen cardboard (I mean pizza), cookie dough (Salmonella, anyone?), and wrapping paper are a few of the items I've foisted on unsuspecting family and friends over the years. But scented candles? I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk the team mom might have thought it was.

My ex-wife was going to have it easy; all she had to do was parade my son door-to-door around the neighborhood, cornering other moms and the occasional blue-haired retiree. These people, of course, are the target customers for such a product. What woman can resist the overtures of a tow-headed eight year-old trying to raise money for his football team, particularly when the product smells nice?

I didn't have that luxury. I only get to see my son about four days a month, and I was unwilling to waste any of that precious time hawking scented candles to innocent neighbors, even if it is a good cause. This left me just one place to go if I was going to meet my candle quota, the one place in America where the victim is always captive, where they can't slam the door and they can't run away: the workplace.

So I spent the week suffering the indignity of pitching scented candles to my co-workers. The women, thank God, were easy marks -- I was selling a product they actually found interesting. Unfortunately, we only have four females at my office, and one was on vacation. This was going to leave me far short of my quota. I was left with no choice but to target my male co-workers.

I don't think I'll ever get out of my mind the somewhat disturbing image of a forty-two year old man scratching and sniffing a page labeled "Strawberry Delight." Nor will I soon escape the stigma and shame of asking grown men to fork over twenty-four bucks for a scented candle, a product that -- should it not end up in the trash -- will at the very least cover their furniture with the stench of a cheap bordello.

But let's leave that aside for a moment and ponder the obvious questions: Scented candles? For a football fund raiser? Talk about your non sequiter. Could they possibly have picked a less manly product for such a venture? I might have understood had the candles come in aromas such as "Eau du Jock Strap" or "Unwashed Socks," but "Kiwi Surprise" and "Pineapple Sunrise?" How un-football like. Do I even need to mention it was a woman who thought up this hare-brained scheme? Will I be expected to sell Vermont Teddy Bears and Harlequin romance novels next season?

I had to guilt the poor bastards at my office into buying the things. I felt dirty when I left at night.

Anyway, I did my part. I finally hit my quota by forcing my sister to purchase a "Very Berry" and an "Outrageous Orange." Our seven and eight year old football players will proudly wear matching socks when they take the field this fall, and every boy will get his "esteem building" trophy at the season's conclusion. But at what cost? Now, my co-workers scurry like roaches when they see me coming. I'm concerned my brother in-law will try to poison me the next time I'm invited for dinner. My pride may be damaged beyond repair, and my reputation at work is irreparably soiled. All things considered, I think I'd rather sell cardboard pizza.