Basketball diary

When I was in grade school, my entire class suffered from a severe case of no basketball due to a pedagogical schoolmistress who decided that our national sport was unsuitable for us at that age. Seriously, she’d rather have us playing sipa than basketball. So once we graduated from grade school, all the guys in my class who remained would play basketball any chance they’d get. That included recess, lunch break, before classes, after classes, and sometimes even between classes. I used to use up an average of three to four shirts a day, not counting my pantulog outfit. After a few months of non-stop basketball though, we eventually burned out and spent our free time playing tong-its and pusoy dos.

In the Waldorf Upper School this year, we finally gathered enough students to set up some sort of basketball team with our woodwork teacher, Mr. Chester Ocampo, as coach. We practised against members of the Philippine Star Printing Department twice a month to hone our skills. A discussion arose about the team name. Which sounded better, Waldorf Wombats or Waldorf Walnuts? Both were terrible. We ended up not picking a name. As I sit hunched over typing furiously on a wow’d up keyboard at my mom’s trusty eMac that needs more RAM, the Waldorf team still is nameless.

On the team itself, we are pretty short on big men. Our starting center, Khalil Versoza, is 5’7" or thereabouts. Alternative Nobel winner Nicanor Perlas’ offspring, Chris, is our starting power forward, standing at 5’8". Small forward Aeon Mapa is 5’6". Myself, star point guard, I am also 5’6". Female sharpshooter Niki Scott might be 5’2", but I can’t be sure. Valiant second-stringer Joshua Babao, one of TV bloke Julius Babao’s relatives, is 5’4". Everyone else is 5’4" or shorter. Hell, I’ll stake my WoW account that one of the other female members of the squad is shorter than our beloved president, but I can’t be sure. Besides, I probably would have a hard time finding people to bet with.

Two weeks ago, we were notified that our months of practice and buckets of long-lost sweat were not wasted, and that we were soon to pit our mad basketball skillz (yes, with a "z") against a select team from St. Mary’s High School. Coach Chester had the presence of mind to reject all calls to play against their high school varsity team itself. A number of old issues quickly sprung up, such as team colors, name, and jersey design. We finally settled for blue and gold, but still are nameless. Aeon did the sketches for the jersey design, based on feedback from the team.

None of us realized that blue-and-gold combination was already taken by Xavier until a day before the game and after the jerseys were made. We’re considering baby blue and dark gray for our new colors now. Amidst all this ruckus, days and practice slipped by, and next thing we knew, it was the day itself. The game was scheduled for three in the afternoon. At 2:45, we went straight from our PE class headed by been-there-done-that Coach Syd Calo to St. Mary’s. Being excused from class to have fun playing basketball is a rather nice trade-off, wouldn’t you say? I had initially thought that it was going to be a nice, small event with a small crowd in a small gym. But I was wrong. We were led to their main gymnasium, with almost the entire bloody high school out there to cheer on their select students playing a newbie team. Since we were early, we watched some patintero action in what appeared to be a PE class. Then all of a sudden a middle-aged woman sauntered over, saying that we couldn’t field any girls in our team due to the fact that there were no girls on her team, the home team backed up by millions of screaming fans, and who was already used to the court. Did I mention that the court had an unusually small hoop and the backboard an abnormal spin? Well, it may have been just a regular court, but for us, it took some getting used to.

So we were there, shooting and stretching, thinking that we would only have seven players against their 10. But all was not lost. I told Coach Chester that he should have made it clear that we were using members of the weaker sex in our lineup during negotiations, and if their team was too wimpy to handle three girls, then we shouldn’t even be playing their team in the first place. I went off to get used to the abnormaboard, and when I came back, the girls could play. They also added three girls to their lineup to even things out. We brought a trusty old referee from The Philippine STAR, since each team was entitled to one. We didn’t want to leave matters solely to their in-house ref with tacky dyed hair. We gathered in the center for the jump and we won the tip-off.

Our lineup: Versoza, Mapa, Perlas, Scott, and of course Belmonte. To me, their team seemed to be using only one tactic – the dirty tactic. Whenever I went in for a drive, I would be fouled brutally and sent to the line. I left the ground on more than one occasion, and once I even had to be caught by Mapa due to the sheer excessive force used by the opposing team. Perlas was bruised on one cheekbone after the beefy six-foot center "missed" his block and instead flagrantly fouled him. Versoza was like Dennis Rodman, worming his way in and gathering in rebounds over the taller opponent. Elbows came in abundance, and two technical fouls were called during the game on St. Mary’s, the first for reasons obscure to me, and the second for delaying the game during a pair of free throws by Perlas. Even Niki was the victim of several backcourt fouls, courtesy of St. Mary’s Amazon ballers. But we, the underdog, the guest team bothered on every charity, and every attempt for a basket by a horde of caterwauling high school students, and a home-court commentator, fought on. At the very least, the St. Mary’s referee was more or less fair except for when an opposing guard tried to stick his finger in my nostril during a fast break, and when Perlas buried a charity, St. Mary’s got a technical for delaying, and Niki missed the technical charity. He insisted that Perlas shouldn’t be able to finish his pair of charities, for reasons only God Almighty knows. Our objective referee on the other hand defended Perlas’ right to finish his second charity and the basket was sunk.

The below-the-belt tactics pounded us relentlessly, but I accept that basketball is a physical sport. I really have to hand it to Coach-Trainer Syd, whose invaluable advice on how to make a successful inbound while under the pressure of a full court press certainly worked wonders. After a few quick and easy baskets using those tactics, they switched to a half court press that was easier to play in. We took the lead despite their efforts, but we had a difficult time maintaining it due to our height disadvantage and bad interior defense. It was a low-scoring game. Verzosa elbowed a guy for no apparent reason and fouled out. We were up by two, and it was the last 10 seconds of the game. Mapa, when sent to the line after a vicious double team in the key, missed his first. I was like, "Dude! Wake up! This is the final 10 seconds!" and his reply was, "Oh @*&#! I had no idea!" His next shot found the bottom of the net, and we were up by three. We forced them into making a difficult shot that air-balled, and Perlas was intentionally fouled as soon as he received the inbound pass. Sinking both charities ensured us the game, and their three-pointer at the buzzer was way off. The game was all ours. It felt so good, knowing that the odds were against us. Many people on their team were good sports, but a bunch of arrogant ones, who incidentally played the dirtiest, refused to shake hands with us afterwards. Off we went to McDonald’s, proudly wearing our jerseys saturated with dirt and sweat. We stunk like hell, but it didn’t matter. We were victorious.