FPJ fans hurl brickbats / Pete Sampras, oboy!

Just as I expected, this columnist is being raked from brow to beltline by supporters and admirers of Fernando Poe Jr. Just a few columns back, I wrote the Erap Estrada camarilla was backing him up for the presidential elections in 2004. Given his immense popularity all over the country, I figured he would be a shoo-in. And not President GMA and the rest of the presidential pack could stand in FPJ’s way. They would be bowled all over like tenpins. So far, so good. They liked this first part of my column and were smacking their hands for good measure.

But when I switched from soothsaying to assessment and analysis, they started to clobber me. In sum, I forecast an FPJ victory would not sit well with the middle forces – civil society no less – and they would probably explode in widespread city demonstrations to bar his entry to Malacañang. I had drawn lessons from EDSA I and EDSA II. I argued the fulcrum of political power in the Philippines during great crises no longer lodged with the poor, uneducated masses in revolt but with the middle forces.

People Power was not masa power. It was the power of the educated, the instructed, the highly motivated, the idealists and dreamers, those who had fire in their belly and courage in their gorge. They could take everything, almost anyway, except sheer incompetence at the top, brazen and scandalous personal behavior, five-alarm corruption. People Power today must be understood against the backdrop of a nation gone or almost going to the dogs, fast sinking in unprecedented poverty, corruption, almost struck helpless by spiraling crime and violence. The state is very fragile.

Illustrative of the brickbat brigade is one Rommel Galapon, a master of ad hominem who berates me for serving under President Corazon Aquino’s "blackout administration." He also sticks, digs a knife into my ribs for "praising the Ramos administration, the traveling president who emptied the treasury with his stupid projects." Hello. I resigned irrevocably from the Aquino administration in a big huff. FVR has hardly forgiven me for zeroing severely in on his Philippines 2000. And now, Buster, you add: "We the ordinary people of this damn country are so sick and tired of people like you . . . talaga po ba ganyan ang utak ninyo? You removed a democratically elected president without a fair trial. And now in case someone gets elected in 2004 without you and your friends liking, you’re going to unseat him. Sino po ba ang magaling sa inyo? Meron po ba?"

Mister, it is evident from your tirade you carry the boots of Estrada.

Be that as it may, your logic is absolutely askew. I wrote that FPJ column you vehemently objected to not as a partisan but an avid practitioner of political science and the art of foreseeing the future. Events proved me right when I wrote early on Mr. Estrada would not last the route. I said he would be bushwhacked by his own incompetence, his lust for women and gambling, his addiction to dolce vita, scandals, his choice of friends like Atong Ang. Of course, you speak the truth when you say "I hate politicians especially here in the Philippines, all of them are no good."

When I now extrapolate that an FPJ victory in 2004 will set off lightning and thunder in the streets, that has nothing to do with where I stand in our society, my political choices and preferences. I am analyzing.

And this is also my reply to one Jose King, who writes: "Following your logic why then do we need an election in 2004? Why don’t we just have a big meeting at the Ateneo gym with the so-called civil society and military and vote the next president? I am convinced there is no hope for this country. Not because of FPJ becoming the president but because this country will always be with the elite who will make sure they remain in political and economic power. Democracy is gone. Only the voice of the rich will be heard."

Listen, Mister, and listen hard. My job as a writer is to mount a ledge somewhere on the hill so I can better view people, events and circumstances as they stream up the road of history. On that basis, I correctly forecast the declaration of martial rule by President Ferdinand Marcos. After Ninoy Aquino was murdered on orders of Malacañang, I wrote as a foreign correspondent it was just a matter of time before a social convulsion would erupt and bring the dictator down. EDSA I did occur, and so did EDSA II. What I am saying now and you better hear me well, is that there could very well be a social volcano erupting in the near future. This is because the earth faults underneath our society are rumbling and getting out of formation.

And get this into your skull. I do not claim any omniscience when I analyze and forecast. But I do study the situation very well, fling it like a net at the lessons of history. Mind you , my forecasts could go haywire.

The elite? I agree with you so many clusters of this elite are interested only in power and money, as are our politicians. But within that elite, as in the lodestone of elites every where in the world, there are the few who dream, who reach for the stars, who structure the ideas that move and shake the world, and make it a better place to live in. When the time is ripe, they strike a match and, behold, the earth spins, and there is less darkness.

These ideas never come from the masses. Or from movie stars. They come from creators and builders and heroes, who look at the future and gamble their lives, they who sing The Impossible Dream.

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I was riveted to the US Open yesterday morning, watching the fourth round of the men’s singles, watching Pete Sampras dig back into his past, and play tennis as it should be played – at its rippling, stupendous best. It took Sampras, now 30, five sets to throw back Britain’s Greg Rusedski, whose blazing service matched his own, whose big game scorched every corner of the court. Except that Pete Sampras wouldn’t let go. At 30, an age old for male tennis players, Sampras displayed the old virtuosity that enabled him to win 13 unprecedented grandslams. Score: 7-6 (4), 4-6, 7-6(3), 3-6, 6-4.

Sampras may not win the US Open this time. But if he does it simply proves that old tennis warriors do not die, they just resurrect themselves from the dead one, twice, thrice.

Sampras against Rusedski, who had more aces than he, won because this time his health withstood the gruelling five-set duel. But his health alone did not suffice. He had the better serve-and-volley game, the better mastery of placements, the better throw of knives that whooshed past Rusedski who could only shake his head in bewilderment. No, it was not a slambang game of cross-court returns, of racing for that ball as it sought the far edges, of scrambling for shots that looked like winners. It was a game of services, the ball traveling at anywhere from 120 to 134 miles per hour. A southpaw, and half a head taller than Sampras, Rusedski could blister his serve to hellangone.

It was a game of volleys, half-volleys and passing shots. A game of anticipation. A game of nerves. A game of who had more steel in his heart. Times there were when I thought Peter Sampras was gone as he volleyed out or returned out, the ball screwing out from his racket like a clay pigeon going haywire. But he held on, never got discouraged or flummoxed, his lovely actress wife looking on with some anxiety. He had to serve and volley because that was the only way he could win against a Rusedski who had the same style.

Serve and volley is dangerous for those who haven’t mastered the game. It requires split-second timing, cat-quick legs, a panoramic vision of the court, bluffing and faking as you position in spurts, then dealing that killer stroke like a jungle knife flashing in the dark. Pete Sampras was all that late Sunday evening at Flushing Meadows where the crowd had thinned out because it was way past dinner. Those that remained were treated to the best tennis ever, a classic of power, exquisite timing and stroking, nerves and brains, near infallible judgment.

Earlier on, I watched Serena Williams demolish Daja Bedanova in two easy sets, 6-1, 6-1. She is some gal, this Serena, who occupies No. 1 position in women’s tennis. With her elder sister Venus, they have put up the Williams Show which probably is the biggest money-making spectacle in tournament tennis today. Serena is a cinch to win the US Open’s ladies’ crown, and probably every tennis tournament she will participate in this year.

She is relentless. And Serena is relentless because her body is physically contoured for tennis. She’s got muscles all over her body, strategically in her neck, arms, shoulders and back, and the remaining slope of her physique, including legs that cover distance like a gazelle. Only Venus can possibly beat her today, but that would be on Serena’s off-day when she does not perform like a Patton tank.

I don’t know how much money Serena has earned in tennis, certainly millions and where she has invested them remains a mystery to many outside the Williams family. When you look closely and divest yourself of any racist reservation, she is pretty or close to being pretty. She smiles out of a playing attire of pink sleeveless blouse and short black shirt, and her boobs stick out like an automobile’s headlights. She is a scream.