It must have been a chilling experience for the retired players, some of whom may still feel they could play in the PBA today. Some probably felt time ran out of them, while others probably felt they would have done things differently. Still, there is the satisfaction of still being in the game, somehow.
I know exactly how they feel.
It’s rare that I cross the line and become part of the action, but if you’ll indulge me – this being Lent – you may be able to relate.
My brother, Luis, invited me to play on his team in the Ateneo Basketball League, the alumni tournament that includes some past Ateneans who saw action in the PBA, UAAP and, before that, the NCAA and Philippine team. Jojo Lastimosa, Chito Loyzaga, Ritchie Ticzon, Eric Reyes, Ogie Narvasa are among those who suit up in other, more competitive divisions.
There were a couple of reasons I couldn’t say no. First of all, my brother and I never got to play together, him being eight years younger. Also, my brother’s team had always been beaten by this particular team in their division, in high school, college, and beyond. They wanted payback, in a big way. Third, having given up my basketball career to travel and search for my father, I always wondered if I really had what it takes to make it as a baller. And fourth, in all the broadcast and print tournaments I had played in, I had collected Mythical team citations, but never a championship.
And, a year and a half shy of forty, I was running out of time.
So it was with some trepidation that I joined, forcing my 38-year old body to run up and down the floor with guys who were just bordering on thirty or younger. I wondered how well I could do.
Practices were hard, the mornings after, often painful. I had pain in my muscles I didn’t even know existed. But we started winning, and I was doing my share. I was wondering, though, if it was worth it, and if I really could entertain dreams of being a competitive player at a higher level, despite my advanced age.
I couldn’t dominate at both ends of the floor like I used to, but I sure wasn’t going to allow anyone to dominate me. Slowly, my timing was coming back, as were the blocked shots I used to rack up. And we were winning more and more.
What amazed me the most was how men from such divergent backgrounds were coming together. We had finance experts, businessmen, doctors, MBA grads, and a slightly used sportscaster, united by purpose.
But we were wearing out, and I started to gain a deeper respect for players who could keep it going for a whole season. We only played on weekends, and I already had trouble getting out of bed the following day. To top it all off, I incurred my first major injury, a torn little finger on my shooting hand, which might never heal. Father Time was knocking, hard.
We wondered if we wouldn’t come up short. True, we had three players going into the Mythical Team. Point guard Chiqui Reyes, despite playing for teams in two different divisions, was so far ahead of us all statistically that he would have made the Mythical Team even if he didn’t play in the Finals. Luckily, I made it, along with our power forward Tabs Tabberrah, a resident orthopedic who, strangely enough, tore the same finger I did.
In the Finals, Chiqui went down with a bad hamstring, the result of playing 40 minutes in two successive championship games. I was exhausted. Some of the other guys weren’t playing big.
Then, it all came together. Our shooters suddenly hit their stride, and our running game came back in the last three minutes. We won by five, in a defensive game that keep the score a low 63-58. Redemption. And boy, was it sweet, aches and all.
Finally, we were champions. I had my hardware: a championship trophy, a medal for the Mythical Team, one for Best Defensive Player in our division, and one for being a part of a championship team. And alongside, the innocuous fragment of a popsicle stick I tape to my little finger to keep it straight.
And so, the morning after, aching muscles and all, we basked in the triumph of the journey: myself, my brother Luis, Jimmy, Chiqui, Tabs, Mon Bautista, Raffy Vicencio, Mico Cruz, Ben Solis, Arvin Fernando, Danny Carlos, Paolo Valenzuela, Arthur Pineda, Mike Pineda. It wasn’t an Olympic gold medal, but because of what it brought out of us, it may as well have been.
I’m sure you can relate.