A sense of loss

This time of year, many of us who work for a living take a short break and lie in the sun (if it’s out there) or just try to get away from the incessant grind of life. Some of us reflect on where we are heading in our lives, and how each day seems to bring us closer to material goals, but farther from what we really want.

But, for many of us who follow the ingrained Catholic tradition, it is a time for honoring our dead, reliving their memories, and recalling the lessons they shared with us. Unluckily, this year has also exacted a heavy toll on sports. Luckily, we had learned much from those whose departure from this world was exceedingly untimely.

As we advance in age – and this experience is particularly sharp for me – it becomes less and less common to find mentors, or at least people in the profession who are older. This year, four outstanding sportsmen I was lucky to call my friends have passed on, two of them due to avoidable conflicts, one simply because of neglect.

First was Robert Valdez, president of the Muaythai Association Philippines, victim of a gunshot to the chest after an altercation with a former coach in defense of an athlete. Robert, who had been in the papers weeks before his death due to a disagreement with a country club security guard that turned violent, was a jolly fellow who loved his sport with a passion rare even for Filipinos.

I remember some of our trips out of town to promote muay thai, with Robert unable to stop talking about his dreams for the sport. We even shot a pilot for an aborted television series which he was hoping to revive right before he was killed. A consultant for The Contender Asia, Robert also dreamed of the day when world boxing bodies would merge with muay thai associations and give the sport the global prominence it deserved.

Then we lost Pocholo Ramirez, whom I was particularly fond of, because he was simply himself, and because he simply never stopped winning. Rare is the competitor who wins with a smile, and even more precious, Pocholo had been doing it since the time I was born. He with the trademark shorts and facial hair and ready chuckle, was unfailingly kind to all.

My most indelible memory of Pocholo was the 1989 Macau Grand Prix. I was still a young reporter, learning my way around, and it was my first time to cover a grand prix. At this grand event, literally everyone of note stopped, dropped what they were doing, and greeted Pocholo. And it was not a cursory greeting, mind you, but a firm, warm handshake of fondness. That scene was stamped in my mind permanently.

This year, one of my dearest friends in sports, Roland Dantes, also died. Roland and I were looking forward to the day when all the great surviving arnis masters would reunite to break Arnis Philippines’ stranglehold on the sport. Since 1986, no election has been held in the sport. In disgust, Roland left the country two decades ago, and was widely responsible for promoting arnis overseas, to the point that it has become known as Filipino Martial Art (FMA).

Sadly, Roland refused to go to the doctor when he had eaten something that disagreed with him, and it inflamed his gout to the point that it gave him a heart attack. Ironically, he had even worked out the day before. To everyone’s amazement, after Roland died, they found his birth certificate. The 1969 Mr. Universe runner-up was not just 64 as indicated in his passport. He was 69.

Roland knew that his legacy would be the knowledge and experience he could leave behind. Ironically, he was scheduled to reunite with and reconcile with his wife that week. I will certainly miss him.

Lastly, Nick Cabalza met a tragic death, shot at a roadside eatery. Powerlifting will never be the same. Unlike many glory-hungry sports officials, Nick left the spotlight to others when it wasn’t necessary for him to be in it. Most of all, he had an easy laugh, could have a good time any time, and was always on the lookout for new talent. And he would make sure that the world knew when his athletes had done well. Most of all, Nick was someone you could talk to. He was not an old fogey or a politician. He was, in a word, real.

For athletes, the sense of loss often comes after two decisive peaks in their careers: hitting their physical prime, and/or winning a championship. The descent can be gradual and imperceptible, or it can happen with a crash. I’ve come across quotes on that experience, and how to overcome it, from unparalleled winners like Bill Russell. Russell, owner of 11 championship rings with the Boston Celtics, reflects on what it takes to stay on top, despite the ravages of time.

“After you’ve won once, some of the key figures are likely to grow dissatisfied with the role they play, so it’s harder to keep the team focused on doing what it takes to win. Also, you’ve already done it, so you can’t rely on the same drive that makes people climb mountains for the first time; winning isn’t new anymore. Also, there’s a temptation to believe that the last championship will somehow win the next one automatically. You have to keep going out there game after game. Besides, you’re getting older, and less willing to put up with aggravation and pain... When you find someone who at age 30 or 35 has the motivation to overrule that increasing pain and aggravation, you have a champion.”

Let’s remember our champions, especially those who are no longer with us. Their teachings are priceless, and they will never be forgotten.