A day for heroes

In our world, here on the flat surface of the newspaper page or computer screen, we celebrate superhuman feats that many of us could only imagine being able to do. Seeing NBA Legends and retired PBA superstars in the flesh was an absolute joy and thoroughly entertaining experience, and seeing Allan Caidic light up Araneta Coliseum one more time gives hope to people my age that our past glories may not be behind us, after all. And seeing a bunch of legitimate NBA All-Stars behave like youngsters enjoying a welcoming audience and not behaving like old curmudgeons was refreshing in itself.

The PBA Draft was another showcase of hope, for the sport itself in this basketball-mad country whose love for the game knows no reason. The shiny-faced rookie applicants dreaming of a more comfortable life or just fame and money, disproportionately rewarded for simply playing a game above a regular person’s capabilities. I think in the sporting setting, we are fascinated by the transcendence of being able to respond to pressure that would otherwise crumble another person. That is part of our deep interest in what is heroic.

Following around Rafe Bartholomew as he tirelessly made the rounds of bookstores and media outlets was also a happy experience, seeing throngs of people buying a book on basketball felt good. At his book-signing at Powerbooks Greenbelt, the entire program this writer hosted lasted an hour. But it took two more hours to wrap things up, as book buyers lined up patiently to have Rafe sign their copies of “Pacific Rims”. Filipinos are a naturally hospitable people. But this was different: a foreigner immersing himself in our culture and spending three years of his life trying to understand one of the pillars of our culture, one we fiercely defend against those who do not understand.

But what is our standard for heroism? Is it the ability to put a ball through a hoop almost unconsciously? Is it the skill required to know another man senseless? Is it being able to beautifully plow through water ahead of the field? These are all difficult, rare and honorable gifts, true, but what do we consider heroic in our times?

For some of us, heroes are those who do the unheralded, uncomfortable jobs that mean dedicating time and energy and at times risking one’s personal safety to get the job done. School teachers spend their lives in the hope that the seeds of wisdom and understanding they plant in thousand of students will bear significant fruit perhaps even after they are gone. Policemen, despite having gotten a bad rap the past year and again a major blow last Monday, risk their lives and do what they can given the training they’ve been given. If it is not enough, they are still the ones in harm’s way. Female police officers, growing in number, absorb more and more emotional and psychological punishment from hearing dehumanizing stories and their ill effects at women’s desks everywhere. Fireman brave dangers no mortal in his sane mind would endure, and they get little thanks for it.

In my case, I have had quite a few heroes in my day, but for different reasons. I loved Muhammad Ali, not just for the antics he borrowed from Gorgeous George, but for the courage of conviction it took to stand up to the military draft, a practice that was simply wrong.     

In return, he was vilified, and stripped of his license to fight and earn a living in the peak years of his career. I also salute the 1936 Olympic basketball team, the Islanders, who spent three miserable weeks on a ship to Paris, sea sick, starving and unable to practice, and another week crammed into a train from Paris to Berlin, just to participate in the Olympic Games. I admired Flash Elorde for being undefeated as world junior lightweight champion, but more for his selflessness after his retirement, even at personal cost. I held a similar admiration for Pancho Villa, who fought 27 times the year before he annexed the world flyweight title. And I have a particular fondness for those who stick it out in new sports, or sports deemed unglamorous, but are enjoyable just the same.

I have been fortunate to personally witness athletes – now friends – rise from certain despair and poverty to make names for themselves. Required by my profession to maintain a measure of objectivity, I silently cheer athletes on both sides, having a more intimate knowledge of what it took for them to get where they are. Many have left their home towns and the safety of what they knew as home to carve niches for themselves in a hostile big city. Others, denied opportunities, kept at it, until the answer finally became a sweet yes.

I also have my own personal heroes, whose dedication and quiet selfless giving have driven me in difficult times that surface every so often and more now as a single parent. I cannot claim to know what my mother Lirio went through bringing me here from the US in 1965, unsure of how to raise me alone. The thought of her courage and love keeps me going on many cold nights alone. I have also had many great teachers, like Onofre Pagsanghan, whom I will never tire of thanking for planting the seeds of the man that I am, and lighting the fire of poetry in my soul. I’ve also written about my grandfather, Joe Unson, who wordlessly reassured me with his actions that the world would give me more than enough, if I just believed and stayed the course. Joe Cantada was a father figure and friend in my formative years as a sportscaster, making the transition from newsman to sports broadcaster.    

His solid belief, powerful words and resonant friendship are forever part of the foundation of who I am. And I have also have had my share of priceless friends, some of whom have passed through my life, some of whom have passed on to the next.

My sons Vincent and Daniel have also been my heroes. We have our disagreements and little snits, but they have been tremendously encouraging with their drive and responsibility. They remind me that the future is still limitless, and that the hurts that I have will heal, if I but maintain the resiliency that I tried to dismiss with age.

And to the one I have walked part of the road of my life with, I also owe a debt of gratitude. I have found strength, patience and happiness, and continue to seek them, with my eyes wide open.

And last but not the least, to the man in the mirror, who gives me the strength to be all I can, even when I am not. I am a work in progress, and maybe someday, I will be written of as someone who did something heroic. Then my days will have had even more lasting meaning.

There are always heroes among us, around us, and within us. Perhaps they do not know it. Let us celebrate them.