The paradox of Lito Tacujan
Lito Tacujan abhorred mediocrity. Hand him a copy with a typical, run-of-the-mill lead and — more often than not — his day was all but ruined. Wrecked. To him, those were the kinds of stories old-school editors would dismiss as basura — fit only for the wastebasket after a quick read and a crumple.
But in hindsight, there was something almost poetic about it.
Because somehow, transforming those “basura” pieces into near-masterpieces kept his adrenaline going. It fueled him. It sharpened his already formidable edge and sustained his lofty perch as not just one of the country’s top editors — but one of its very best.
He was, after all, a literary man — a poet at heart, a master of his craft. And it showed in every line he rewrote, every lead he reimagined, every story he elevated.
It took me what felt like an eternity before I finally saw one of my pieces printed as is — untouched, unmarked, spared even the faintest proofreader’s symbol. That alone felt like a lifetime achievement.
Because for Boss Lito, everything began — and often ended — with the lead.
His advice, repeated so often it became a broken record, still echoes in my ears: “Dun mo makikita ang magagaling.”
Come up with a strong lead, and you’ll have a good story. Simple. Absolute. Non-negotiable.
Back in the day, leads were treated like prized possessions. There was even a running joke that a particularly good one could be sold among editors. Some, after hammering away on their typewriters, would tear off the top portion of their copy — just to keep their leads hidden from prying eyes.
Technology may have changed the newsroom, but Lito Tacujan never did. Or if he did, it was only for the better.
That was why the STAR’s sports section lorded it over the competition for years — pardon the pun. He made sure of it. Every single day.
His routine was almost ritualistic. Upon arriving at the office, he would head straight to the library section, poring over headlines and leads from competing sports pages. Then he’d return to his desk, shake his head slightly, and mutter: “Wala ‘tong mga ‘ban-kala.”
Because he made sure we had the best ones.
And for decades, as his unofficial sidekick at the sports desk, I watched in awe – and, admittedly, frustration. No matter how much I tried, I could never quite absorb even a fraction of his brilliance.
Every lead he wrote — whether on basketball, golf (his favorite), boxing, baseball, or any sport under the sun — was fresh, inventive and unlike anything I had encountered. His vocabulary seemed endless. His ideas, inexhaustible. His wit, effortless.
Nakakainggit.
I followed his advice to the letter. I read and read and read — wire stories, feature pieces, anything I could get my hands on. I even brought home stacks of printed stories just to study how good writing was done.
Still, whenever he asked me to craft a lead, he would take one look, smile slightly, and say: “Ganito lang ‘yan, brod.”
And in a few strokes, he would transform it completely.
That was it. That was the difference.
If basketball had a Michael Jordan, Boss Lito was its equivalent in sports writing. And in golf — his beloved game — he was every bit a Tiger Woods on the page: precise, dominant and always a step ahead of the field.
But his talents didn’t stop at writing.
He excelled in golf — not just casually, but seriously. His trophies filled not one, but two wooden cabinets at the STAR’s sports section, with the overflow — of all places — ending up in a wastebasket. Only he could turn even a trash bin into a trophy case.
He loved to sing, too. And he did so with gusto. Just ask Roman (Floresca), his singing buddy and rival. Ask anyone from the old Other Office — the watering hole of editors back in the day.
And he was fun. Endlessly so.
He could crack a joke out of nowhere, turn an ordinary moment into something hilarious, and light up the STAR’s daily story conferences. On days he was absent, someone would inevitably ask: “Asan na ang corny mong boss?”
Corny, yes. But always worth waiting for.
Then came Parkinson’s disease.
It slowed him. Shook him. Tried to take away the very things that defined him.
But he fought. Quietly, stubbornly, bravely.
In his final years at the STAR, he moved with difficulty — limping, hobbling — but never stopping. Never surrendering.
I remember one late afternoon, he slumped in his chair — head bowed, shoulders sagging, arms hanging loosely at his sides. For a moment, time seemed to stop.
Then, after a few shakes, he stirred.
And went back to writing.
That was who he was.
And in a way, I imagine his final moments carried that same quiet poetry. Slumped in his golf cart last Tuesday, after hitting balls at the range — his daily ritual, his sanctuary. Rushed to the hospital, his heart briefly fought its way back, only to yield the morning after.
Cardiac arrest.
Gone.
Yet for those who only met him briefly, he could seem distant — suplado, even.
Hard to approach.
But those who truly knew him knew better.
He was accommodating. Generous. Kind.
PR people often sought his help in promoting events. And since he couldn’t officially take on such roles, he would pass them on to me.
“Brod, ikaw na humawak nito.”
From badminton events in the ’90s to professional golf circuits and countless tournaments in between — the list goes on. And with each opportunity came his quiet trust.
For that, I will always be grateful.
I remember once, after covering the Philippine Open at Mt. Malarayat, two editors teased me: “Come work for us. Tutulungan ka naming i-unlearn lahat ng natutunan mo kay Lito.”
I’m glad I didn’t.
Because it didn’t take me long to realize — I would rather work for a slave driver than live with the thought that I walked away from the very best.
So long, Boss Lito.
See you someday on heaven’s fairways — where you can finally fix my swing, teach me how to read the wind, escape bunkers with ease, and chip like a pro.
Don’t worry about the greens.
I’ll handle the putting.
- Latest
- Trending
