HANGGANG kwentuhan na lang.
This is probably the best way to describe the version of me that played basketball—what’s left of it.
I remember getting up as early as 4 a.m. to make sure I was among the first 10 players to arrive at the court. I would join fellow early birds, and we’d huddle in front of the closed gate in the dark, calling out to the caretaker, who was already used to getting up that early to let us in before turning on the lights.
Three to four groups of 10 different players would play after us, and some of us, who were able to play first would stay and wait until we could play again. I’d be home just before 10 a.m., especially if I was the one assigned to cook rice for lunch. That way, Mama wouldn’t be mad.
By 2 p.m., I was already on a half court with my friends, playing basketball, almost always for money. We played against more than just kids our age. We were playing against stay-in factory workers and warehousemen, who didn’t have anything else to do after work. We also played against construction workers, their skin streaked white with cement and dust stuck to them by sweat. We waited for them on the half court near where I lived; they came because they knew we were always ready to play for money. They played betting cash, and when their weekly pay hadn’t come in yet, sometimes even just for a bottle of soft drinks.
Christmas and summer were tournament seasons. That meant I played basketball until very late in the evening.
I would do everything all over again the next day, again and again and again, because in my twenties, I was strong and full of energy.
Now, at 46, a busy father prone to gout flare-ups and a full-time office worker, all I have are stories.
So do most of my contemporaries, who are in pretty much the same boat—busy, worn down, and prone to pain even with the smallest physical exertion.
We happily reminisced about playing on makeshift half courts riddled with potholes, about our first time playing on tabla—a big deal back then, playing on a basketball court with a wooden floor. We talked about mishaps and miscues on the court: one of us guarding a player who was lining up for a free throw, or the time the entire sole of someone’s shoe tore off just minutes before the game started. We laughed about the tournaments we joined and never won even once.
But it’s not all bad though.
We talked about how excited we were the first time our names were called as starters, how nervous we felt playing for a championship for the first time, and how satisfying it was to pull off an upset against a stronger, more talented team. We talked about that one nasty crossover that floored a pesky defender, stealing the ball from an overdribbling showoff, and—for the very few of us blessed by the basketball gods—sinking the winning shot.
We talked about stories. We seldom talked about medals or trophies, even though we’d won our fair share. We don’t do it because we were being modest. We just didn’t care, I guess. I bet none of my friends today even know who ended up keeping the team trophy, and no one really cared.
I didn’t care about medals then, and I don’t care about them now in the SEA Games. I care about the stories.
I think it’s because it is through stories—what happened, what we felt, what we saw, what we experienced—that we are connected to one another.
Stories of triumph, heartbreak, struggle, frustration, exhilaration; of overcoming limits, beating the odds, surprising ourselves, surprising the world—these matter to me, because they tap into our shared humanity, something that transcends team colors and territories.
Compete as competitors. Connect as human beings. That is the ethos of sports.
That’s why, as much as I celebrated with the women’s football team the night they won, I also felt for Trần Thị Thu, the Vietnamese player whose penalty kick was saved by Olivia McDaniels. The image of her alone on the turf, on her knees, while the Filipina goalkeeper was swarmed by jubilant teammates, stayed with me. I had been in that same position before—defeated in sports, and in life as well.
Stories connect us to events we might otherwise find uninteresting. What is SEAG to me, anyway? Why should I care? I see the medal tally on the news, but it means nothing without context. And that context is the stories within it.
Long before there were sports, there were stories. Before we were athletes and spectators, we were storymakers and storytellers.
Years from now, when I’m with friends talking about sports because we’re too busy or too hurt to play, the 33rd SEA Games may find its way into our conversations. And when that happens, we will talk about the stories, not the medals.
I know I will.
