“LET’s have a league pass subscription.”
My wife made the offer, while I was watching NBA game replays on YouTube.
It was very sweet of her to offer me the chance to watch games online as they happen, without looking for pirate broadcasts on Facebook or Telegram.
But it was a quick “No” answer. The decline was sure and firm, you would think the offer was made to someone who didn’t like basketball.
Or to someone who doesn’t like basketball anymore.
It was a surprising realization for me, as I consider myself a die-hard basketball fan.
Basketball is life for me, even before the phrase became a popular credo plastered on t-shirts and social media posts.
Basketball time is every time I have time, free from household chores, errands, and schooling. Such was my enthusiasm for basketball that I don’t care if I play wearing black leather shoes and school pants. I always looked forward to the intramurals when I was still a student and sportsfests when I started working.
I don’t care if I have to wake up as early as 4:00 a.m. just to secure a spot for one game. I will risk getting sunburnt from playing basketball under the midday sun on courts without roofs and being scolded by my parents with the same spiel I’ve heard more than once: Inuuna mo pa yang basketball na yan!
I made do with whatever basketball game was available on local channels during the time we didn’t have cable at home. And it was a big deal watching the PBA live at the Araneta Coliseum. For that, I thanked my father, who made it happen using his contacts and privileges as a sports photographer.
Playing basketball and watching basketball made me a die-hard fan—of the sport and Michael Jordan and Alvin Patrimonio. During the time I was forming my own identity, basketball was a big part of who I am. I love basketball and I became good at it.
I remember when I was in my 20s, when I regularly played with men old enough to be my grandfather, and I thought to myself: I’ll play basketball until I die.
I didn’t account for my being a husband and a father, the rigors of a career and other endeavors, gouty arthritis, and the many other big changes in life you seldom notice happen, not until you surprise yourself one day by declining the offer of a loved one to pay for the privileges of being able to watch NBA games on the internet.
Is the die-hard fan dead?
I don’t know.
All I know is watching basketball doesn’t interest me as much as it used to. This is the cost of lost fanship, I think. After MJ and The Captain retired, I was never the same die-hard fan for another PBA or NBA player. I can’t remember the last time I watched the PBA, and when I watch the NBA, it is mostly because there is nothing else to do. I felt like a stateless wanderer, watching basketball games just to see 10 players go through the motions, rooting for no one to win, and it is a terrible feeling.
Playing basketball became less frequent. You start to miss the Saturday schedules until you stop going altogether. Sometimes, you get that rare itch to shoot some hoops, so you join a group that regularly plays, sure that your commitment is only on a “when-I-feel-like-it” basis, and there is no obligation to be present all the time.
You have very little time for basketball and with equally little motivation to play. But it is about to get worse when aches and pains become a regular reminder that your body is no longer as strong and youthful as it used to be.
Despite my gout flare-ups becoming more and more frequent, I still put the effort into playing basketball—taped ankles, knee support, compression sleeves, and 120 mg of Arcoxia the day before a game often does the trick.
But now that I am slower and the least likely pick to complete a competitive five on the floor, I find my enthusiasm ebbing away. I force myself to accept the role I am fit to play given my limitations, but pragmatic as this is as an outlook, I find little joy running up and down the court as someone who has very little usefulness.
The only remaining motivation to show up is getting amazing action shots from the tournament photographer so that I can post something nice on Facebook and Instagram as I document my personal farewell tour of the sport I once so dearly and passionately loved.
Isn’t it somewhat ironic how someone who is die-hard could so easily die? Or is it simply inevitable—no degree of admiration or love is immortal in the face of circumstances that will change you whether you like it or not?
If the die-hard is dead, you have to live with it.
I recently came across a word that is new to me: eremition. It means “the act of gradually withdrawing from the lives of others to seek solitude and renewal.”
Whatever relationship I have with basketball, I am sure without any doubt that I am slowly withdrawing from it.
Certain, and saddened.
I stand at the harbor looking at the ship sailing seaward, knowing it will never return. It will never come back for that one mid-40s guy who chose to be left behind.