Once upon a time, my father studied in the University of the Philippines. During his time in the said school, he played a bit of hoops, and even got a varsity team nod. He did, however, choose to focus on his studies 200% and eschew playing varsity ball. What could have been his fate had he spent more time on the hardwood as opposed to the library?
When I was a kid, I was a bit on the heavy side, and getting in shape was not easy. Even when I did lose all the weight, and learn to hold my own on the court, my dad, over 40 years old then, could still score on me one-on-one, relying on smarts as opposed to athleticism. I am not saying that I can move like a John Wall or a Lebron, but hey, I'd like to think someone 20 years younger than a "retired" baller would possess some measure of athleticism in comparison with his older counterpart.
I've grown to admire my dad for many reasons- his success in the healthcare industry, his work ethic, the discipline with which he lives his life. There is one more thing, however, that I admire about him. In his younger days, HE COULD PLAY.
I remember watching a dad's tourney in our subdivision one summer, when I was in elementary. In a game of 3on3, wherein the first to 15 points won, my father, then around 35, scored 12 out of his team's 15 points. He did so on a variety of drives, jumpers, and yes, even hookshots. During his days in medical school, inter hospital leagues were popular. I once caught my dad during a ballgame somewhere in Sta. Mesa, Metro Manila, one afternoon. I was only grade 2 then, and after 48 minutes, and a game that saw both teams score more than 140 points combined, I saw my dad score a Kobe-esque 32 points, on what seemed like around a 52% shooting clip.
At that point, I didn't care for any Samboy Lim, Allan Caidic, Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, or Isiah Thomas. To me, dad was a SUPERHERO. He was THE baller.
In his late 30s, my dad suffered a back injury that severely hampered his mobility in terms of competitive sports. The said injury rendered him bedridden and in the hospital for around 2 weeks. That scared the bananas out of me- seeing my hero down and out. I was a young kid then, and for all intents and purposes, I knew that my dad would never play the same kind of game he used to. Nevertheless, I always knew that whatever happened, my dad still could be the best guy on the court. His "working mind" was, and is, amazing. He has always excelled in everything he's set his sights on, and the same kind of drive that once allowed him to play like a pro is what has made him a winner in the game of life.
I myself am getting older now, and most times, my dad and I watch ballgames as opposed to actually playing. I, too, once upon a time, suffered a back injury after an awkward landing post-fadeaway jumper. While that hurt like hell, I oddly found room in me to chuckle. I had gotten shot with the same ailment that had once hit my father. I must have been doing something right, then!
Pound for pound, I feel like my dad's always been a better cager than me, and that if we were both the same age and at our respective athletic plateaus, he'd beat me like Dwyane Wade can posterize a Jason Smith-type, one-on-one.
Somehow, dad's proven to be so much better than me in so many ways. That is something I do not resent. Rather, I look at it as a chance to learn, and in the end, find my place in the sun.
Thanks, dad, for teaching me how to dribble, shoot jumpers and freethrows, work off screens, do layups, pretend to know how to dunk, and do drills.
Thank you, most of all, for teaching me how to live. In life's fast break, you've always managed to throw me perfect passes.
Here's to hoping I can score on transition and "win the game" for us.
Love, Your Son,
MC
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