WORKING in a newspaper, and having a wife in the Lifestyle section certainly allowed me a few perks. Like watching concerts for free.
I have very sketchy memories of Michael Jackson's concert held in 1996 at the reclaimed land along Roxas Blvd. But what stuck into my mind was the two hours it took us to park our cars. From there we walked for about 500 meters to the arena, with a few local celebrities in sight.
It was part of his HIStory world tour which stopped for one December night in Manila. Tickets were in the form of thick plastic cards with his face emblazoned on it along with the P5,000 price tag. It costed three-fold at ringside.
There was massive build up of suspense that evening as we were advised to be there 5 p.m., and the concert proper started past 8 p.m. There was no opening act. But of course, no one needed an opening act if he's the one performing.
True to hype he arrived in style. The lights went out. A space ship suddenly plopped on stage in blinding smoke. Then, he emerged. For some reason, his first number escaped me.
What I remember was he sang Billie Jean in exact MTV get-up of black sequined jacket and white shirt. Thriller in red and black. He also hang on a moving crane while singing a song I can't recall; brought out a giant globe and sang with kids as he belted Heal the World.
But he didn't sing Ben. No One Day In Your Life. No Got To Be There. The songs that made me sleep in the afternoon when we we small weren't in his repertoire that night.
Thinking about it now, I remember the few foreign acts I had the good fortune of watching.
The very first one was the Hall and Oates Unplugged at the Big Dome. I was still in college then, and that meant I had to scrimp on my baon to raise P100 that earned me a seat at the general admission. I don't know if it was just their style but Darryl Hall and John Oates didn't have any spiel, which was probably a good thing.
There wasn't even any back drop but exposed scaffoldings behind them. They just sat there on wooden boxes, acoustic guitars on hand and sang hits like Out of Touch, She's Gone, Maneater, Private Eyes one after another.
Which brought me to Phil Collins concert at the Philsports (Ultra) football field in the early 90s. Reports had it the former Genesis drummer arrived with eight trailer trucks of concert set pieces. Strangely, the whole place looked like building rooftops. He came out of one of them, and did a solo on drums as an intro.
A couple of years back, I was at the far end of that football stadium watching Barry Manilow. It was a two-night concert, the first one of which was held at the PICC which an office crush named Vangie watched. I only had enough money to watch it standing on the field. Alone.
The first song I remember very well. He started out straight to the chorus of Ready to Take a Chance Again. His Greatest Hits rang in the air one after another. But his voice was often overshadowed by the audience singing the song themselves. There were ladies crying, especially when the first strains of I Write the Songs played out.
He sang As Sure as I'm Standing Here reading the words from a paper. He said it wasn't one of his most popular and was surprised to learn that it was a big hit back here.
Now, that was one major conversation piece for me and Vangie later on as we both heard the song from a Lovingly Yours, Helen episode starring Vivian Foz and Ariosto Reyes Jr.
Thinking about it now, and totally abandoning the thread of thought I had when I started writing this blog, it felt good learning that both of us happened to be watching the same show on that same Sunday afternoon far back then.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
It was raining when summer left
I'VE read it somewhere that parents shouldn't rush to pick up the clutter on Christmas morning. That happy mess after the kids unwrapped their presents would represent just another precious family moment.
You don't throw that away quickly as it's good for another stash of memories. To be kept for tomorrow.
It had me thinking about it because today I torn down the tent in the yard. It stood there the whole summer and sheltered the girls while frolicking on the inflated pool. The pool also had to go.
I've been putting off placing them back in their respective boxes. But I admit it was because of laziness on my part as it was for sentimental reasons.
The clouds have gathered thick and heavy as I looked at them outside.
High winds and rains already ripped the tent canvass, and the lining underneath the pool had already gathered moss. They have become a lonely sight in that corner of the yard, to tell you the truth.
Yet in about eight weeks that they stood there, they played big part in the family's Summer of 09. Squirt gunfights. Halo-halo. Crushed ice wars. Videoke. Cold beer.
One by one I untied the ropes that held the tent together. By this time, big raindrops came as if in a hurry to get to the ground. I disassembled the metal posts. Piece by piece. Lifted the canvas from its joints, and folded them to the side.
It was already pouring when I get to brushing the pool. I needed to dry it first before I could deflate it, but it had be cleaned inside out. When I got to the heavy matting that was under it all this time, the rain was torrential.
I called out the kids earlier to play in the rain. They were sailing their slippers in the rushing water by the driveway. I hosed down the slippery patches. And swept away the remnants of the summer that gone by.
On that note, another season came to an end.
You don't throw that away quickly as it's good for another stash of memories. To be kept for tomorrow.
It had me thinking about it because today I torn down the tent in the yard. It stood there the whole summer and sheltered the girls while frolicking on the inflated pool. The pool also had to go.
I've been putting off placing them back in their respective boxes. But I admit it was because of laziness on my part as it was for sentimental reasons.
The clouds have gathered thick and heavy as I looked at them outside.
High winds and rains already ripped the tent canvass, and the lining underneath the pool had already gathered moss. They have become a lonely sight in that corner of the yard, to tell you the truth.
Yet in about eight weeks that they stood there, they played big part in the family's Summer of 09. Squirt gunfights. Halo-halo. Crushed ice wars. Videoke. Cold beer.
One by one I untied the ropes that held the tent together. By this time, big raindrops came as if in a hurry to get to the ground. I disassembled the metal posts. Piece by piece. Lifted the canvas from its joints, and folded them to the side.
It was already pouring when I get to brushing the pool. I needed to dry it first before I could deflate it, but it had be cleaned inside out. When I got to the heavy matting that was under it all this time, the rain was torrential.
I called out the kids earlier to play in the rain. They were sailing their slippers in the rushing water by the driveway. I hosed down the slippery patches. And swept away the remnants of the summer that gone by.
On that note, another season came to an end.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Talking about sports
My favorite author Erica Orloff once blogged about making up different excuses just not to tell people what she does for a living when in a room full of strangers.
She said it takes a lot of work explaining what she does if she tells people she's a writer than it does if she tells them she's does something else.
I relate to her completely as I encounter that same situation every once in a while. People, for some reason, tend to ask a lot of questions when they find out you're a writer. When you write about sports, that makes them doubly inquisitive.
I don't mind them thinking how cool it is covering big sporting events and then reporting them later on the big newspaper with a by-line to boot. But I swear there are people out there who challenge me with what they know about sports and then compare it with how much – or how little – I know about my supposed field of expertise.
Off hand they ask you about Pacquiao. His next fight. Cotto. Mosley. Mayweather Jr. The NBA playoffs. PBA. London Olympics. Laos SEA Games. Major League Baseball. Federer. Tiger Woods. It makes a great deal of conversation fodder when in a party among strangers. My close friends hardly ask me anything about sports when I'm with them.
Unlike her, though, I haven't gotten around to tell people I'm someone else although there are plenty of times I wish I tell them am a short-order cook instead of a sportswriter.
I got to thinking about this because Pacquiao once again redeemed the country by demolishing yet another A-list foe in Briton Ricky Hatton.
Everything has been said about the spectacular 2nd round KO win. But when the topic comes up in a gathering, it most likely get the attention of everybody in the room. Including the women in the crowd.
Suddenly it became very fashionable to know about sports. So here are my advise to people who want to brush up on their ``sports smarts.''
1.The best pound-for-pound boxer in the world only means the most successful fighter across the board who normally competes with the lightweight to welterweight categories.
2.Pacquiao doesn't own a single title belt outside of the WBO welterweight crown he wrested from Hatton. WBO is second-rate compared to the more prestigious WBA, WBC and IBF, which nowadays are dismissed as just ``alphabet titles'' because the real big fights are those that command big pay-per-view buys – like that of Pacquiao's.
3.Tiger Woods is generally acknowledged as the greatest who ever played golf. There are four majors in golf: US Masters, PGA Tour, British Open and US Open where Kevin Costner's character in Tin Cup competed.
4.Federer is just three Grand Slam titles away of beating Pete Sampras' 14 titles. There are four Grand Slam events: French Open, Wimbledon, US Open and Australian Open. There is only one Filipino who won a Grand Slam (Nino Alcantara who won doubles in the Australian Open juniors early this year).
5.Deuce in tennis means a tied score after 40-all. Ace means a serve that wasn't returned. In baseball ace means the top pitcher for a team. In golf, ace means hole-in-one.
6.A baseball game is played on a diamond which is sometimes called a ballpark. The one who throws the ball is called the pitcher, while the person who holds the bat is, well, the batter, while the catcher is the guy with a grill mask behind him. There are nine players per team in a single game of baseball. A single game is normally made up of nine innings.
7.There are 90 minutes in a soccer game or football. Football, and not basketball, is the most popular game in the world. David Beckham plays right midfield and is usually the guy who runs the play similar to a pointguard in basketball. Eleven players are in the field at any given game including the guy who man the goal who is called the goalie.
8.The Philippines has not won a single gold medal in the Olympics but we had two silvers before. Neighbors like Thailand, Hong Kong, Malaysian, Indonesia and even Singapore each have a gold medal already.
9.A perfect game in bowling means scoring 300 pinfalls – not points – which means he or she had 12 (not 10) strikes in a single line. Paeng Nepomuceno is a Hall-of-Famer in the sport and has four other Guinness Book of Records for his achievements. He's a lefty.
10.Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France seven times and is found to have lung capacity double to that of an average person.
Given the chance, I'd rather leave the game analysis to the guy next to me, and reserve mine for the day's story quota.
She said it takes a lot of work explaining what she does if she tells people she's a writer than it does if she tells them she's does something else.
I relate to her completely as I encounter that same situation every once in a while. People, for some reason, tend to ask a lot of questions when they find out you're a writer. When you write about sports, that makes them doubly inquisitive.
I don't mind them thinking how cool it is covering big sporting events and then reporting them later on the big newspaper with a by-line to boot. But I swear there are people out there who challenge me with what they know about sports and then compare it with how much – or how little – I know about my supposed field of expertise.
Off hand they ask you about Pacquiao. His next fight. Cotto. Mosley. Mayweather Jr. The NBA playoffs. PBA. London Olympics. Laos SEA Games. Major League Baseball. Federer. Tiger Woods. It makes a great deal of conversation fodder when in a party among strangers. My close friends hardly ask me anything about sports when I'm with them.
Unlike her, though, I haven't gotten around to tell people I'm someone else although there are plenty of times I wish I tell them am a short-order cook instead of a sportswriter.
I got to thinking about this because Pacquiao once again redeemed the country by demolishing yet another A-list foe in Briton Ricky Hatton.
Everything has been said about the spectacular 2nd round KO win. But when the topic comes up in a gathering, it most likely get the attention of everybody in the room. Including the women in the crowd.
Suddenly it became very fashionable to know about sports. So here are my advise to people who want to brush up on their ``sports smarts.''
1.The best pound-for-pound boxer in the world only means the most successful fighter across the board who normally competes with the lightweight to welterweight categories.
2.Pacquiao doesn't own a single title belt outside of the WBO welterweight crown he wrested from Hatton. WBO is second-rate compared to the more prestigious WBA, WBC and IBF, which nowadays are dismissed as just ``alphabet titles'' because the real big fights are those that command big pay-per-view buys – like that of Pacquiao's.
3.Tiger Woods is generally acknowledged as the greatest who ever played golf. There are four majors in golf: US Masters, PGA Tour, British Open and US Open where Kevin Costner's character in Tin Cup competed.
4.Federer is just three Grand Slam titles away of beating Pete Sampras' 14 titles. There are four Grand Slam events: French Open, Wimbledon, US Open and Australian Open. There is only one Filipino who won a Grand Slam (Nino Alcantara who won doubles in the Australian Open juniors early this year).
5.Deuce in tennis means a tied score after 40-all. Ace means a serve that wasn't returned. In baseball ace means the top pitcher for a team. In golf, ace means hole-in-one.
6.A baseball game is played on a diamond which is sometimes called a ballpark. The one who throws the ball is called the pitcher, while the person who holds the bat is, well, the batter, while the catcher is the guy with a grill mask behind him. There are nine players per team in a single game of baseball. A single game is normally made up of nine innings.
7.There are 90 minutes in a soccer game or football. Football, and not basketball, is the most popular game in the world. David Beckham plays right midfield and is usually the guy who runs the play similar to a pointguard in basketball. Eleven players are in the field at any given game including the guy who man the goal who is called the goalie.
8.The Philippines has not won a single gold medal in the Olympics but we had two silvers before. Neighbors like Thailand, Hong Kong, Malaysian, Indonesia and even Singapore each have a gold medal already.
9.A perfect game in bowling means scoring 300 pinfalls – not points – which means he or she had 12 (not 10) strikes in a single line. Paeng Nepomuceno is a Hall-of-Famer in the sport and has four other Guinness Book of Records for his achievements. He's a lefty.
10.Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France seven times and is found to have lung capacity double to that of an average person.
Given the chance, I'd rather leave the game analysis to the guy next to me, and reserve mine for the day's story quota.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Christmas is a two-edged sword
THE HOLIDAYS work both ways.
I did a lot of thinking about the coming Christmas and New Year while staying at home with the kids. (And when you're left alone with the kids, you get to think about lot of things). And I'm convinced Holidays make you happy only if you're already happy. When you feel miserable, they only make things worse.
Think about it. It's like having a drink. After a few bottles, it's either you feel bliss, or crap. One makes you feel even better, the other makes you cross to the dark side.
Lt. Dan explained it without saying a word in Forrest Gump. When in the din of New Year's Eve revelry at a bar filled with merry-makers, he sat there frozen – tinsel and confetti trapped in his hair – and remembered that he's still a forgotten soldier who lost his feet in the war.
Well my sad theory has nothing to do with what I'm writing now, except that it also concerns the Holidays.
In the process of this year's gift-giving chores, Vangie informed me that I have a grand total of 32 godchildren. Quite a feat, if you ask me, though I know someone from office who has more than 50 of them.
I have 13 girls and 19 boys. The oldest two are already 18 years old. I was their age when they were baptized. The youngest is three. That means nobody asked me to become their kid's ninong for the past three years. I still don't have wedding godchildren.
Vangie has about the same number of godchildren as mine (we are both ninong and ninang to one boy whose mother we helped rushed to the hospital to give birth to him). She keeps track of the children's ages, but even then things get mixed up once in a while.
One particular year, I inadvertently gifted a god-son kiddie basketball goal with plastic ball. Turned out he's already in his teens by then.
Then only a few years ago, I gave one of my god-sons pink, embroidered cheong-sam. It's because I didn't ask the boys' parents – who are our officemates – what's their kids' gender and instead asked a fellow ninong who also didn't attend the baptism.
Like the past few Holidays, we have prepared our Holiday attire this year. We have started a small family tradition to wear identical shirts on either Christmas or New Year. It's not as expensive as our previous get-ups, but something I expect to draw attention no less. Because it has our picture emblazoned on its front.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Horror movies that actually scare you
ONE evening on the long drive home, I asked Vangie which type of horror movies scares her most. Maybe it's because a couple of days back we watched Kulam, a movie whose screenplay was written by one of our close friends.
Well I find the movie entertaining. Made in the same vein as the so-called Asian horror genre, which packs lot of surprises at every turn, and cashes in on strong sound effects and straightforward editing.
All through the movie, I was trying to recall if there are scenes that I may have been familiar with. Something its writer Elmer may have already told me back when we were killing long hours in between subjects at UST. Even back then, I knew he is a prolific writer.
But back to that conversation I was having with my wife.
Quickly she rattled off the movies that made her scream in horror while watching them,``Sukob...Fung Shui...Sixth Sense.''
For her, the presence of a murderous beast like that in Sukob is most frightening. The chase along dark, narrow alleys. Dimlit stairways. And the image of a grotesque, violent being gaining slowly on the hapless victim causes her fear worse than anything else.
Then she mentioned Evil Dead, the movie with zombies storming into a house whose occupants were dumb enough to keep another undead down its basement. That is also in my list.
But my idea of scary movie is different from her altogether.
I dread the movies which jolts you silly (The Eye). With evil spirits (Exorcist). Or a character who in the early part of the movie used to be stable but is slowly losing his or her mind as the story goes (The Shining).
There's a scene in The Eye where a disturbed ghost jumped straight at the main character because she was sitting at her favorite seat. Before that movie, ghosts generally scare people by just standing there. Here, they not only join people in elevator rides, they also attack. That scared the hell out of me.
But nothing beats the girl who throws up in Sixth Sense. The moment the boy turned on his flashlight inside his makeshift tent – and discovered he's got company – I let out a loud, primal scream. Something that I think if I kept inside me, would cause terrible damage to my health.
I was just warming up with several more films up my sleeves, when Vangie suddenly cut me and asked me to stop.
It's scaring her already.
Well I find the movie entertaining. Made in the same vein as the so-called Asian horror genre, which packs lot of surprises at every turn, and cashes in on strong sound effects and straightforward editing.
All through the movie, I was trying to recall if there are scenes that I may have been familiar with. Something its writer Elmer may have already told me back when we were killing long hours in between subjects at UST. Even back then, I knew he is a prolific writer.
But back to that conversation I was having with my wife.
Quickly she rattled off the movies that made her scream in horror while watching them,``Sukob...Fung Shui...Sixth Sense.''
For her, the presence of a murderous beast like that in Sukob is most frightening. The chase along dark, narrow alleys. Dimlit stairways. And the image of a grotesque, violent being gaining slowly on the hapless victim causes her fear worse than anything else.
Then she mentioned Evil Dead, the movie with zombies storming into a house whose occupants were dumb enough to keep another undead down its basement. That is also in my list.
But my idea of scary movie is different from her altogether.
I dread the movies which jolts you silly (The Eye). With evil spirits (Exorcist). Or a character who in the early part of the movie used to be stable but is slowly losing his or her mind as the story goes (The Shining).
There's a scene in The Eye where a disturbed ghost jumped straight at the main character because she was sitting at her favorite seat. Before that movie, ghosts generally scare people by just standing there. Here, they not only join people in elevator rides, they also attack. That scared the hell out of me.
But nothing beats the girl who throws up in Sixth Sense. The moment the boy turned on his flashlight inside his makeshift tent – and discovered he's got company – I let out a loud, primal scream. Something that I think if I kept inside me, would cause terrible damage to my health.
I was just warming up with several more films up my sleeves, when Vangie suddenly cut me and asked me to stop.
It's scaring her already.
Badminton kung fu style
DOES anybody remember Chinese movies on Sunday mornings when we were kids? Unlike nowadays, they were not dubbed in English or Filipino back then. And the subtitles were, painfully, still in Chinese. It's like knowing something is going on but they just won't let you in.
Well for the most part, they are Kung Fu movies. Masters and students. The master teaches every fighting style he knows, but ends up getting killed by his student – who molds his own style to match that of his master.
I thought about it now while preparing for a badminton tournament. I took up the sport a few years ago, and after a while I convinced several of my friends to play it also. One of them is Volt, my friend from way back.
Because he started out playing with me, he somehow mastered my moves. And much to my dismay, he developed a perfect antidote against my style. Somehow, he knows when I'm hitting a smash or flicking a drop shot corner of the net just by looking at how I arched my arms.
My fancy for that feathery crosscourt net shot just won't work against him anymore. Now I have a hard time winning against him.
Well, last Saturday our paths crossed once again. We went against each other with separate partners.
We won first set, 21-12, something that surprised me because I was expecting a lot of fight from him and his partner who is an advanced player among females in their lineup.
There were a lot of spots in defense, and the returns are just a tad short of the usual, allowing us perfect opportunities to place our shots. Second set, they showed some pride. With us leading 18-14, they raced back and tied the score.
That was major test of character and, if it were actually a Kung Fu movie, that's the part where the students taunt the master, by saying ``you think you can beat me huh?!
Well in fairness to Volt and his partner, they didn't say any word to that effect. Instead, they silently worked their way out of the hole, firing well-placed shots while me and my partner frantically attempted to stop the bleeding.
A deep lob shot to the left corner box made it 19-18 in their favor, but I flicked a drop shot to the right to make it even. My partner served, Volt once again lifted it to my back-hand. I got ahead of the shuttlecock and lifted it back. They missed.
We served. Long rally took place. But it was clear our rivals' partnership still lacked seasons. They lined up in attacking position to the left, and match-point fell like a burning arrow to the unguarded side of their court.
Well for the most part, they are Kung Fu movies. Masters and students. The master teaches every fighting style he knows, but ends up getting killed by his student – who molds his own style to match that of his master.
I thought about it now while preparing for a badminton tournament. I took up the sport a few years ago, and after a while I convinced several of my friends to play it also. One of them is Volt, my friend from way back.
Because he started out playing with me, he somehow mastered my moves. And much to my dismay, he developed a perfect antidote against my style. Somehow, he knows when I'm hitting a smash or flicking a drop shot corner of the net just by looking at how I arched my arms.
My fancy for that feathery crosscourt net shot just won't work against him anymore. Now I have a hard time winning against him.
Well, last Saturday our paths crossed once again. We went against each other with separate partners.
We won first set, 21-12, something that surprised me because I was expecting a lot of fight from him and his partner who is an advanced player among females in their lineup.
There were a lot of spots in defense, and the returns are just a tad short of the usual, allowing us perfect opportunities to place our shots. Second set, they showed some pride. With us leading 18-14, they raced back and tied the score.
That was major test of character and, if it were actually a Kung Fu movie, that's the part where the students taunt the master, by saying ``you think you can beat me huh?!
Well in fairness to Volt and his partner, they didn't say any word to that effect. Instead, they silently worked their way out of the hole, firing well-placed shots while me and my partner frantically attempted to stop the bleeding.
A deep lob shot to the left corner box made it 19-18 in their favor, but I flicked a drop shot to the right to make it even. My partner served, Volt once again lifted it to my back-hand. I got ahead of the shuttlecock and lifted it back. They missed.
We served. Long rally took place. But it was clear our rivals' partnership still lacked seasons. They lined up in attacking position to the left, and match-point fell like a burning arrow to the unguarded side of their court.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Ateneo-La Salle: dream match, nightmare coverage
NEWS from the internet: A patron seat for the Ateneo-La Salle UAAP finals game fetched P25,000 from ebay. If I'm not mistaken a Big Dome ticket that close to the action is worth P500 at face value, but its prices get to soar to crazy heights during the games featuring the two rival schools.
I've had a chance to cover a few games pitting the Blue Eagles and the Green Archers in the past – they've only fought for the crown three times since I became a sportswriter, 2003, 2004 and this year. The previous championship duel they had in 1988 I watched as an AB freshman at UST.
But I hardly enjoyed covering it, though. Parking is hell. When you get inside the backgate of the Araneta, there are long queues to the entrance. They check your name from a master list, cross it out, put an access pass around your wrist, and stamp you with it.
There is rowdy crowd even inside the press room, and getting into the press row (the place at ringside supposed to be reserved for us) is impossible because all big-shots, like senators, congressmen, sports officials, from the two schools already occupy it.
Almost always, we cover the game slumped on the floor underneath the goal. Mind you, that is something that could work for our advantage because we could easily slip outside into the working area after the final buzzer before the crowd collapses onto the players heading into the exits.
If you're a new reporter, it would be hard not to get overwhelmed by those ``big event'' matches, especially if you came from the two schools. But since I didn't, I have no problem with it.
Well the reason I thought of it was that while I was discussing the finals (which landed on Inquirer page 1 by sheer magnitude) with Vangie on the way home, she asked if I fancy covering a game that practically everybody is talking about.
So I gave her a piece of my mind regarding my kind of basketball coverage.
Given the choice, I would prefer to cover a lopsided game between the least popular teams in the league. That readily assures peace and quiet. You can park anywhere you want, the ticket ushers you graciously inside, and airconditioning works better.
``You still have to cover the games, right?''
Well, the kind of game I'd love to cover must have double-digit leads that keeps growing. Players are not defending anymore, and it was open-court, fastbreaking game all throughout. There are vast stretches of empty seats; bleachers are no man's land; and both teams have nothing more to lose as they are already closing out a bad season.
``But nobody cares about that kind of game.''
Precisely. But I still have to stay until the final buzzer to make sure no players died during the game.
``Do you still keep scores?''
Of course, I watch the first three quarters on the TV monitor inside the press room to make sure I get the biggest lead, who scored that basket and at what point of the game it was scored. But otherwise, coverage will be a walk in the park. I take my own sweet time to the snack bar and get pizza and coke. Greet people. Surf the internet. Make some calls. Text a friend.
``That must get your adrenalin pumping.''
Then, at the start of the fourth period, I go out to take my place in the deserted press box. All clear and no distraction at all. If the lead keeps getting bigger, the better. That would give me enough time to write my story ahead of time. You don't want endgame dramatics in this kind of coverage.
I've had a chance to cover a few games pitting the Blue Eagles and the Green Archers in the past – they've only fought for the crown three times since I became a sportswriter, 2003, 2004 and this year. The previous championship duel they had in 1988 I watched as an AB freshman at UST.
But I hardly enjoyed covering it, though. Parking is hell. When you get inside the backgate of the Araneta, there are long queues to the entrance. They check your name from a master list, cross it out, put an access pass around your wrist, and stamp you with it.
There is rowdy crowd even inside the press room, and getting into the press row (the place at ringside supposed to be reserved for us) is impossible because all big-shots, like senators, congressmen, sports officials, from the two schools already occupy it.
Almost always, we cover the game slumped on the floor underneath the goal. Mind you, that is something that could work for our advantage because we could easily slip outside into the working area after the final buzzer before the crowd collapses onto the players heading into the exits.
If you're a new reporter, it would be hard not to get overwhelmed by those ``big event'' matches, especially if you came from the two schools. But since I didn't, I have no problem with it.
Well the reason I thought of it was that while I was discussing the finals (which landed on Inquirer page 1 by sheer magnitude) with Vangie on the way home, she asked if I fancy covering a game that practically everybody is talking about.
So I gave her a piece of my mind regarding my kind of basketball coverage.
Given the choice, I would prefer to cover a lopsided game between the least popular teams in the league. That readily assures peace and quiet. You can park anywhere you want, the ticket ushers you graciously inside, and airconditioning works better.
``You still have to cover the games, right?''
Well, the kind of game I'd love to cover must have double-digit leads that keeps growing. Players are not defending anymore, and it was open-court, fastbreaking game all throughout. There are vast stretches of empty seats; bleachers are no man's land; and both teams have nothing more to lose as they are already closing out a bad season.
``But nobody cares about that kind of game.''
Precisely. But I still have to stay until the final buzzer to make sure no players died during the game.
``Do you still keep scores?''
Of course, I watch the first three quarters on the TV monitor inside the press room to make sure I get the biggest lead, who scored that basket and at what point of the game it was scored. But otherwise, coverage will be a walk in the park. I take my own sweet time to the snack bar and get pizza and coke. Greet people. Surf the internet. Make some calls. Text a friend.
``That must get your adrenalin pumping.''
Then, at the start of the fourth period, I go out to take my place in the deserted press box. All clear and no distraction at all. If the lead keeps getting bigger, the better. That would give me enough time to write my story ahead of time. You don't want endgame dramatics in this kind of coverage.
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