January 2009 Archives

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine WATCHING wrestling was how we bonded with my father when we were growing up. I remember how on Saturday nights, he’d pull up an armchair directly in front of our black and white set, turn the channel to wrestling and loudly egg on the contenders like he were in a cockpit, which was in fact where he was on Sunday afternoons. Released from our house chores, us girls eagerly watched from the sidelines, taking our cue from the paterfamilias and rooting for this guy with feathers on his head and Apache markings on his face. Meek and poker-faced, the native American character definitely provided the perfect foil against his blustery Yankee foe. Bullied, bamboozled and bent every which way, the Apache took all the punishment quietly until the very last round. It was then that he would suddenly regain his mojos and with a few well-executed throws, have the muscled Kano lying face down on the canvas and howling with pain as his legs were being twisted into fancy shapes. As the referee tapped the requisite three counts, the Apache would execute this rain dance we often saw on cartoons, complete with the mouth-tapping woh-woh-woh victory whoop. Sometimes we’d even mime the dance and the war whoop, and would erupt in cheers when the referee raised the Apache’s arm to declare him winner. It didn’t matter that we were practically watching the same routine on weekends, only with slight variations on the wrestling techniques or the get-up of the contenders. It didn’t matter either when, many many years later, we would learn that the brash antics, the suicidal leaps on the enemy’s chest, the heart-thumping kicks to the groin, the pretzel twists to the legs and the blue-face inducing headlock were all staged. More than a modern-day gladiator fight, it was mere entertainment—a well-choreographed series of moves and blockings meant to fan the illusion of a spontaneous streetfight. Actually, knowing it was only for show made it better. At least nobody got hurt, the squeamish me thought, smiling benignly when the son, two generations later, superglued himself to the TV to root for Batista, Guerrero and all these steroid-swollen heroes of the square ring. Of course this was before some wrestlers died in their sleep-- from overdose of those prescription drugs that are meant to make them look beefier, meaner and therefore, more appealing to us sanguine viewers. Most people probably feel the same way about boxing and its many heroes. But while I loved wrestling, I can’t stand boxing. All that blood! And those half-shut swollen eyes curtained by a steady stream of blood flowing from a cracked brow. Most boxers are also so skinny and malnourished you just know they’re in a life or death battle every time they pull on their boxing gloves. It doesn’t help that we’ve heard so many heartbreak stories of small-town boxers who died in pursuit of glory in a sport that they saw as their only way out of poverty. After all, unlike basketball, another national passion, one didn’t have to be tall to ride victorious in boxing. So many scrawny probinsyanos have made it, so why not them? Which explains why I’ve recently had a change of heart for Pacman. I remember studiously avoiding his fights on TV, closeting myself in the room and reading a book or scanning my mobile for the much awaited text message. Yup, there it is: the result of the boxing bout, courtesy of friends from the US who were watching it live or a local boxing aficionado who has access to Pay Per View. Holding aloft the phone, I’d sally forth to the sala where the menfolk were huddled, cursing the endless chain of commercials and making dire predictions as to what round Pacman’s foe would kiss the canvass. “Alright! Round 8, by knockout…the winner, Manny Paaac-quiiiiiiiaaaaaoooo!” I would announce gleefully, to the collective hiss of the male viewers. From then on, everytime I emerged from the room during a Pacman bout—whether to take a leak or make some coffee—the hubby and his friends would quickly cover their ears and shut their eyes, mentally banishing this spoiler into hell. Well, this time around, while I still didn’t watch the fistorama on TV, I desisted from my usual role of pre-empting the results of the bout. I wanted the guys to savor the full glory of the Pacman win when it finally happens before their eyes. So many nay-sayers were against this match, a mismatch they said, but the puny prizefighter from GenSan ignored them and went on to demolish the heftier Mexican-American. How and why the country now regards Pacman as a national hero is the theme of this Sunday’s Inquirer Magazine. Let me again be a spoiler and tell you what’s inside the issue: the story of Pancho Villa, the Pinoy legend before Pacman; an excellent essay by Francis Ochoa (who covered the Pacquiao-De La Hoya Las Vegas match) on why Manny matters; fearless predictions on the next Pacman; a feature on Pooh-quiao, a literal punchline to the boxer’s serious business; how Pacquiao’s boxing shorts makes money; why more women are taking to the sport, starting with the daughters and heirs of Flash Elorde, and much more. I probably won’t still be watching boxing anytime soon, but I remember cheering this issue on and becoming a Pacman fan overnight. Credit it to the surge of pride and the international respect that this former bakery worker has given us Pinoys, literally grabbing it with his fists. It’s a knockout issue, promise!

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine OF all the different incarnations of basketball players, it is the scorer that captures the fancy of fans the easiest. Now, some fans have a soft spot for hardcore hustlers--those who dive for every loose ball--also known as energy guys while others like stoppers--lockdown defenders usually assigned to a team's best shooter--but everybody likes someone who leads the box scores. The most interesting place to see scorers in action in Philippine basketball is in the college leagues, because scorers are encouraged to score more and more in the hopes of outscoring the other team in an all-out arms race. They will learn to defend much later on, preferably when they turn pro. It is thus when they're in the UAAP or the NCAA when we see these players waxing brightest. Yet even among these ultimate weapons on the collegiate hardcourt, there are various classifications: 1) The Bombers--Perhaps the prototypical college scorers, longbombers are shooters, perimeter players who are deadshots from beyond the college arcs. Not only can these shooters spread out the offense and keep defenders from crowding the middle, but, in the zone-defense world of college hoops, can actually score with impunity if left unmolested. And most of them can hit long toms even with a double-team, often with a form that is impeccable. The three-point shot is always the best option. The University of the East's James Yap is today's prototype, a jump-shooter with killer range, the telegenic evolved form of previous UE hitman Alan Caidic. De La Salle University's Ren-Ren Ritualo is another player who uses screens immensely well. Far Eastern University's Arwind Santos is a rangy player with slam dunk capability, but his primary weapon of choice remains the rainbow jumper. College of Saint Benilde's Sunday Salvacion, National University's Lordy Tugade, University of the Visayas' Elmer Cabahug and Mapua Institute of Technology's Freddie Hubalde are representative of this wave. 2) The Pure Scorers—These players can score on a wider variety, somehow always finding a way to do it. Disciplined and determined, they are usually very nimble and can shoot from the outside, drive and draw fouls with ease, leading to free throws. They come in all sizes, but the perfect example is Mapua Institue of Technology's slippery Forunato "Atoy" Co, who could score in every conceivable way, throughout her career. Other examples are San Beda's elusive Elmer Reyes, Colegio de San Juan de Letran's Genesis "Donking" Sasuman, Adamson's long-limbed Kenneth Duremdes, Lyceum's Gary David and Ateneo's metronomic Ritchie Ticzon. This class is home to the scoring point guard, represented by the likes of La Salle's Mike Cortez, Philippine Christian University's Jason Castro, Manuel L. Quezon Un iversity's Wynne Arboleda and FEU's Gerry Esplana. 3) "WTF" scorers: A sub-classification of the Pure Scorer, these indefatigable players don't have a classic form or a prototypical game, but instead can score easily with the most mind-blowing array of shots. You never see the ball coming, with baskets scored off acrobatic twists, quarter-court hooks and even end-of-shotclock heaves. The top exemplar is without a doubt Green Archer Mac Cardona, who has the most unusual form but also the most unstoppable game. Jose Rizal University's Ernani Epondulan is a jitterbug points machine who creates shots out of thin air. What makes them different is that they score with numbing regularity despite their unorthodox skill set. Long-armed Jun Jabar of Southwestern University, University of Baguio's Jubn Marzan and Dennis Abbatuan are two other players who score without any probable reason. 4) The Showmen: Another sub-class of the Pure Scorer, the Showman does not score as much all the time but can demoralize opponents simply by scoring a crazy layup against five players. Very dangerous in crunch time, though also injury prone, they are top attractions on their teams. They have the flashy monikers to go with the flashy game. Letran's Samboy "The Skywalker" Lim is the all-time premier avatar. JRU's Vergel "The Aerial Voyager" Meneses, Ateneo's JC "The Baby Rocket" Intal, UST's Cyrus "Skyrus" Baguio, San Sebastian College-Recoletos' Paul "Mr. Excitement" Alvarez and University of the Philippines' Nestor "Nestorminator" David channel him. 5) Big Men: Dump the ball into the behemoth waiting in the paint and wait for two points. These muscular centers and power forwards take up a lot of space and some have low post moves to flummox the defender. When all else fails, a quick lob pass and you've got a dunk. Usually not very good free-throw shooters, so there's a lot of fouling down low with the game on the line. Adamson's Ken Bono, Ateneo's Rico Villanueva, UP's Benjie Paras, UE's Jerry Codinera, La Salle's Don Allado, National University's Danny Ildefonso are representative of this class. 6) Multitaskers: Both University of Santo Tomas center Dennis Espino, PCU's Gabby Espinas and Perpetual Help's Bong Hawkins are peculiar specimen in the sense that, while they are big men and good scorers, they are skilled finesse players, a throwback to the days of do-it-all bigs Mon Fernandez of University of San Carlos and Abet Guidaben of University of San Jose-Recoletos. Of all the multitaskers, the classic model is MIT's Alvin Patrimonio, who can score, rebound, defend and pass with an unprecedented efficiency. 7) Perimeter Bigs: An even more unusual sub-group is the perimeter-proficient big man, usually centers and power forwards taller than 6'5" with amazing strokes from beyond 18 feet. Exhibit A are the De Ocampo brothers, Yancy and Ranidel, from St. Francis of Assisi. JRU's Manny Victorino had a killer mid-range game, though he never got as far out as the three-point line because it was counter-intuitive in those days to do so. Letran's Allan Salansang is a more recent version. Read about James Yap in the January 25, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine NO, it’s not just those doomsday scenarios that got me thinking this isn’t going to be a good year all around. People, it seems, don’t even want to keep track of the days and weeks and months ahead. How do I know this? Well, I didn’t receive a single wall calendar this year. And neither have most of my friends, assorted relatives, and I bet the whole barangay. Yup, for the better part of this month, the usual, “Huyy!” (hurled with a brisk upward tilt of the chin) or “Good morning po” has been replaced by the ingratiating, “Kumusta po? May kalendaryo ba?” Indeed, in our tiny flood-prone community, we used to dispense calendars like an Ecstasy addict blowing kisses. Our household would be swimming in calendars days before Christmas, as would the SIM office. As my associate ed Ruey used to say, you couldn't swing a cat by its tail without hitting a frigging rolled up calendar around here. But now, zero. As in nil. Nada. Zilch! Not one of those giant calendars from Star Paper Mills whose detailed record of the daily tides spells salvation for us sea creatures in Malabon. None of those homely calendars from Mercury Drug that has monthly discount coupons for all sorts of medication, nor those glossy calendars of pristine beaches and tufted castles that PAL used to give away, complete with a desk calendar of the same romantic destinations. Yes, after years of describing them as visual disasters, we’ve also began to miss the cluttered calendars from the National Disaster Coordinating Council that were surely designed with jeepney art in mind. And what about those tasteful Globe wall calendars that featured the zen-inspired photographs of Don Jaime Zobel and printed on plyboard so smooth and sturdy we were loath to throw them away at year’s end? Why, I even miss those religious calendars that have the Holy Family, the Sacred Heart, or the Mother of Perpetual Help looking at me reproachfully, as if these sacred icons know how we’d occasionally christen family and friends with the improbable names of saints printed on every square. Even gas stations have gone miserly, with gasoline boys looking away when asked about their annual gesture of goodwill to gas-guzzlers. Sure we got a few diaries, leather-bound notebooks eagerly awaiting our list of appointments and to-do lists. But it’s not the same. These function more as private journals or confessionals, handy repository of heady info and sensitive stuff like our PIN, SSS number, voter’s ID number, last month’s Meralco billing, the balance in our ATM, current weight to waistline ratio, etc. Definitely not for public consumption. Now about those wall calendars. Flamboyantly arrayed over our dining table, the calendar of choice for the year often becomes the center of family conversation. "Lunes pala ang birthday ni Papa," the hubby might say. "Uy, 930 ang high tide bukas. We have to leave early," the son would suggest. And moi, ever parsimonious, would scrutinize the inventory of household items that I usually list on the calendar and would say something like, "Teeka, three weeks pa lang yung LPG natin, ubos na? Are you sure hindi half-enpty yung delivery nila?" And so on. Indeed, the calendar has now evolved from a mere reference for dates to remember into Everyman and Everywoman's confidante, handy planner, memory juggler, accessible wall art, etc. For the record, here's a list of how most people have made this item indispensable to quality of life: 1. For better vacations. "Let's see now. Holy Week this year falls on the first week of April. Can we schedule that Bora trip before that so we don't join the horde?" 2. For better relationships. "There now: Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, wedding anniversary, birthday, date when we first met. All circled in red so I don't forget. Can't risk sleeping in the doghouse again," the beleaguered hubby might say. (Of course if it were up to us Women of a Certain Age, we'd expunge all calendars of our birth dates. We can certainly afford to miss two or three of those danged birthdays). 3. For flood (and car) survival. "High tide at 6:30 a.m.; gotta leave the house by 5. Low tide at 11 pm. Great, I can have the car washed early tonight." 4. For smaller families. Devout Catholics would rather use natural contraception, otherwise known as the calendar method. Guess why, 5. For stronger libido. "Naked nymphets on Tanduay Rum and Ginebra San Miguel calendars. Time to go to that Happy Place inside my room!" 6. For stronger sales. Think sari-sari stores and the aforementioned hard drinks calendar tacked on their outside wall. 7. The better to collect. "Let's see, my paluwagan share is due on the 15th. And yes, Tentay borrowed P500 due on the 10th." 8. Better aesthetics and better dreams. How many of us can really say we've got Sharon Cuneta--or Marian Rivera or Ara Mina-- in our bedroom and smiling down at us every night? 9. Better conscience. So what do you do with old calendars? Recycle them, of course. Cut them up into little squares and use the blank backside for those phone messages you get all day. 10. A better taskmaster. Nothing stimulates the brain cells better than those picturesque views of faraway places. "Got to save up, got to save up, got to save up and go," I tell myself as I wrestle with writer's block and impending deadlines. Of course, not having received any travel-worthy calendar this year, I now have the perfect excuse for missing deadlines. So there. For more changes this year--radical or otherwise--check out the Jan. 11 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine. Free! with your copy of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine MALCOLM Gladwell redefined the discussion about radical change in his first book, "The Tipping Point," a massively enjoyable and enlightening read. What that book also reminded me of was a long-standing debate I've had with myself regarding the nature of change inherent in the life of a person. You see, there are people whose lives change subtly and steadily over a period of time, so steadily that most other people don't even notice anything has changed. This of course gives the impression that a particular individual has a very stable, seemingly immutable life, or that the person exerts a powerful hold on his or her life. It makes for a very stable and somewhat boring year. Others have an explosive quality to their lives. These are people whose lives change suddenly, violently. It lends a very chaotic quality to their lives, which leads to very eventful but also somewhat traumatic years. The debate I've long had with myself has to do with the question of preference: Given a choice, which of these kinds of changes would you prefer for your own life? Amusingly enough, it often feels that those with one kind of change often wistfully long for the other. That is because of the idea that we like what we don't have. Those living with steady change find their lives secure and stable but also boring and routine. They long for the thrill of the unknown, the adrenaline high of having to deal with various crises. One can argue of course that most everyone's life is a combination of these two to some degree or other. True, but the question is both profound and theoretical. The common phrase I hear about eventful lives is that some people just naturally have lives full of “drama.” Happenings in their lives seem to just stop and go. Anyone who has been through this would opt to have a more seamless, more predictable life. Dealing with one emotional conflagration can burn you out, making you long for a quiet, undisturbed existence. Perhaps the tricky thing about all this is that we all happen to live the so-called eventful lives. We don’t have a choice. We all long for the quiet, stress-free life, but can only get it in small doses. I suppose it is possible to find your own life to be static and somewhat somnolent. But isn’t it easier to put spice -- and perhaps a detonator or two -- into your life than to try and impose a logical stability to it? Yes, this discussion is without conclusion or even much direction. But change works that way, too. It happens when we’re looking and when we’re not. It doesn’t seem to mean anything—but it does. Read about all sorts of radical changes in the January 11, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.