ANG TENNIS, SI TENNYSON, MAY TENSION, WALANG ATTENTION

Spring. Lusaw na ang mga yelo sa Hilaga, dagsaan na naman ang pagbukang liwayway ng mga tulips sa Upper West Side, pero andito pa rin ako sa Ibaba at nagmumuni-muni (o moni moni ni Billy Idol) kung kakayanin na bang tapatan ng aking respiratoryong pulpol ang nagaagaw-buhay na lamig. Pumapalo pa rin daw sa 55 degF pag umaga, kaya plis lang, third world ang mga baga ko, dito muna ako sa pinamimyestahan ng heat at humidity.

This day is so humid, man, sabi nung katabi kong kumag sa Stadium habang lumilingon kami pakaliwa-pakanan, pakaliwa-pakanan, para kaming mga pamaypay at nanonood ng laban ni Roger Federer ng Switzerland at Oliver Rochus ng Belgium kahapon sa Nasdaq-100 Open sa Key Biscayne.

You should go to the Philippines, man, and then come back to me and say how this day felt like, sabi ko kay kumag. Naalala ko nun sa Pinas, tuwing uwi ko sa bahay, no exag man, takbo ako sa banyo para maligo, kung 10 beses akong lalabas ng bahay araw man o gabi, 10 beses din akong maliligo pagdating sa bahay. Nagagalit nga ang tatay ko, sabi nya, Pinaglihi ka ba sa lagare, bata kah?!! Paroo't parito ka, labas-masok, para kang tite, magpasya ka nga kung kalye o bahay ang dapat mong tigilan. Syempre, dahil ako si cbs, ang napagpasyahan ko e ang wag magpasya. Labas-masok pa rin ako. Para akong wishy-washy tite.

Masyadong naaalibadbaran sa akin yung katabi kong kumag. Nung di pa nag-uumpisa ang laro, masyado nya akong pinapansin kumbat ako nagbabasa ng libro, The Sea, The Sea ni Iris Murdoch, bat daw di ko iligid yung paningin ko, There, anya, What a fantastic crotch, turo sa isang dalaginding na parang nakatatandang kapatid ni Ana Kournikova at sadyang pinamamalas ang hubog ng lower half sa mga mali-Levis na gaya ni kumag. Sabi ko, Sorry man, I'm committed. So am I, idiot, sabi nya, That's why we're here, away from the Committee.

No, I mean...paliwanag ko, I'm committed to her, sabay turo sa libro. Iris, man, she's The One.

Tumahimik si kumag. Pero kita ko yung kanang kamay nya na nakasalang sa hita nya e nagkaron ng subtle activity, yung mga daliri nya, 5 sila, tumiklop ang apat, naiwan yung pang-gitna, ang trajectory e deretso sa akin.

Inintroduce ni Mary Kenzie yung libro ni Murdoch, tas binanggit nya yung sinabi ng narrator/protagonist sa isang libro pa ni Murds na The Black Prince, si Bradley Pearson, He is the tormented empty sinful consciousness of man, scared by the bright light of art, the god's flayed victim dancing the dance of creation.

The Dance of Creation. Yun ang title ng Intro ni Ms. Kenzie. Nung nag-umpisa na yung laro nina Federer at Rochus, nalaan ko kung sino ang nagda-dance of creation. Sino pa nga ba e di yung Mortal, yung kinrieyt. Si Rochus, pronounced Rokus. Nagpara syang roko-rokus sa kasasayaw at pagpupumilit na maibalik, to no avail, yung running forehand ni Fed. Pwede ngang gawing trivia q: Ano ang pinakamabilis, a) ang isang iglap; b) ang isang pag-iisip, or, c) ang running forehand ni Federer? Malaking tsansa ang tamang sagot e c, running forehand ni Fed, yung na nga ata ang bright light of art, kasi naman ang laro ni Federer e art, power art.

Roger Federer will be judged by history as The greatest player to have ever played the game, sabi ng isang commentator. Hindi ako nahihirapang mag-alinlangan kahit arukin ng tennis memory ko ang tennis experiences ko simula pa nung maliit ako at daanan ng kritikong pananaw ang mga abilidades ng mga dyus-dyusan ng tennis court: Bjorn Borg. John McEnroe. Ivan Lendl. Boris Becker. Mats Wilander. Guga. Patrick Rafter. Pete Sampras. Agassi.

Si Gugs, si Raf, si Pete, si Andre - lahat yan napanood ko na ng personal and up close pero walang nagpanganga sa malaki kong bunganga gaya ng laro ni Federer. Josme day, para talaga syang Federer Express, totoo yung sabi ni Andy Roddick na tatlong lateral na hakbang lang ang kailangan nya para masakop ang baseline from end to end, tas buong stretch pa ng katawan at braso para mahagip ang bola, para syang pader, rhyme sa Federer.

Poser na naman ang dating ko. Naalala ko yung diskurso ni RC Trench: We cannot live in art. Resulta tuloy e sinulat ni Tennyson yung The Palace of Art, sabi nya -

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
and trusted any cure

Si Federer ang Athlete, si Rochus ang sick man, no shit man, kahit kaming nanonood lang sick men kami, we're sick of watching this guy Federer, man, kasi pinakikita ang agwat ng mortal sa Im, sya kasi yung Athlete, strong to break or bind, kahit ang muka nya e tipong hawig kay Quentin Tarantino, tas hatawin ka ba naman ng 105 mph na serve na may spin. May spin? Lintek. Yung ngang walang spin, straight to the body jayub na, pag nilagyan ng spin, e di wide, halos on the line na, e pano pa makukuha ni Rochus yun.

Sa harap namin ni kumag e me dalawang gunggong na halatang Belgian kasi nakasuot sila ng hats na parang mga jokers sa tarot cards tas e kakulay ng Belgian flag. Nag-uumiyak sila sa pighati dahil nagmukang tolongges si Rochus, bukod pa sa nadefault si Xavier Malisse. Pero di ko sila problema.

Problema ko e si kumag na katabi ko. Panay kasi ang pansin nya sa librong binabasa ko. Para daw akong poser. Gusto kong maghanap tuloy ng tennis racquet at hatawin sya sa ulo. Lalagyan ko ng konting spin, style Federer, para umispin din ang ulo nya ala Linda Blair sa Exorcist. Sorry, Reconciliation na nga pala tayo ngayon, sorry talaga kumag. Pero tong si Federer, di ko sya mapapatawad sa sobrang galing nya.

Boss Andre, kung kaya ng tuhod mo si Mareng Steffi, kaya din ba ng tuhod mo si Federer Express?

Ako kasi, di ko na kaya, kahit nga si Rochus, in his lowest, sickest moment e di ko rin kaya. Tanda na kse.

Nung nagbirthday nga ako minsan sabi nung nag-toast...

Love, 40.

Disadvantage, cbs.

scream of unconsciousness

ayayay ang hirap maging banal buti pa si joel banal kahit anong gawing kaururan mapapanatili ang pagiging banal tas sabi pa nila sa taong loko hmmp mabait lang yan pag tulog ako naman kabaligtaran angsama ko pag tulog kasi kung anuanong kabastusan ang napapanaginipan ko kaya tuloy naisip ko yung habilin sa aming taroops ni arturok ng quericada ikiskis nyo lang yan sa pilapil mga tols ang kaso tag init noon kaya tigang ang mga palaisdaan at tuyot ang pilapil aruy aruy aruy (aruy aruy aruy) tas nung nagkainipan nagyaya na lang sa piso piso pulutan namin yung friend ulo ng sugpo kasarap nung nalango na kami jininggilan namin yung bakod ng unibersidad tas lumapit ba naman si boyet sa akin na me dalang malaking bato tas sigaw sya sawa anlaki ng sawa at biglang binagsak yung bato sa harap ko kontik na tuloy madurog yung paa ko tas sabi nung si bj ano kaya ang magandang trip na di pa natin nagagawa parang boring na kasi ang buhay e di isip isip isip kaming mga walang isip volunteer naman si biyet lika mga tols sunugin natin ang mga bahay natin naks naman naalala ko nung bago pa lang ako dito nagtrabaho ako sa opis na nasa cubicle kami tas yung katabi kong cubicle andun si larry hunghang na puerto rican at kamuka ni brendan fraser kaya pag magkasama kami sa inuman parang george of the jungle kami kasi ako yung unggoy tas minsang serious ako sa pagtatrabaho at napakatahimik sa opis biglang kumatok sa cubicle wall si ungas at sabi you know what c tanong ko naman what sagot naman nya you i like you sagot ko fuck you tas sabi nya i really do sabi ko ulit fuck you tas tanong nya won't you ask why i like you tas sagot ko so you will just stop tell me tas tumayo sya sumilip sa cubicle co tsaka bumulong because you remind me of the devaahhh ikaw tanungin ko ano laman ng ulo mo kasi nabasa ko yung sinabi ni john travolta sa parade magazine pag binuksan daw yung ulo nya makikita na puro tungkol sa anak nya ang laman nun ako pag tinanong sagot ko wala wala kasi akong anak (bukod kay gelato na matalino buti di mana kay dadi c) kaya wala ding laman ang ulo ko ramdam ko naman talaga na wala mas madami pa nga utak ang bulalo pag kinalog nyo sarap ng bulalo sa sto tomas santambak ang nilalagay nila na knor sabaw ng baka ang buong akala mo ba ba ka talaga nyahaha uror ka ba ba ka akala mo di totoo totoo yun tas antawag natin sa baka e karne wow anglabo kasi tao man me karne din anlabo talaga parang yung si blogger #1 na nachempuhan ko anonymous ek-ek ang papel de liha nya tas may nagbunyag sa kanya na anonymous blogger #2 na ito daw si blogger #1 e puro kaekekan daw ang pinaggagawa dahil nagkokoment daw sa sariling blog as different persons tas antinde daw dahil sinasagot nya yung comments nya tas nagsagutan na tong dalawang kumag na to tas sabi ni blogger #1 hoy hoy hoy bruha ka #2 kukurutin kita ng maliiiiit na maliiiit sa singiiiit pag di mo ako tinigilan jan bat mo ako ginaganito e type ko lang naman na magpakamultiple personality tas sumagot si blogger #2 hoy bruhilda ibubunyag kita sa mga tao na tipong humihingi ng simpacha sa public (public toilet?, ed.) kaya ang ginawa ni #1 humingi din ng tulong sa public (public market?, ed.) na puntahan daw yung blog ni #2 at malalaan daw kung sino yung #2 dahil sa style of writing at kailangang ibunyag ang kanyang maitim na budhi at singiiit na kinuroooot ng maliiit na maliiit (di dapat mapula?, ed.) kaya ginawa ko e pinuntahan ko kasi uto uto ako at ito ang nahulaan ko kahit di ko mahulaan kung anong araw ngayon eto ang hula ko dyaraaan e si bruha at bruhilda e iisa lang tinamaan ng lotto e tingin ko stretch to the limit of multiple personality and bruhitic imagination ang papel ng kumag kaya pati abo ni fernando pessoa e pilit nabubuhaghag dahil nabahiran ng kahindikhindik na ideya ang kanyang heteronimyo ano na ba ang nangyayari sa ating mundo aynako to quote my favorite intellectual uz nuni nuni nuni tas indi pa ko nakatawag kay jet david sabi ko tatawagan ko kaya lang helo helo hellow walang sumasagot yung phone kina pam nakakatawa kasi pag dinayal mo me sasagot na hello shempre sasagot ka din ng hello tas tatanong mo anjan ba si pam tas magsasalita ulit yung naghelo please leave your name and number and we will call you back har har talaga answering machine pala nyeta ginawa kang parang loko na kumakausap sa machine tas yung kay luba naman sabi ga e this is wonder woman i wonder if you will leave a message haynako puro kaututan ako kaya ganto na lang lalagay ko sa answering machine ko hello hello i wonder why you say goodbye i say hello ok sana kaya lang di ko gaya boses ni paul mccartney kayo ba di naiinis sa phone non-ethics ng mga tao minsan me tumawag sa akin sa opisina na kana pagkasabi ko ng hello sabi nung tumawag can i put you on hold tapos hinold ako tas nadinig ko na may kausap sa isang linya at nakipagchismisan tas nung binalikan ako nirachada ko ng tagalog sabi ko jayub ka talaga ikaw ang tumawag tas pinaghantay mo ako jayub ka wag na wag mo nang uulitin yan kundi isusmbong kita sa boss mo ha ha tas siguro natakot sha ibinaba na ang telepono at nagpasyang wag na tumawag ulit at nasisira daw ang ulo ko na sa totoo naman e talagang nasisira as otherwise e magsusulat ba ako ng ganto

FIELD OF DREAMS
(to Alan Bituin)

Q: What is the most precious sport?
A: Baseball, being played in a diamond.

Baseball is my most favorite sport. But life could have been better if I were not baseball's least favorite person.

The distant past backs me up. When I was a kid and playing baseball in the Philippines I hurt somebody real bad. I was trying out for a slot in my Grade School's Afternoon Session All-Stars when the incident took place. I remember vividly. I was at the plate, popping my fingers and knocking the dirt off my sneakers with the bat, limbering, focusing, when a surge of energy came into my being and drilled me to crunch anything that was round. My bat knew the shape but I knew the pitcher's drill - he always threw a strike fastball for his first pitch. Thus when it came I swung and hit the ball with all the force coming from my legs and upper body and all that was damn gadabout. The ball flew over the 2nd baseman's outreached arm and while sprinting towards first, with an exagerrated o for a mouth, I knew I had a good shot at double. But even in my focus while doing the first 90 feet I noticed that something was wrong. Everyone on the field but me was rushing towards the homeplate. I looked back and saw a commotion. I joined the fray. In the spectators' stand behind home plate lay my beloved classmate Evelyn. She was holding her face. It was covered with blood.

It must be the energy. Aside from the ball my bat searched for another round figure. Outcome, after I crunched the pitched ball I threw my bat indiscriminately. It hit E's face. It was a beautiful and very round face.

My baseball career was over way before it started. The school banned me from playing the sport - which was not necessary as that act of imprudence (and negligence) was a monkey that did not leave my (now aching) back and out of which I vowed not to touch a baseball bat ever again. Goes to show that that stigma had the character of a baseball bat; narrow in size but broad in killing one's dream (like Evelyn? who always wanted to become The Face?).

I could have been history's Alex Rodriguez, the world's highest paid athlete after signing 252 million to play for the Texas Rangers some years ago. (The story behind the mind boggling figure stands as rich as the figure. No, Alex's agent did not pluck the amount from out of Texas' polluted air but, hear this, was based on then current record holder of the highest contract ever signed. Alonzo Mourning, signed to play for the Miami Heat, had a 126 million contract and Alex's agent must have thought, Hmmm, Alex, my boy, it is not enough that we top that, we might as well double that!)

There were 2 things why I could not have been history's original Alex Rodriguez. First, the Grade School stigma. Second, believe me please, I hate to be a millionaire; that would have been the real stigma.

The great short story writer John Cheever said that to be an American and not playing baseball is like being a Polynesian and not knowing how to swim. I believe him. Baseball is very much a part of the American psyche, the sport that represents the very facbric of Americana, along the likes of the following in their respective fields: a hamburger patty or pop soda, a David Lynch movie, a Frank Lloyd Wright edifice, a native New Yorker, a San Francisco neighborhood, a Rogers and Hammerstein musical, a Bruce Springsteen song, or why go far, a John Cheever short story. But of course like all truths (save The Absolute One), it has its exception: my American friend James Rose who bitches at my invitation to watch a baseball game, "National pastime, my ass!"

Baseball's reqs could have found everything in my solid possession. Yes, during my prime. In Grade 6 I run the 100 m dash at 11.55 seconds, running on empty, wearing worn out sneakers on track that had never seen good days. I had a sharp eye: from a distance of a mile I can find somebody cute. (Chipper Jones of the Atlanta Braves said he can tell the kind of pitch from the way the seams - the balls stitches - appear to him while being thrown. For example, if it they were a mere "dot", it had to be a fastball. Barry Bonds had it differently: the way the pitcher shows his hand before the pitch tells the story. Me? I just imagine the ball as big as a bandehado.) I had the genes, too. Two of my cousins played for the National Team (Blu Boys) and all the schools I attended - all the way up to college - had good baseball programs. Besides, baseball was a good Filipino sport's prototype.

Years ago, while on a plane ride to someplace, I sat beside a thirtyish Cuban who talked to me without intro -

"You a Filipino?"
"Yes, you have a problem with us?"
"No, not really."
"Good. Good for me."
"Actually, I had been to the Philippines."
"Oh yeah? You're trying to assassinate our president?"
"Ha-ha. No, I was a kid then, we went to play Little League Baseball at IRRI."
"Oh cool. I'm sure you lost."
"But of course. We were 12 years olds supposedly playing our peers. But man, if you pitched an 80 mph pitch, you can't be 12 years old."
"Oh cool. You know man, I think, with our baby-faces, you must have played with our Little Leaguers fathers, man. Har-har, Cuba should have known better, man."
"Yeah, man, Cuba should have known better."
---------
POSTSCRIPT:

Dear Alan Bituin,

Last weekend I went to Jupiter, Fl to watch the Grapefruit League featuring the Florida Marlins vs. the St. Louis Cardinals for their spring training and experienced firsthand what had been known as the great Midwest Spring Rite which, national pastime my ass, included watching the Cards play spring ball. Prior to their 1st game I tried my hand at the batting cage. After oh so many years I picked up a bat again. I was inside that batting cage, net and all, looking and lusting at that Louisville Slugger bat like a long lost lover but with the spectators of all ages and sexes and races including a very cutie whom I spotted from a mile away watching me, I felt awkward and emotionally vulnerable. I tried to focus my attention to the pitching machine - a lobster that threw a standard fastball at 45 mph. Child of a chicken. In our Tagalog freaking lingo, sisiw. I saw the first pitch. I knew the drill. I did not swing. Second pitch, I swung. All air. Third, fourth, fifth pitches. Air, air, air. The distance between my bat and the ball, on all occassions, were probably a foot, give and take a few inches. I heard people laughing like I had never heard people laughed as loud before.

I am not Alex Rodriguez. Perish the thought. History was right, I will never be a millionaire by being the one person I wanted to be: a baseball player.

But then, as far as age goes, I never tell it, never give it away. Wherefore unlike you in that respect, my dear Alan Bituin, I never lie.

I saluted at Albert Pujols and did the thumbs up with Scott Rolen up close when I saw them, and had the Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria sign my baseball and 3rd baseman Mike Lowell, my program. But I had you, Alan Bituin, in my small mind. No, I could not have been Alex Rodriguez. No way. Instead, I could have been you. In fact, that very moment I was you, Alan Bituin. Or Alang Bituin.

No Star.