Thursday, September 14, 2006

Adieu to a Legend

If pictures could paint a thousand words, the look on your face would say it all.

It was a face of a battered and drained warrior. The words from your mouth were unhurried and deliberate; trying to make sure you said the right things. Your gaze was far and in between. You didn’t look directly at the cameras, afraid that they might catch you getting all choked up. You were biting your lip, trying to hold it in. This was inevitable. Nobody could deny the fact that this moment would come sooner than later. Not your fans, not your team, and most especially not you.

How ironic is it that a room full of over-zealous, loud-mouthed journalists fell silent when you uttered those words. They too, knew that this time would come. But they, like me, refused to admit it. We held on to the hope that you would extend for at least another year; that we would still catch you and your pompous, arrogant face on television for one more season.

That is, until you made it official.

I became a Formula 1 fan because of you. It was the 1999 British Grand Prix. You had a terrible accident and broke your leg. I felt bad for you, and being the underdog-nuthugger that I am, immediately flagged down the bandwagon and proudly hopped on board.

I wanted you to succeed. The anointed savior of a team that had lost its ‘aura of invincibility’, you were tasked to bring back glory and prestige to the Prancing Horse. You were close on many occasions but unfortunately, you always ended up short. You reminded me of Wile E. Coyote. You chased and chased the Road Runner, even relying on craftiness and trickery. But at the end of the day, all you had to show for your efforts was second place.

That’s why you can imagine my jubilation when you took the chequered flag at the 2000 Japanese Grand Prix and finally won your third Driver’s Championship, but more importantly, your first with Scuderia. You had come through on your promise to bring the championship back to Maranello.

Then you won again in 2001.

…and again in 2002.

…and again in 2003.

…and again in 2004.

All of a sudden, you became the Road Runner. Nobody could catch you. Nobody could TOUCH you.

You began dominating the sport in such a way that all the major records flew by the wayside. Most championships, most career wins, most wins in a season, most pole positions, most podium finishes. Your name will be carved beside all of them.

But in spite of all your achievements; and the love and adulation from your loyal ‘tifosi’, you still had a boatload of detractors and critics, and rightfully so.

You didn’t always race in the ‘fairest’ of ways. You had a reputation for being overly aggressive. You would grumble and protest when an adversary gets an upper hand on you and yet, wipe your hands clean when the fingers are pointed in your direction.

I still remember you driving into the back of Jacques Villenueve’s car in Jerez in ’97 so you could win the title. You ended up being disqualified from the championships that year. Deliberate or not, it showed that you had a nasty streak and that you would go to incredulous lengths to win.

It wasn’t just Jerez. It was also Adelaide in 1994, Austria in 2002, and Monaco just this year. All these incidences put a dent on your reputation. You tried bending the rules until its breaking point, and for that you made a lot of enemies.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t take away anything from what you’ve accomplished in this sport. You are a 7-time world champion. You have won 90 races, almost twice as much as Alain Prost’s 51. All your records are head and shoulders above the rest.

At the end of the day, this is how your legacy will be remembered. In spite of all your misgivings, you will be remembered as a great champion who gave your fans memories that will last a lifetime.

I still remember Imola in 2003. My goose bumps were having goose bumps when you won that race, just a day after your mother died. You decided to race on despite your grief and you totally annihilated the competition. The image of you crying on top of the podium is still fresh in my head.

As your final season winds down, you have three races left. Three points away from first place. Your 8th championship is but a few car-lengths away. There’s still a chance to do what few athletes have done: go out on top.

You’re no Cinderella, but still, fairytale endings are meant for people like you.

Good luck and thank you for the memories.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Blacktop Culture


It’s a far cry from the bright lights of the arena. The familiar sight of brightly polished parquet floors and fully loaded box seats are nowhere to be found. In its place is a slab of asphalt and cement blocks posing as bleachers. Everything is different; the bounce of the ball, the sound of a swishing net, and the roar of the crowd.

This is street basketball.

In the basketball world, it is most commonly referred to as the “other” game. A game where fundamental skills and half court style of play are left at home and a high flying, freestylin’ version takes center stage.

It’s a game where style points are as important as two points.

In a way, street ball is a basketball purist’s worst nightmare. Old school coaches cringe at the sight of their players going one-on-one against their defender. Coaches shun the playground style because of the emphasis on flashy moves and one-on-one duels and the lack of teamwork and organization.

In street ball, it’s the way of life. Ballers display a style of basketball that never lacks on showmanship and flair; enough that could get them benched in a normal game setting.

This in-your-face style makes the game so appealing, especially to the young inner city kids today. There’s a sense of freedom given to each baller to strut his stuff and work his magic, something he could never do on an organized game. Trash talking and attitude is highly encouraged. Between-the-leg, no-look passes and acrobatic dunks are considered religion. The play is physical, and tense, but all in fun, at least most of the time.

After all, streetball goes by only one credo—-if it looks good, it’s legal.