A Feature: We Don't Change

(co-authored by sciolist Migs Bassig, in lieu of Oktoberfest)

Change.

Change pervades the world of the Filipino, and it has become, so to speak, a norm of life. It dictates the lives of our people. As such, Filipinos have been - for a lack of a better term - forced to go with it or be left behind. Eat or be eaten. Hunt or be hunted.

Such kind of life has, in turn, spawned an attitude of 'what-you-can-do-I-can-do-better', and conceived a behavioral exercise which may best be described as one-upsmanship. Indeed, Filipinos have always aspired to be at the head of the game.

But fads come and go, fashions roll through and pass, and today's trends will eventually dissipate into yesterday. Very few transcend the realm of vogue and, in the minds and hearts of Filipinos, even fewer enter the rare air of tradition.

At first glance, basketball and beer seem to have little connection. Maybe none at all. The first is a sport involving the fundamentally physical activity of putting inflated orange balls in a hoop despite a host of defenders. The other is an alcoholic beverage best enjoyed chilled, with a group of friends, in pursuit of relaxation. The disparity may seem obvious, but in confronting this seemingly stark contradiction, one will realize that basketball and beer are uniquely intertwined.

In the distinct consciousness of the Filipino, basketball and beer are traditions that share a familiar bond. And that bond is love.

As the undisputed leader in the industry, San Miguel Beer has not only carved for itself a dominant presence in the market of Filipino drinkers. It has also built a unique emotional attachment to local niches.

SMB, for more than a century now, has evolved into the beer of choice for metro-based Pinoys and provincial consumers alike. With its rich golden color -refined by a distinctly smooth and crisp taste - the drink is now a staple in parties, concerts, get-togethers, and your usual al fresco inuman sessions. Even foreigners have so declared their affinity for this beer that the "San Miguel Escudo" has become a universally-recognized seal - known and loved by people in countries from Australia to America, from Mexico to China. Yet despite having attained a truly global appeal, the San Miguel brand remains to enjoy a kind of phenomenal following amongst the Filipinos.

Right alongside San Miguel in the pantheon of Filipino traditions is the sport we call basketball. Born and raised overseas, the game has grown to acquire an astoundingly strong hold among Filipinos, and is second to none as the most widely played sport in the Philippines. At fabled gymnasiums, along street corners, under the roofs of plush villages, and even in the shadows of run-down city jails - these are places where one will always hear the unmistakable sound of a bouncing basketball.

To Filipinos, basketball is at once a simple diversion as well as the paramount battle - just a game yet at the same time life itself. Upon the hallowed ground of polished hardwood or skewed asphalt, people play either to settle serious scores or forget serious miseries. Within a 94 x 44 ft. boundary, Filipinos have found a refuge, a home, and a tradition that's shared agreeably with common society.

And this, in a way, is how basketball and San Miguel Beer are reconciled. When times are turbulent and the odds seem insurmountable, we take the time to go play. Or go drink. And for those few precious hours, there are neither worries nor inhibitions - simply Filipinos who've grown to enjoy two traditions near and dear to their hearts.

"Manalo, matalo - mag-San Miguel tayo."

Sundays are not supposed to be spent this way

You see, God designed Sundays to be a day of relaxation. Ideally, He wanted it to be a day spent – if not with the family - in front of the television. I, for one, already had a plan on how to spend this particular Sunday. The Evander Holyfield fight would be shown on TV and - as part of my growing obsession of watching finely chiseled adults swap merciless haymakers at each other - I was excited to catch it.

Unfortunately, my anticipation of the Holyfield – Ibragimov fight would be left at just that: anticipation.

A few days ago, a client called the workplace and asked if I could cover an event at the PICC for an award ceremony for some supposedly intelligent children. Being a grossly obedient (for the most part) employee, I had no choice but to adhere to client’s wishes all the while resigning myself to the fact that not only would I not be able to watch the Holyfield fight, but I would also be doing something even the Lord never did: work on a Sunday.

(Forgive me, Lord, for my lame attempt at humor.)

I deliberately held off from going to the Philippine International Convention Center until 10 in the morning as a sign of utter defiance. ‘They make me work today, I’ll make them wait’, I thought. I even texted my colleague Ozmund about my deliberate act of delinquent behavior only to find out that he, too, would leave his home at a time much later than he should have. At least now I’m comforted by a workfellow harboring equal resentment of having to work on this day.

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The PICC, for the uninitiated, is a labyrinth of stairs, corridors, stairs, gardens, and even more stairs. So, upon arriving (naturally), I got lost inside. A gracious janitor finally took pity at this wandering idiot and led the way to the Plenary Hall, which, as it turns out, was in the adjacent building from the one I spent an inordinate amount of time exploring. Now, I had planned to show up 10, two hours after the supposed meeting time. But the unexpected field trip of the PICC grounds pushed my arrival time by an hour.

In an effort to save face, I sneaked inside the Plenary Hall and sat at a dimly lit area of the room, pretending to have been there for a while and applauding the children whose names I don’t even know. Client, however, saw my devious deed of deception, sat next to me, and promptly informed me that it was 11 in the morning and I was, as a matter of fact, late.

I had, of course, anticipated such a reaction and came prepared with a heartfelt and remorseful excuse about how I had overslept, ate some questionable yoghurt, ran into heavy traffic, and got lost in the PICC. None of which – except for the last part – was true. Client still didn’t buy my “eventful morning” explanation and told me that, as punishment, myself and Ozmund, who showed up much later than I did, would have to sit and observe the entire ceremony.

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Had it not been for separate incidents of juvenile fisticuffs and two children making out, the whole afternoon would have passed by without any meaningful episode.

So as one can expect, both of us were bored to extinction. To pass time, Ozmund commented and dissected the entire event, making recommendations on how he would have organized it. From improving the less than spectacular bubble-inspired stage to rearranging the sitting arrangements, nothing was spared from his keen observations.

As for me, in between listening to him and playing a Family Computer-inspired racing game on my week-old Nokia, I was, as expected, sleeping.

After an afternoon that dragged on longer than we had hoped for, we decided to plot our exit strategy. I would confess to client that I had to pick-up my brother at the airport at 3:30 p.m. and Ozmund would use an unexpected meeting with an ethnic dance group in the heart of Binondo as our tickets out of the conference.

With our game faces on, we took turns explaining our respective plights to the client, saying that we had other matters that need to be addressed. Fortunately, Ozmund was well adept in pitiful facial expressions as his batting eyelashes proved to be a formidable asset.

So after being excused, the two of us hastily made a run for the door, fearful that client would have a change of heart and hold us hostage for the rest of the day. When it became obvious that we had, indeed, been spared, we smoked our final cigarettes and went our separate ways.

If I may be excused, I would ask for forgiveness for not being captivated by young children - some bright enough to be potential future leaders of our country – receiving plastic trophies. It’s admirable, really; maybe even significant. But entertaining it was not.

And unfortunately, entertainment was what I was hoping for this Sunday. And I’m willing to stake a week’s worth of lunch and say that I would’ve been more entertained watching Evander Holyfield dance around the ring than I would’ve been watching young children accepting plastic trophies with blank stares on their faces.