This is not the piece I was planning to submit today. I planned to write something remarkable, something that will leave the readers gaping in wonder and astonishment. Something way out of my league, in other words. When I set out to write this, I envisioned the task to be smooth and easy, not anticipating the number of times I'd hit a wall, the hours I'd spend agonizing over a paragraph loaded with grammatical errors, and the frequent bout of laziness that tempted me to indulge in an hour or two of irresponsibility. To succumb to such temptation, however, entails a lot of consequences. The first is that my instructor will make a face again, the one that says she's disappointed in me. The second is that the pile of schoolwork I have to finish just keeps growing with each day I delay. The third, the one that has convinced me again and again to get out of bed and face my computer is that mocking voice inside my head, echoing "Mao ra gihapon ka, wa gihapun ka nag-utro." I have been battling with that voice for years now, ever since that fateful day in Samar, when I resolved to be, pardon the cliché, the best version of myself.
It was a hot and humid day in November. The gym was crawling with people-student writers in jeans and hoodies, coaches and teachers clutching thick folders and giving last minute pointers to their charges. The photojournalists stood in the distance, looking for the perfect spot to shoot, heaving their equipment with both hands lest they drop them in the melee. Everywhere there were clumps of students whispering excitedly among themselves, eagerly waiting for the game to start. In the middle of it all, I stood rooted to the spot, dazed and bewildered, growing panicky by the minute. I was part of the crowd but I was alone.
I was a small girl, barely reaching five feet, unruly hair escaping a hastily pulled ponytail. In my left hand was a small tattered notebook where everything my teacher had told me was written. It wasn't much but it was all I had. As I took in the commotion around me, I wondered how those notes could possibly help me win. My opponents all looked formidable, with their eyes framed with thick glasses and their fancy looking gadgets tucked in their elbows. Knowledge is power, and I knew I didn't have that much. If only my coach was with me, I thought fleetingly. But no, I only had myself and my meager notes.
The whistle blew. The game began. The players crouched in the middle of the court, waiting for the ball to be tossed in the air. What happened next was a series of dribbling, passing, shooting and rebounding. But that was all I could make sense of the confusion; my coach had taught me those words and what they meant. I didn't like basketball, didn't even watch the occasional game being played near our house. I was a girl after all, and girls, my mother would say, should stay in the house sweeping the floor and washing the dishes. All I knew about the game was its most basic rule-that the ball has to go through the hoop to score. I didn't know why at one point, a player was allowed to shoot without his opponents guarding him, or why the ball was given to the other team when they took too long to shoot. But I watched and listened because what else could I do. I watched when a player hit a three-pointer for the fourth time and took note of his jersey number. When I couldn't understand what was happening, I eavesdropped on the discussion of a nearby writer and his partner. I also glanced very surreptitiously at their notes, and just as silently scrawled them down on my own draft. If I sensed them giving me suspicious looks, I just feigned ignorance.
The clock kept ticking. The ball kept rolling. But still I remained as clueless as when the match first started. So for lack of a better idea, I stuck to my original strategy-watch and listen. That was why, when chaos erupted five minutes into the third quarter, I saw everything from the very beginning. I saw when the guy in a number 35 jersey deliberately elbowed his defender on the way to the ring. I saw when the offended player with an almost murderous gleam in his eyes made his way toward guy 35 even after the shot was made. I looked for the referee and found him talking to another officer, completely oblivious to what was about to happen. It was only when a player was downed and both teams were involved in fisticuffs that the two managed to disengage what looked to be an ugly display of foul temper and unsportsmanlike conduct. The gym grew loud with the players throwing accusations against each other, pointing their fingers and trying to break free of the referees' restraints. The atmosphere was ripe with excitement-cameramen clicking away at the sideline, student writers craning their necks to get a better look. "What happened? What happened?" they asked each other. They could only speculate. I didn't bother asking the same question. Nobody would understand me anyway. I spoke Bisaya, and as far as I knew, everybody else spoke Waray.
