The Brighter Side of Things

Chapter 2

Just like any story of a mythical being, the Legend of Seven began when I was born. But mine was not marked by epic battles won against the evil forces or something equally remarkable. My birth, as I had gathered from our neighbors' stories, seemed to have sparked a streak of bad luck in my family.

And the first victim was my father.

Papa, then a promising professional basketball player, was in Manila for the semi-finals. Mama was left in Tarlac because she's due to give birth to me. Maybe I got too excited to see the world, I gave her a hard time in the delivery room we both almost died.

According to Mama, she had to go through C-section because of a coil choking me. She used to joke that I was already playing basketball in her womb and got tangled inside. Papa was playing when it happened. You know how instincts work when someone you love got into an accident? You become uneasy, your heart beating erratically, knowing something bad had happened. Papa experienced that. He suddenly got too nervous, he twisted his knee so bad it ended his career.

There weren't too many athletes from Tarlac who made it to the collegiate leagues, much less to the professional scene. Naturally, Papa, then known as The Ferocious Fausto, was considered as a home-grown celebrity. So it was a big deal when his career came to an abrupt stop at his peak.

If only ACL and MCL was curable back in his days, he could have made it back to playing in no time. But no. The closest he could get to playing basketball after the injury was to work for the coaching staff of the team he used to be a part of for before he decided to shift to the corporate job. And now as a coach of our barangay basketball team.

As the child with the spitting image of her father minus the creamy skin, I always overheard the neighbors, especially the tricycle and jeepney drivers hanging out at a nearby store, talking about Papa's glorious days. The thing about Kapampangans is that, they speak so loud even when they are huddled together. Keeping a hushed conversation is near impossible. How they described him—his clutch shots, blocks, defensive stops, slam dunks—never failed to make me proud. Until they got to the part where he got injured. Because of a baby who gave his wife a difficult pregnancy.

"But I guess, it's for the best." They'd say, realizing that I was already only within ear-shot, listening, and didn't want to offend me. "Fausto is happy living with his family. I only hope his boy, Six, would follow his footsteps. That kid's got potential. If only he doesn't panic too much when his team leads by a basket. I can tell he's scared..."

It's another story when they would start criticizing my brother. But my automatic reaction was to quicken my steps before I could regret doing something awful like flashing my middle finger or worse, throwing a punch. (Not that I had already done that though. But if pushed to my limits, I might have to do just that.) It was the least I could do. Afterall, Kuya had been the constant recipient of my bad luck because in spite of our banters, I always looked up to him and stuck with him like a shadow.

I just wished, really really hard, Kuya Six would make it big and that would show our neighbors that he'd achieve Papa's dream.

Even if that meant I won't get to see him play.

🏀🌞🏀

Beads of sweat rolled down my temple to my chin and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. How was it possible to sweat this much when I was not even moving?! Mama obviously felt the same way judging by how she profusely fanned herself with an abaniko even when the electric fan was already on level three.

Summer vacation was about to end. So was the inter-barangay basketball competition. As a matter of fact, while I was at home stewing in my own sweat, Kuya Six, L, and the rest of the San Rafael Voyagers were in a battle for the title against defending champions, Sto. Domingo Comets.