The woman who taught me to play ball

A dozen years may seem like enough time to get over the pain of loss, the memory of someone who’s meant a whole lot. But those who know better are fully aware that while time may heal most wounds, dull the pain, one never truly forgets; and the smallest thing or incident can trigger a rush of fresh thoughts and memories.

Two weeks ago, I dropped by the wake of Edu Manzano’s mother, and while I was there, Ricky Lo dropped by to pay his respects. To my mind, here are two men whose mothers played very significant roles in their lives, and whenever I’m at a wake, I can’t help but have thoughts of my mother coursing through my mind, with the pain and regret as palpable and as intense as that day, 12 years ago, when she left this world. In fact, it is one of the reasons why I generally avoid wakes and Intensive Care wards — too many memories flood my mind involuntarily.

Inevitably, Mother’s Day becomes something of a bittersweet occasion. Despite her slender build and almost always coiffed and poised appearance, my mother was something of a “tomboy” at heart, enthusiastic about sports. She was someone who loved to laugh, poke fun and even indulge in her own version of the “foot in mouth” social disease. And those are the anecdotes and memories that readily bring fresh regret over her having to have succumbed to cancer at the relatively young age of 62. I remember the time we were at the waiting area of Yung Kee restaurant on Nathan Road. This would have been in the very early 1990s, a time when smoking in public was just beginning to be frowned upon and discouraged here in Asia. She lit up while we were waiting and a Chinese woman then proceeded to berate her, going up to her face and asking her in a superior tone if she could extinguish her cigarette. My mom quickly responded, “I’ll be happy to kill this cigarette if you’ll stop watering my face!” And she walked away from the open-mouthed woman. That was vintage Helen, always insistent on having the last say, and leaving us in stitches and stifled laughter.

I entitled this section the way I did because in truth, it was my mom who really encouraged me to take up sports like basketball, golf and badminton. Basketball was something she played back in her Assumption school years, and I believe she secretly wanted to show off just how naturally gifted she was in these sports whenever she had us join her under the guise of teaching us. I say this because she would regularly thrash me in our games of “21” but suddenly stopped playing the day I beat her! She also had this deft move of faking a dribble, then pivoting and letting off a wicked hook shot — the female Bill Russell. And she loved using her elbows in warding me off and keeping me off-balance.

In badminton, she was Mixed Doubles Champion at the Manila Polo Club, so she would attempt to hold back her laughter each time she’d catch me with her drop shots, and believe me, she wouldn’t hold back all that much. In her later years, golf would consistently be her passion, and many were the days she and I would tee off at 4 p.m. to rush 9 holes of play before the sun went down. This 4 p.m. start was a must with her as she was deadly afraid of the sun and its aging effect on her skin. When forced to play at an earlier time, she would arrive at the golf course with tons of sunblock on her face and arms, with surgical tape placed strategically on her cheekbones, and donning as wide-brimmed a cap or visor as possible. We would joke about how each time she played, it was like watching someone go through the first stages of mummification.

I know that those who were close to her, like Tita Ising Vasquez or Auggie Cordero, would have known a side of her very different from the one I write about. To them, she would be better represented by the photo that accompanies my column today. She loved her King Charles spaniels, and readily agreed when my younger sister wanted to style their photo session in a particular manner. She was that person as well, and maybe that’s part of what I miss so much about her — that she could be this refined, genteel woman of style, while also being an impish, loose-lipped, naughty “brat.”

 And at all times, she had this strong sense of family, protective and defending, even if unconventional and it sometimes seemed like she couldn’t be bothered all that much and we kids had to fend for ourselves. This fierce maternal instinct would kick in whenever needed. I vividly remember when I was in my teens and she was nagging me about the late hours I would keep and how she was worried I was drinking or indulging in stuff I shouldn’t be doing. Typical “know it all” that I was, I studiously ignored her prying and at one point told her to leave me alone. I got a slap in the face for that and when I looked at her, I could detect tears beginning to well up in her eyes. I think that was the one and only time she laid a hand on me, and my immediate realization that it shocked and hurt her more than any pain that slap could inflict on me made me truly contrite for having brought it to that point.

My Mom was always great and entertaining company, and this was partly because she was so spontaneous and unpredictable. She only trusted her own taste, and so many were the times she’d want to take me shopping and insist I get this pair of shoes, this shirt or suit. And to this day, even with the 12 years having passed, there isn’t a week that passes without something happening to me or my reading something, and wishing she was still around to share that moment or bit of information. In fact, your reading this at all, she can largely claim responsibility for. Even when I went through the conventional route of getting into business and making a living, she would always remark about how she thought I had some gift or knack for writing, and should never give up on that. After she passed away, when Millet (Mananquil) first asked me if I would be interested in writing for The Star, I knew I owed it to my mother to say “Yes” and I haven’t looked back since.

Happy Mother’s Day!