A fortnight back, the lovely poet Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas, based in Iowa City, asked via e-mail: "What did you think of Jordan’s reappearance as the Wizard of Oz this weekend? Would really love to get your take on it."
She was obviously referring to a pre-season game, one of several the Washington Wizards played that had honed great interest in Michael Jordan’s "Second Coming."
My reply was rather ambivalent. Of course I was excited over the prospects of seeing No. 23 back in action, even at the athletically gray age of 38. On the other hand, our icon of the ’90s had just given the lie to a poem I had written and published in 1998, titled "No More Jordan."
Now, I’m proud of that poem. Still love it, in fact. It wasn’t the first poem I had written on a sports figure, but I thought it was the most accomplished, and still rue my lack of initiative in transmitting the longish piece to, say, Sports Illustrated, which might have featured it, or to MJ himself, who might have sent a chartered jet to fetch me so we could shake hands.
You know how it is. Ever the fan.
Much earlier, touched by the awarding ceremony at the Barcelona Olympics of 1992, where the original USA Dream Team had romped off with the gold, I had written a poem titled "Larry Bird Smells the Flowers." This was in reference to the televised scene where the NBA Olympians, including Jordan, had stood in a row and been handed sprays of flowers along with their beribboned golds. It was my way of saying bye-bye, Bird. And thanks for the memories.
Another sports poem in my Trading in Mermaids collection was titled "Ali in ’72, ’75, ’76" – a tribute to Muhammad Ali’s title fights, including the "Thrilla in Manila": "We danced that day as much as Ali/ and Meldy put together. And when/ the fight was over we dipped even more."
Of another fight, against Dunn the German brawler in ’76, the long poem sang in tercet praise: "…And Dunn// kept coming back with awkward courage/ more primal than your own. And you took/ the challenge, exasperated by the man’s// diametric lack of grace. Ali, you were/ magnificent, spinning the setting sun/ with flashing rights, mixing up the caution// with moveable faith. Made of fisticuffs/ a galaxy of variables – ego, speed,/ power, political will, psychic two-// step. And this time there were no/ invitations to end the gallantry./ You finished it yourself, as tribute// to our attention, with the pique of a god/ teaching more than skill, tattooing/ shadows of design and domination.// Ali, you were as unpredictable/ as a collapsed star raining honor/ on Vegas, Cubao, Munich, Zaire, elsewhere."
Sports poetry is hardly seen, but I think there are many other versifiers out there who have paid tribute to our gods among athletes, ever since that mythic, cautionary narrative verse "Casey at the Bat" – a favorite for elocution contests in the ’50s.
Fellow couch potato, poet and journalist Ruel de Vera informed me recently, however, of a couple of distinguished American poets who have indulged in the genre, with both theming on their national pastime that is baseball.
"Stephen Dunn," writes the well-informed and versatile young writer Ruey, "won last year’s Pulitzer Prize for poetry for his book Different Hours (Norton). He has two poems that directly tackle sports. ’Luck’ uses various sporting images to display the fragile nature of luck. ’Losing Steps’ uses the image of a pickup basketball game at different points in a man’s life to show the effects of age."
Ouch. That sounds too close to home, the frontage of which sports a basketball goal, the only one in the block. Pick-up games with the rough-and-tumble scions, aged 14 and 13, are getting too tough for this golden boy, whose knees can’t hold up for more than a quarter-hour’s scrimmage. But at the foul line I show ’em up, averaging more respectably than Shaq at some 70 percent on any given day.
Ruey writes further: "David Citino from Ohio State University has three poems about baseball: ’An Argument Against the Aluminum Bat,’ ’Returning to the Field,’ and ’The Field: For Woody Hayes,’ all of which evoke powerful poetic images that speak of baseball’s timelessness."
Wish I can get hold of those poems. Timeless or not, baseball has currently taken centerstage with the World Series, where a four-year-old franchise has, as of this writing, surprised the legendary Yankees with a 2-to-1 lead.
By the by, De Vera’s readers might be glad to hear that his chosen vocation has sent him packing recently for the U.K., in an enviable version of the Malcolm McDowell starrer O Lucky Man by Brit direk Lindsay Anderson. When I told my kids their Tito Ruey was going to London to watch the world premiere of Harry Potter, the Movie, they could only shake their heads over their own parentally predestined professions: either as neurosurgeons or rock stars.
Back to sports. The field of dreams indubitably lends itself as an inexhaustible source for poetry. Legends abound, for one.
A couple of Saturdays ago, I told the 13-year-old crossover specialist (who has his long locks braided on weekends a la Allan Iverson) that we had the opportunity to watch a local hardcourt hero back in action.
Samboy Lim had hooked up with the San Miguel team (not its PBA champion squad, but a company league edition) playing on weekends at the Meralco gym. That day they would go up against ABS-CBN. San Mig led the standings with two straight wins, the first courtesy of Allan Caidic’s 34 points, the second Samboy’s 31. The third game would see the vintage tandem together, along with fellow ex-Beermen Art de la Cruz and Chot Tanquincen.
Alaric "Iverson" Yuson was keen to watch my high-flying idol of the fabled Northern Cement team that became the core of the dynastic Beermen in the ’80s. I had told him many stories of the Dragon’s exploits, and how his career had unfortunately been pockmarked by long stretches of injury time. But it was Samboy’s derring-do that had cut up an otherwise glorious career as a firebreathing slasher, leaper, and hangtime artist.
We woke up early that Saturday for the quick drive to the gym. There they were back in their customary jerseys, Allan as No. 8 and Samboy as No. 9.
By half-time, the duo had scored the bulk of San Miguel’s points. Some rust was evident, and given the quality of the amateur competition, or so I guess, the ex-pros weren’t really giving it all they had. But it was enough to send the sizable crowd swooning, as Caidic sniped away with his patented treys, and Lim sank fadeaway jumpers.
At one point, a nifty crossover had Samboy off on an extra dribble from quartercourt, propelling him to a trademark giant leap from the foul line, thence the gliding hangtime that allowed his upper body to bend and go another way for an elegant scoop shot. The ball rolled off the ring, but Samboy was quick on the casual follow-up.
We had photocopied a Philippine STAR report on the previous game where Samboy had been the top scorer, along with a photo of him in mid-air. The sheet would be offered to the idol for an autograph. But my young seatmate on the front tier, directly behind the San Mig bench, was too timid to approach Samboy at half-time. And so this grizzled veteran had to do the celebrity stalking instead.
The subject was as approachable and accommodating as ever. Smiling toothily, Samboy readily took the red Pentel pen and asked for the exact spelling of the son’s name. Where’s the boy, he asked. One look up toward the shy guy with cornrow braids and Samboy says, smiling even more broadly, "Aba, Iverson, ah."
When I reminded him of how we had been together for a commercial shoot for San Mig, oh, over a decade ago, the superstar glowed and wouldn’t let me go, pressed as he suddenly was by other fans for his signature on caps and tees. Yes, Samboy reminisced, you were with other writers, and Recah (Trinidad) was with you, and Erwin Castillo was behind the shoot. So how’re you doing now?
It turned out to be more than small talk. He related how he’s been with Welcoat in the PABL, and how the team’s been applying for PBA entry for the past two years. Yes, I said, I know, and I’ve read of how you might pull back if you’re not accepted next year. Yah, Samboy grinned. "Paano ba dapat ang gawin dito? Mawawalan na kasi kami ng mga top players, eh – sila Ren-Ren Ritualo…"
I suggested having Recah lobby for it in print. "Naku, nakakahiya naman." "Okay, ako na lang ang magsasabi kay Recah." So, Rec, take it from here.
Half-time was over and Samboy took to the floor again, scoring 22 easy points for the entire game. Allan Caidic had 27, and the duo’s effort proved enough against a spirited ABS-CBN crew that kept coming back to make it close.
During a time-out, he came up again to ask about the boy he’d signed the photocopied clipping for. I suggested a photo-op of the two of them together. Again, Samboy was quick to oblige, hoisting himself on the padded bar to go level with the young fan. Casually casting a professional eye, he noted my boy’s black shoes and remarked, "O, bakit Converse? Di ba dapat naka-Reeboks ka? Iverson, di ba?"
The charm of the obliging superstar was all there. And with Samboy Lim, one knew it wasn’t ever for show, that there was this sincere regard for fans, the way he’d always modestly handled his celebrity status. In turn has he been the most warmly beloved by Pinoy basketball diehards.
It’ll take us through Rome, Brussels, Ghent, Leuven and London, where, hosted by our embassies there, we’ll be delivering lectures on Philippine culture and literature before audiences ranging from expat Filipino communities to academics and students interested to hear about how our literature in English and Filipino has been progressing. No doubt we’ll come up with sunrise reports.
Then there’ll be poetry readings, at which opportunity I may include my 1998 poem on Michael Jordan ("Hijos, he was the best there ever was./ We were the best there ever were/ to see/ and live/ to tell."). Perchance too, I could segue to a follow-up piece on the Second Coming (courtesy of Destiny Cable, to which I made an instant crossover move upon learning of a deadbeat situation). That is, if all that wading through airport security, including three stopovers at Amsterdam’s Schipol, will still allow me time and inspiration to come up with yet another addition, infrequent as it has been, to the slowly growing annals of sports poetry.
There is poetry in sports, no doubt. We should all come up with more poetry on sports and sports figures. I don’t know if a poem on Welcoat’s PBA application can help dear Samboy. But justice should be served for all that waiting, poetic or simply fair-minded as it may be.