What’s in a sporting verb?

Our daughter and I join together in protest, however mock-disdainfully, over the use of an "offensive" verb in a press release on a recent athletic competition where she participated.

In a sports item that appeared last week in major dailies, including this one, it said that a tournament held at the UP archery grounds produced several gold medal winners, including, in the Girls Juniors class for 16-and-below, Grace Dolfo who "routed Mirava Coree Yuson, 113 to 64."

Well, it’s true, but not quite sad. Mirava who’s 15 lost fair and square, and lost big. But she laughs off the choice of verb for her first instance of figuring as a loser in a sports item, as she was only too happy, nay, delirious, that she got to the finals at all.

However understandably, what was omitted from the report was that Mirava upended the second and third seeds after the qualifying rounds. In fact she rang me up cell-to-cell right after she was assured of the silver medal, and I was ecstatic over her ecstasy at managing to squeeze through for a chance at the gold.

"Papa, I don’t think I have a chance, the other girl’s really good, she’s a champion many times over na. And I’m happy enough that I’m sure to get silver. Even a shot at bronze would’ve been enough."

"Why, I’m so happy for you, and so proud of you. That’s great. Still, give it your best shot in the Finals."

"Papa, sorry, but I don’t think I have a chance. Besides, I’m tired na. And I’m still shaking cuz I can’t believe I won the silver."

"Oh, okay, great. Good luck, anyway."

Eventually, her words rang true. Soon enough another call came, with the report that she was on her way home with her silver medal, and that she was still so happy.

After I had taken proud pictures of her sporting the medal and her bow (taller than her) with its modern-feature stabilizer and the rest of the works, she reconstructed the details of her smashing triumph. (As a backgrounder, she had taken up archery less than a year ago, and only trains bi-weekly at best at UP Diliman. She had participated in her first tournament last November, where she hurdled only the first round.)

This time out, she had really gone lucky in the second and third rounds. The qualifying heats had her ranking sixth among 14 competitors in their age-group level, at 20 meters. She had an easy time against the 11th seed, but had to face the third seed next. She recounted that they both made a lot of mistakes, but that she scraped through with the last two sets of three arrows per. She won by a mere point, 89 to 88.

Before that round, she had asked for help from the senior lady archers of UP, who are national standouts. That turned out to be the best thing she did. A couple of them monitored her performance throughout the third round, when she was pitted against the second seed, another relative veteran. Their advice during breaks steadied her. But she was still lucky that her opponent mislaid her usual form, so that Mirava scraped through again, 86 to 83. What she hardly expected had happened: she was assured of second place.

As I dutifully reported by e-mail (replete with photos as jpg files) to my siblings in three continents, Mirava was beside herself with incredulity that she lost all concentration in the final match, so that she tumbled in a big way indeed.

When the news report came out a few days later, her own siblings found the chance to downplay her memorable triumph by endlessly repeating that verb: "routed." We all had a good laugh exploring all the possible alternatives: "massacred," "shamed," "whupped big-time," etc.

I explained that my own early experience as a sportswriter would have necessarily ruled out milder ways of graphically depicting the level of loss, such as "topped" or "trounced." As a consolation, I added that thankfully our daily supply of papers didn’t include tabloids, where it might have been "nilampaso" or "tinambakan."

"What’s that?" she said, eyebrows furrowing while still sporting a wry smile. "Thrashed big-time!" chorused the older boys. At least she got the silver, Mama rose in defense.

Yes indeed, and we’re sure she’ll come back big-time from that "rout" – once it dawns on her that less of World of Warcraft on the computer and more rigid training at the archery range should ensure consistent scores and the perpetual will to give it her best shot.

That way, too, she could improve her chances of bagging a date with Orlando "Legolas" Bloom, who started her on this sporting business in the first place.

* * *

The first-night performance of Repertory Philippines’ adaptation of Whose Wife Is It Anyway? was thoroughly enjoyable, and my wife, mom-in-law and I must thank Pinky Amador for the invite.

Playing on weekends at REP’s Globe Theater at Onstage in Greenbelt 1, the rollicking comedy of bed manners is made particularly riveting by "transplanting" the setting to familiar grounds (like a Roxas Blvd. hotel), and renaming/reinventing the characters so they assume more recognizable stereotypes.

And what more recognizable stereotype is there in any Metro Manila hotel row than a glib-tongued, unconscionably prevaricating congressman? That he’s also a devilishly ingenious philanderer certainly helps the entertainment hit closer to home.

Trysts and a "dead body" that gets hooked up in a closet before it revives, a guillotine-ish balcony window that punctuates the frenetic madcap action, split-second timing for slapstick situations, sneaky tactics and inventive fabrications that make capital of the Pinoy’s typical 1.5-degree of separation, and an energetic cast of characters all spell a riotous production that even gets away with nudity. Well, make that instances of exeunt naked butts.

It’s a fine way of spending a Friday, Saturday or Sunday evening, in congress with humor that’s not much removed from our reality TV courtesy of the Batasan, except that we know that onstage they’re really playing it for laughs.

Kudos to Rep president Baby Barredo for her handling of this locally grafted, Lawrence Olivier Award-winning comedy by Ray Cooney, as well as to the ensemble: Miguel Faustmann, Joel Trinidad, Joy Virata, Robbie Guevara, Ana Bitong, Rem Zamora, Raul Montesa, Niccolo Manahan, Arnel Carrion, Pheona Baranda and Marisse Borlaza.

Joel Trinidad as the grudgingly loyal congressman’s aide was particularly effective; such is his comic timing that we can swear it’s a genetic blessing.

Evening performances start at 8 p.m. while Saturday and Sunday matinees are at 3:30 p.m. Tickets are available at the Rep office (Karrivin Plaza, 2316 Pasong Tamo Ext., Makati City) and at Ayala Ticketrons and Ticketworld outlets. For details, call the Rep office at 887-0710 or e-mail rep@broline.com.