Basket case

It was impossible to ignore the NBA finals between the Miami Heat and the San Antonio Spurs, so that even the non-basketball fans – including one who thought the game ends when one team reaches 100 points – were caught up in the frenzy. Whether it classifies as illegal gambling or not, there were betting pools in practically every office, among friends and families – aside, of course, from the “real” high-stakes betting.

Locked out from this year’s office pool by a spurious “no girls allowed” rule – I suspect it’s because I ended up the biggest winner last year when I cashed out my bet for a tidy sum before my team, which had been doing surprisingly well in the early stages, crashed out in the division finals – I could only offer my sage advice, which, not surprisingly, no one heeded.

When the Spurs lost that heartbreak sixth game in overtime, I declared it was over, the Spurs could not recover from that loss to win the deciding game, being too demoralized and dispirited, losing it when they were oh so close. On the other hand, the Heat were revitalized and energized, having clawed back from the edge of the precipice. Of course they will try, and they did, valiantly – but when it comes down to the clutch, the Spurs would not be able to pull through to claim the trophy.

Of course, these are wise words from someone who picks a team based on the state’s landscape and attributes other than the strength of its players, so expectedly I was pooh-poohed out of the court. These are pros, the basketball “experts” around here argued, so there’s no such thing as being demoralized by a loss; they’ll fight back, and they certainly did, for Game 7 was a cliffhanger which could have gone either way until the last minute or so.

My good neighbor from the sports section, who had put money on the Spurs based on “keen analysis” – obviously a pointed stab at how I pick teams – challenged me to a one-on-one bet for Game 7. At stake was a cup of sago and needling (kantyaw) rights for one whole day. Call!

Well, the sago of victory tasted mighty good, but the I-told-you-so and next-time-you-better-listen-to-me tasted even better. My poor neighbor, who repeatedly rued he was “28 seconds away” from a big pay-out, sportingly treated all the editors to sago, and graciously endured the needling – from all quarters and not just from me – for the entire day, commenting as he was leaving that night that all that needling has taken its toll.

There is an ever so slight hint of reconsideration of the “no girls allowed” rule for the just started UAAP basketball pool, but I must decline. I’m setting my sights on the World Cup next year and am, even now, looking for an oracle to replace the late lamented Paul the Octopus to guide me in placing my bet. 

Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits – who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. The Lord works righteousness and justice for all the oppressed.   Psalm 103:1-6