Farewell, Butch

Butch Maniego is gone, and Philippine sports broadcasting is forever dimmed. Butch was a man of varied fun appetites, and although that ultimately doomed his physical body, it was also what made his life colorful and full. He lived his life his way, satisfied all his curiosities and enjoyed his time to the fullest.

I first met my chubby buddy almost a quarter of a century ago. As a budding commentator, I had moved from sports news reporting to producing the PBA broadcasts for Vintage Enterprises. Though I had casually met him before, Butch and I were now working together, me behind the scenes and as halftime host, him as a young radio and TV basketball analyst.

Butch was many things: a witty writer who once composed a piece on how all the PBA games I was anchoring always seemed to end up going into overtime. That conference in fact, eight of my fifteen coverages went the extra distance. After filling his passion for role-playing card games, he became a scrabble champion who competed internationally, someone who saw words where most of us saw garble. Live and on the air, he would give you someone’s exact shooting percentage without the benefit of a calculator. When we had multiple playoff scenarios, we counted on him for concise, clear explanations, and he never let us down. And he always came up with unusable catchphrases and monikers which made us groan and chuckle at the same time.

There were never any boring conversations with Butch, and he and I always challenged each other mentally. He seemed to know something about everything, and thus earned Sev Sarmenta’s blessing as a “repository of useless information”. Looking back, it all served some use, to add life to our times on the road together, and to teach us how to put a different spin on things. We partnered for 22 years, covering all of the country’s basketball leagues together: the PBA, PBL, UAAP, MBA and NCAA. No tandem will ever be able to claim that again. And it was always enjoyable snd educational.

While doing the PBA, we both learned figuratively at the knees of giants of our profession, Bobong Velez and Joe Cantada, and added our own flavor. For one long stretch, Sev and Butch were known as the PBA’s “Thursday Twins”. Butch and I, though, seemed polar opposites. I was fiery and a stickler for getting things perfectly, he was relaxed and accepting. He’s the only one I ever covered a basketball game with while wearing a barong tagalog. Later on, covering the UAAP, a young Chino Trinidad would link us forever. Inadvertently standing next to the air raid siren-like horn at Rizal Memorial Coliseum during one halftime report, Chino turned it back to us, calling us “Bull and Bitch”. For that, I will always be grateful. Those were incredible, entertaining, heady days when we were writing our own history, before fate and promotion would send us in different directions.

He would talk sports and food with Sev, horse racing with Andy Jao, and history and personalities with me. I remember all our long drives all over the country in the infancy of the MBA. Butch and Bob Novales would recite the amusing history of music and bands in the Philippines, to our constant amazement. Topping that, they would then describe (in unsettling detail, mind you) the careers of all of the “bold” stars of Philippine cinema. It was fascinating study that often left me smiling and wondering how and, more importantly, why on earth he needed to know all that.

Gradually though, Butch’s appetite got the better of him. He once bragged to me that he could manipulate his weight between 260 and 180 pounds. He would also literally devour anything he fancied in copious quantities. In one of my first experiences at a Mongolian buffet about twenty years ago, I quickly got full on two bowls. Butch was on his third bowl, and going strong. A waiter suddenly appeared, insistently proffering dessert. Perhaps they were afraid they would lose money on him. I had also heard stories of how he and the late Romy Kintanar used to battle for the Saisaki record for most shrimp tempura consumed in one sitting. 

After one of our trips to Bacolod to cover the Negros Slashers, he took home four boxes of the rich, sweet napoleones tarts, parked himself in front of the TV, then devoured two boxes. He got dizzy and felt numbness in one leg. Rushing to the hospital, he was pronounced diabetic. It was sad to see him having to inject himself on the road, but it was a fact of life he calmly adjusted to. 

When his kidneys started failing, a veritable who’s who of the sports broadcasting fraternity came together to play a fund-raising game for him, no questions asked. We didn’t care if we embarrassed ourselves on the court. This was for Butch. And when he started dialysis and became too weak to work consistently (he was a sought-after league executive who ended up with the PBA D-League), bosses were lenient with him, and other friends helped. He once showed me a black and blue spot that ran from his bicep to his chest where the dialysis needle was wrongly inserted and went through a vein. Still, he took it all with good humor, continually mentoring our juniors in the profession. Even when we noticed changes in his complexion and progressing weakness, he just shrugged things off.

A month and a half ago, though, his condition overwhelmed even his superhuman cheer. Butch was diagnosed with a debilitating spinal condition which left him in great pain and limited his mobility. He texted that his career was over. We tried to cheer him up, and referred him to the best medical practitioners. It helped, but what else would Butch have to fight off? His body had consistently betrayed him.

In the last two months, we had lost pillars of the sporting community who were all friends for decades. Joey Lim was someone I always had good memories with, and the collegiate basketball community is diminished by his passing. Ajay Pathak was one of the first people I had ever met as a journalist, and he was there for me when my mother passed away last year. But with Butch Maniego’s passing, an irreplaceable, irretrievable part of my past as a person and professional has been cut off. Twenty-two years is longer than my adult children have been alive, and far more than most relationships of any kind. We teased and challenged each other like brothers, though we would only grudgingly admit. I want to et it just right, but I hear Butch’s impish voice and see his boyish smile, and take whatever comes out.

Farewell, Butch. Go and amaze the Almighty with your brilliance. Your family and friends will always smile at the thought of your easy manner and warm presence.