Life of a storyteller

Perhaps it is providential that this day of remembering my personal origin comes after the New Year, so as to reaffirm the need to reflect on the myriad blessings we have all received through the past years. It is also when this writer looks back on the question one needs to keep asking one’s self at every stage of life: why do I do what I do? When you think about it, it’s the fundamental question that can define your life, and redirect it, whenever necessary. As a great Greek philosopher once said, an un-reflected life is not worth living.

Telling stories is part of who we are. Throughout history, man has had an unquenchable thirst to know who he is. Even before oral tradition, man wrote paintings on cave walls and carved into stone to tell the world and his descendants who we all are. One of the first stories of greatness was put on a cave wall in France about 15,000 years ago. It depicts how a lone caveman faced down a bison as big as a minibus, killed it and lost his life in the process. But more than simply feeding his tribe for a month, his great deed spurred his tribesmen to remember him.

Stories prove what is possible. Throughout over a quarter of a century of documenting sports, I have seen or read about incredible things men weren’t supposed to be capable of doing. I learned of shooter Karolyi Takacs, a Hungarian military officer who accidentally blew off his right hand with a grenade in a training exercise, then learned to shoot with his left hand and won two Olympic gold medals. I learned of Abebe Bikila, who became the first Ethiopian to win an Olympic gold medal running the marathon barefoot, was paralyzed, then became a great wheelchair archer. I met the late Sen. Ambrosio Padilla, who shared the legend of the Islanders, the intrepid first Filipino Olympic basketball team, who endured a month at sea and by rail to play in Berlin, and were cheated out of at least a silver medal.

Stories inspire. As a young, scrawny asthmatic scoliotic migraine sufferer with flat feet, I needed all the help I could get. Stories of greatness sprung from nothingness fueled me in my everyday struggles to get healthier and turn my weaknesses into strengths. Knowing someone, somewhere had done it before gave me hope as I swam every day for two years in a public pool to overcome my breathing problems, endured painful stretching exercises to correct two curves in my spine, and build up my strength to shrug off other illnesses. I am forever grateful for the inspiration.

Hero worship is not just for children. Why is it when we are adults, we try not to profess admiration, or talk about great deeds? Maybe it’s because someone else will always try to shoot our heroes down. I don’t care. We remember the deeds and the doers in their finest moments, and that is usually enough. When we get mired in tedium and mediocrity, it lifts us for the moment, and sometimes that is all we need. 

 We all want to touch greatness. Why is it that we want to shake the hand, have a picture, or get an autograph from our sports heroes? We want a piece, a small, memorable piece, of what we aspire to be. Once an athlete forgets that connection with the fans, bridging the ordinary with the extraordinary, he is doomed. If he sees his profession as merely a livelihood without any higher purpose, he confines himself to the mundane, and becomes nothing more than a highly paid hired gun.

We can live through others. Through the stories I’ve written here in The STAR and broadcast on television, somehow people have been touched to better their lives. Young people have discovered sports and stayed away from harmful distractions like drugs, patrons have been inspired to keep giving even when their agendas have been questioned, and great athletes have found cause to pause and pat themselves on the back, humbled by a service they did not realize they were doing for the public. Through their exploits, we find pride, identity, and relief. That in itself is precious.

The great are just like you and me. Unlike the Greek, who loved watching gods and kings fall through their own frailty, our modern idols are very human. When they make mistakes, lose loved ones, mess up relationships, encounter financial problems, we can relate. In some warped way, we even feel better because it can happen to them, too. And we are also inwardly pleased when they rise up to greatness again. Then we feel like them, in return.

I’ve always said I have the best job in the world. It has allowed me to travel, see the world, give my children an education, find new life, be with who I want to be with, and learn from transcendent people. But the most enjoyable of all is being able to share this with the world, here in the pages of The STAR, my television program Hardball, NBA.com Philippines, and even through that occasionally useful Twitter account. It has been a fulfilling rollercoaster ride, and as I turn 48, there is only one thing I can say. Thanks to the Almighty, and thanks to you, dear readers, for an enjoyable life.