Memories of Smokin’ Joe

I will never forget Joe Cantada. My friend, broadcast partner, mentor and inspiration, he left an indelible mark on my life and career.

Jose Cantada was born in the throes of World War II. A Junior Mr. Philippines, he unknowingly broke a national weightlifting record that had stood for almost two decades, and was a collegiate heavyweight boxer when pugilists were still allowed in schools. I heard a tale told that he had so quickly and viciously  dispatched a semifinals opponent, his finals rival didn’t show up. Whether the story is apocryphal or not doesn’t matter. The fact is that there was such a man who inspired such a tale. Do any of us now conjure such stories in people’s minds? A product of both Ateneo and San Beda, upon his graduation, he had so many medals pinned to his chest, his Barong Tagalog tore apart. And all that while he was still in school.

In the 1960’s, Joe worked under Larry Cruz at DZHP, with a crew that won the equivalent of today’s Catholic Mass Media Awards five out of six years. He made his mark with Harry Gasser, Ronnie Nathanielsz, Ed Tipton, and a very young Recah Trinidad. And they followed sports the way nobody does anymore now. They covered the Tour of Luzon. Live. And when writing stories with those massive, powerful mitts of his, Joe sent scores of typewriters to the afterlife, toothless like defeated boxers. He covered boxer Anthony Villanueva’s controversial finals loss to Stanislav Stepashkin at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. All this before he ever even appeared on television.

First and foremost, Smokin’ Joe was a fisticuffs man. He loved being at ringside, in the splash zone. A cigarette between his fingers, he drilled that cool baritone into your brain. His classical education led him to create his own broadcast language, which ours sorely pales in comparison to today. But he gained the most renown as the commanding ring announcer for the eternally remembered “Thrilla in Manila”. Foreign media were so impressed with his diction and carriage, they asked if he was even Filipino. True story.

After two decades as a broadcaster, he finally covered the Philippine Basketball Association. Only main games, and all series-ending games. Oh, and only he hosted opening ceremonies. Nobody was going to contest that.

He was, unlike all of us, intensely private. You called his secretary, and Joe called you back. He was stingy with everything except his self, with which he was totally generous. If it was anywhere near your birthday and you were going to cover a game, Joe would be there – even if he wasn’t on duty – to plant a big, wet natal kiss on your cheek. On-camera. I thought I had escaped it, since my birthday was in early January, when the PBA was in its offseason. Nope. Joe ambushed me on the air in the middle of December. “You thought you could get away from me, huh!” He bellowed before laying one on me. I happily took it. I had earned Joe Cantada’s friendship.

Joe partied until bars surrendered, his perfect, pomaded hair untouched. He did movies, showing more machismo than even Erap Estrada. He recorded an album, “Joe Cantada in 12 Rounds”. He did commercials and cameos, always funny without losing his dignity. And the fans loved him.

Tomorrow is the 29th anniversary of Joe’s passing. When he died, we at Vintage Enterprises produced a tribute to him. We all, to a man, cried on-camera. At Joe’s funeral, the late Jun Bernardino read a list of phrases and monikers that Joe had introduced to the Philippine sportscasting lexicon. It was three pages long. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Joe Cantada lived enough for three lifetimes; he was a man’s man. And we still miss him.