Basketball for small fries and the blessing and curse of eternal innocence

This story is about my childhood friend Ping who taught me a lot of lessons in basketball, among other things. 

I learned to shoot hoop in our backyard where my Kuya shaped a cord of wire into a ring and hammered it to a stub of langka tree, with a piece of thin plywood serving as backboard.  We used those orange plastic balls that did not bounce much and were prone to being punctured, so dribbling was to be avoided as much as possible.  Instead, there was a lot of shooting, jumping and running around.

When I was about 9 I thought that I was old enough to play in the big court in our plaza, using real big balls that bounce. 

There’s a natural pecking order in the basketball world, and those like me who have just decided to play in the big court occupy the lowest post – we can only shoot the ball when the big guys (or at least those who occupy higher positions in the pecking order) playing 5 on 5, are on the opposite side of the court.  When the ball goes over our side, we are supposed to run like hell so that we don’t get stampeded.  When someone from my level fails to get out of the way on time and in his effort to get away manages to impede the play of the big boys, it would mean that the big guys will angrily tell us to stay away from the court until they are done with their play.  This would scare the heck out of us and we would meekly stay on the sidelines, sore at the kid who did not duck away in time.  In some instances, when we small fries are able to get on the side on time but fail to retrieve the ball away from the onrushing big guys, the result would be the same except that one irate big guy will heave the ball far away, followed by a stern warning and glares from the rest of the big guys.

It was usually the small guy with the weakest shooting arm who volunteers to retrieve the ball.  You see there is still a pecking order even in the basest level.  And we would all stay on the sidelines until one was brave enough to once again shoot the ball when the big guys are on the opposite court.  It was usually Ping who would do it first.  And most of the time he was the one who failed to get out or retrieve the ball on time.

He was fearless in that sense.  Ping was neither our size nor age but he was a regular at the basketball court.  He could play with the big boys except that he prefers to shoot on the side, together with us small boys.

Ping was already a teenager, taller than me and a lot stockier.  He always came to the plaza looking as if he was the most serious basketball player in the world.  He wore short shorts, knee high socks, arm bands, head band and a sando shirt that was neatly tucked in.  I didn’t know any better then but I thought he looked kind of odd.  His neck was thick, his head a bit squarish because of his buzzcut, and his face – with his button-like eyes that were rudely parted by an upturned nose – had a blank stare about it, except that his lips were always pressed into a smile, giving him that curiously happy look.

I was surprised one day to see Ping in a church sporting long hair and wearing a dress.  My mother smiled and told me it was not my friend but a girl who looks just like him.  Ping had Down Syndrome.

Ping was always at the plaza whenever I went there and he taught me my first basketball lesson.  Early on I began to realize that I could jump higher than my contemporaries, Ping noticed this too.  During one of our small fry shooting sessions when the big guys were on the opposite court, he told me “Tarlon…” when the ball went up, and I did hoping to snag the rebound.  But as I was at the height of my leap, he went under me and I fell on a heap.  Ping was laughing and I was mad at him and at myself for jumping with a mischievous tot beside me.  I never jumped high again if he was near me, and especially if he told me to do so.  By then I was discovering that my shooting hand was better than most of the small fries’, and most of the big guys’, too.  And the big guys took notice and began inviting me to join their games when they were short of a player.

I moved up the pecking order, though I have a strong shooting hand, I was still the player who retrieves the ball when it got thrown too far – new class, new rules – the youngest gets to be the goat.  Ping decided that he was to be my coach, and soon he was telling me “shoot mo borla” every time I had the ball.  I shot it when I had to, but most of the time I did other things that came with playing basketball like passing, dribbling and defending.

During summer leagues when we got to play with referees interrupting us, Ping had special instructions for me, “shoot mo trlee points” even when I was on the free throw line, shooting a free shot.  By then I have sort of established my credentials, I may be one of the youngest players but I was also one of the best so I no longer retrieved stray balls.

I graduated from high school and went to college in Manila.  I got to play ball at the plaza during school breaks and summer.  I grew to be an inch above 6 feet while Ping still shot the ball with the small fries during our big guy games.  Because of my height and athleticism Coach Ping had shifted his strategy for me from shooting threes to “dunk mo borla.”  And he would tell me this all the time, whether I was in a regular pick up game or a refereed one.  He loved to give me this special instruction when I was taking a free throw, or during a timeout huddle where he would tell my coach and my teammates to give me the ball so I can “dunk ang borla.”

I went home less often when I started working, and when I did I made it a point to visit the plaza if not to play then at least to hang around and watch the other big guys play and the small fries run to the side.  The pecking order and the unwritten rules that govern the game remain the same.  Ping no longer played though he still wore his basketball shoes, he instead shifted into the role of a referee.  His joints were no longer as supple as before.

But he was always happy to see me.  If I played, he was my referee and coach at the same time, and again I would hear “dunk mo borla.”  If I was a mere spectator he would sometimes sit beside me and we’ll do small talk and a bit of teasing.  I would ask him who his crush was and he would sheepishly look away like a 6-year old boy caught staring at a fair lady.  And he would say, “Barwal yan.”

Once when I was just on the sideline watching, Ping sat beside me and showed me a card.  It was a generic identification card that you can buy in any bookstore.  Apart from the space for the ID picture, It contained fields for the name, address and contact details which were all filled up with laborious effort, the way a 6-year old would write when faced with such adult-bound details.  Where the line says TIN, he wrote “fat” across it, because by then he has grown more pudgy compared to his small fry days.

Years have passed and my basketball play became inversely proportional with the responsibilities that came my way.  Ping, along with the simple joys that came with my childhood and growing years have been overtaken by grownup concerns.

I crossed paths with Ping again a few years ago, inside the church where I once served as an altar boy decades ago when I was just a small fry at the basketball court.  I was seated at the back of his pew and I could tell that his body has aged considerably.  He still had the same buzzcut but he had more gray and white hair than black.  He also had a wider girth though he still had not lost his touch of dressing up for the occasion.  He wore a nice long sleeved shirt tucked inside a dress pants that was a bit too wide even for his size.  He was aware of this that he was constantly rearranging his tucked shirt and pulling up his pants.  He was with his father, a former military officer. He was a big man who has retained his rigid military posture.

When it was time to say “Peace be with you,” Ping turned around after kissing his father and when he saw me, flashed a big smile and gave me a firm handshake.  My heart literally leaped with joy and I was overcome by emotion.  I did not expect that my friend still recognized me.  After the mass and on the way out, I again exchanged handshake with him as I introduced him to my wife.  I could tell that he found her pretty as he gazed down like a shy 6-year old.  I asked him if he has a girlfriend, and he put one short finger across his lips and whispered…”barwal” as he motioned to his father.  As a parting shot I asked Ping to meet me at the plaza to shoot a basketball, to which he said “magagarlit” while pointing at his father with his thumb hidden behind his body.

I met Ping again several times at Sunday church.  He was with his father all the time whom he obviously looked up to and who obviously loved and considered him as his little boy.  At times, they were with Ping’s mother who was very frail.  Ping was beside his father all the time.

Though those afflicted with Down Syndrome maintain the innocence and understanding of a young child, their body however age and deteriorate faster than those of normal people.  In most cases, when they reach a certain age – like the age Ping is now – they tend to lose their mental faculties as well.  Ping looks old but thankfully he has retained his mental well-being.

I have longed to write about Ping ever since I rekindled my friendship with him but I didn’t know how to approach such story.  At the back of my mind, I would like to keep my connection with him as my exclusive gateway to happy childhood memories, one that I could access every time I see him.

It is only now that I found the angle from which I can frame his story, and it is tainted with cowardice.  A week ago, Ping’s father died.  And I have to admit, I cannot muster the courage to visit his wake not because I stay away from the dead, but because I cannot bear to see Ping grieve for the only man who stood by him all his living years. 

Children as they say are the most resistant to the pain of a loss because they have a long life ahead of them to make them forget.  Innocence, as they say, is bliss.  But Ping who thinks like a child is no longer one, and will not have a long life ahead of him.  It breaks my heart to think that he would ask what happened to his father, and what will happen to him and find no answers that he could understand, or would soothe his pain.

I hope and pray that in the complexity of it all, Ping will find the simplicity to conclude that life is like a basketball game for small fries.  Sometimes, you just have to have the courage to shoot the ball when the big guys tell you to step aside.