Love - 40

If there is something that makes me glued on TV these days, it’s the US Open. It’s the last leg of the Grand Slams in tennis and one of the sporting events that I’ve been really looking forward to closely following because of Roger Federer. I guess all tennis fans are keen to witness whether he can win a fourth successive title at Flushing Meadows, or Rafael Nadal or Novak Djokovic could thwart that attempt. For me, this means two weeks of waking up at 2 AM in Dohato watch matches that start at 7 PM in New York. This means two weeks of chain-puffing Marlboro lights and feeling my adrenaline rush to its highest level whenever I watch Federer’s matches, especially on Week 2 where the seeded players get to meet each other. It’s ridiculous how anxious I can get whenever he seems to be losing a match, which is rare, and how ecstatic I am when he goes on to win it. In 2005, when Federer was defeated by Marat Safin in an epic 5-setter in the Australian Open semi-final, I felt like my world had turned upside down. I felt sick and weak. My spirits were so down. I even thought that my depression had something to do with feng-shui, that there’s an evil spirit hovering in my room. I desperately searched for that red feng-shui thing that people hang like mistletoe on their doorways.

My addiction in tennis began in January 2002, when my friend Reymond and I watched Goran Ivanisevic play in the 1st round of Qatar ExxonMobil Open, one of the first tournaments scheduled in the ATP Calendar. Goran was very popular at the time because after several attempts including instances where he became runner-up, in 2001 he became the first wildcard to win Wimbledon, the most prestigious tournament in tennis. I was overwhelmed by the whole first experience of watching an international tennis event: sitting at the less than half-filled Center Court of the Khalifa Tennis Complex, enjoying the crisp cold air of a sunny January afternoon, learning about the scoring system, seeing the players hit those killer forehands and backhands and volleys and smashes and aces, drooling over Goran whom I only got to see hitherto in newspapers and magazines and TV. When I finally got to see him in living flesh, I thought he was a demigod.

From then on I followed tennis religiously. I came back alone to Khalifa Tennis Complex to watch the 2003 edition of Doha’s ATP tournament, where the then pony-tailed and yet to be hugely popular Federer lost to the now inconspicuous Jan Michael Gambill in the quarterfinals. After the final, I remember people staying and taking more pictures of the runner-up Gambill than the winner Stefan Koubek. I was among those people, and it’s almost impossible to believe that the one I’m taking pictures of was a tennis player and not a hot male model. It was freezing cold that night but I didn’t mind. I stayed in the emptying stadium until I got a last glimpse of Gambill. I thought he was a yummy bonus to the 40 riyals I paid for the ticket. (Back then, tickets were for sale. Now, all that tennis fans in Dohahave to do is follow the queue and get free tickets.)

In the same year, Federer won his first Wimbledoncrown by defeating the much-hyped Mark Philippousis, and I was sitting in front of a computer to witness it. I didn’t see him play though; I was only watching the scoreboard posted at the Wimbledon website, for I still didn’t have a cable connection then. My stomach would produce that weird gurgling sound whenever the scoreboard registered changes, from point to game to set, and finally the match. The following year, I made sure I had cable in time for Wimbledon and thus I had witnessed the Swiss defend his title by beating Andy Roddick, and the pretty Maria Sharapova win her first Grand Slam with a straight sets victory over Serena Williams.

In December 2003, I felt that Santa Claus was really coming to town and found me not naughty but nice when Roddick, then the holder of US Open title and ranked No.1 in the world, confirmed his participation in the January 2004 Qatar ExxonMobil Open. I was already a huge, huge tennis fan at this stage, and had been reading everything about tennis stars. The first Tennis magazine I bought had the young and promising Roddick on the cover, and I was so excited to see him play. My spirits soared to its very high at the thought of seeing him in person; let alone having a photo with him. At the time, my participation in the tournament as a volunteer steward / usher was already confirmed and I praised God for knowing how to start my new year with a blast. I took a one-week leave from my work so I could concentrate on my job as a volunteer. My goal was to see Roddick in as many days as possible. I even prayed that he doesn’t lose in the earlier rounds of the tournament, but unfortunately he failed to advance beyond the 2nd round, falling to Jonas Bjorkman. I wasn’t too affected, though. By then, I already had my picture with Roddick safely tucked in an album which of course I showed off to friends, had seen him practicing half-naked -- his skin glinting from sweat and sun, and had him autographed the Tennis magazine featuring himself on the cover. I remember that despite being all sweaty after his morning practice, I still smelled a hint of his cologne when we posed for our picture. He was still dating Mandy Moore then and I thought how lucky they were to have each other.

A few months after that, the Doha tournament for the women called Qatar TotalFinaElf Open was held. Again I volunteered for the Stewards Committee because I wanted to be closer to the players and I can’t do that if I was only a spectator. Being a volunteer means having access to the center court at all times, and that means I can watch the top players while they practice. I wanted to have a photo with Justine Henin-Hardenne, who was playing in the tournament fresh from a victory in Dubai. Justine by then had broken the Williams sisters’ monopoly of women’s tennis and so everybody was curious about this girl who was said to be an updated Hingis. I did not have the chance to have pictures with the women players, though, because my work schedule only allowed me to do my volunteer works in the afternoon, when the matches have already started and when I must concentrate on my duty on the spectator stands. To be more honest, I could’ve devised my own sneaky ways to catch the players but didn’t do so simply because they’re not men.

In January 2005, I again volunteered for the Stewards Committee of the Qatar ExxonMobil Open, and this time I couldn’t believe my fortune as a tennis fan because Roger Federer, already solid and unbeatable as World No. 1, was playing in the tournament. Thanks to the Qatar Tennis Federation which made the tournament free for spectators, the denizens of Doha were more than lucky to see Federer smash his way to the championship without shelling out a single riyal. He was practicing on the center court the first time I saw him. He had this regal aura that you can’t explain when he’s on court. You just have to sit and watch and admire him. Unlike Roddick, he had no entourage of bodyguard and trainer and coach with him. Only his girlfriend Mirka, swathed in pashmina shawl and carrying a Louis Vuitton, was attending to his needs. Of course I had our photo taken and the Tennis magazine with himself on the cover autographed. I remember that when we first asked him to pose for pictures with us, his answer was a straightforward “no, not now…” because he was about to practice then. After his practice session though, he gladly came to us, posed for photos, and signed autographs.

The tall, blonde, beautiful and feisty Maria Sharapova had the stadium filled to its capacity during all her matches when she came in March to play in the women’s tournament. For reasons we really didn’t know, the organizers got rid of the Stewards Committee then so I was back to being a plain spectator. The tournament had lots of rain delays but we patiently waited for the matches to enjoy Sharapova’s fierce groundstrokes that seem to be hit by a male player and not by a blond statuesque. Her decibel-raising grunts and shrieks sometimes made me laugh at the middle of the match, while her father Yuri kept yelling “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon” behind me on the stands. The final match which she won against Alicia Molik was perhaps the most attended tennis tournament here in Doha, because hours before the match started, all seats had been taken and the gates closed. I was one of those unlucky enough to be denied access to the stadium, and that was perhaps my reward for coming only 30 minutes ahead of the schedule. Since tickets were free, there seemed to be a problem in balancing distribution and admission. I went home and watched the final on TV.

The best experience I had in volunteering for tennis was in January 2006, when Federer came back to defend his Doha title. Since the Stewards Committee had already been banished into oblivion by the organizers, I did everything I can and contacted anyone I thought could help me get into the Player Service Committee, where volunteers got to stay in the Players’ Lounge all throughout their shift, handing over balls, towels and water to the players. More than that, volunteers get to know the players off-court. I asked my friend Richard to join me in this attempt, and we both succeeded. At first, we were ashamed of ourselves because we were a bunch of 30+ year olds trying to assimilate with our co-volunteers who were all high-school students. But heck, I wanted to be close to Roger. Picture-taking with the players at the lounge was prohibited by the organizers, but almost all volunteers flouted that rule. Whenever we saw the perfect moment, we would take out our digital cameras and casually ask a player to pose with us for a photo. My prime target was of course Roger, but I also had pictures with the other players, who seemed to be there only to provide the statistics to Roger’s dominance. Once when I was on duty, I was walking around the lounge when I saw Tommy Haas come out of the shower, wrapped only in a white towel with his bare torso all there for me to admire. Awesome. Next, I saw Feliciano Lopez, also wrapped in a white towel and with even more breathtaking torso, come out from another shower room. Grrrr. My voyeuristic instincts and imagination stirred, it was my best day there, which ended with Roger posing for photos with me before I left. I admired Roger more for being such a simple fellow. He’s the king of the game and yet he’s very down to earth. When he wasn’t playing and just hanging out at the lounge, he was wearing old and already faded tracksuit and old Nike trainers. It was quite humiliating because he’s rich beyond my imagination and there he was, behaving just like an ordinary person, while I, a struggling worker in the Middle East, was trying hard to impress in my Diesel outfit and Prada sneakers. After that stint at the Players Service, I thought I had become more obsessed with tennis celebrities.

I tried to play tennis but I guess I’m just too un-athletic to ever learn it well. One time, the tennis coach was teaching me to volley and after my racket failed to hit the balls that he was throwing on me, the last one landed on my face. And then there was a time when I was doing this thing they call “walling”, where you hit the balls to the walls. I was chasing one ball to execute a backhand when suddenly I twisted my ankle I thought I would collapse from the pain. In the one and only “mini-tournament” I joined, where the scoring is only “race to 10 games”, I was bageled by my opponent. In fact, the closest I got to winning a game was reaching a couple of deuces, but never beyond that. Most of the time, even on my own serves, I would lose the game at love-40. I was so frustrated. Why can’t I even execute those forehands and backhands these players effortlessly do?

I’m a bad, bad tennis player. For crying out loud, I am not even a tennis player! If tennis is a battle for life and I join the fight, I’d be dead no sooner than scoring love-40. But being a fan? I know I can 40-love everyone.

When Malu was axed because of Charlie...

When a People Asia Magazine article written by a certain Malu Fernandez wound its way from angry Overseas Filipino Workers to my Inbox, I immediately asked my friend Joey to google who the heck is this writer and where does she write. He just ignored it and instead laughed it off, saying this kind of writer is just seeking publicity and so paying attention to what she has written would just make her popular and happy. Our friend Robin volunteered to do the googling, and we all found out that the article, “From Boracay to Greece” has by then generated the ire of millions of OFWs around the world, particularly those who work in the Middle East, like me. Parts of that article are without question insulting, repulsive, and tastelessly and insensitively written.

The writer had insisted, though, that her article was meant to be humorous. Yes, it may be humorous to a reader who, like the author, thinks of OFWs as some species the Philippines should be ashamed of. When I read it, I understood her intent to be humorous, but I thought she tried so hard she figured maligning others was still funny. She’s a writer and so she should know what political correctness is. I thought all writers/ journalists are broadminded, but Fernandez’ views seemed to be myopic and confined only in that social class where she’s from. She forgot that as a journalist, she can write anything as humorously as she wants, but she also has to be responsible in doing so. From her article, these are what earned the wrath of the OFWs:

• However I forgot that the hub was in Dubai and the majority of the OFWs (overseas Filipino workers) were stationed there. The duty-free shop was overrun with Filipino workers selling cell phones and perfume. Meanwhile, I wanted to slash my wrist at the thought of being trapped in a plane with all of them.
• While I was on the plane (where the seats were so small I had bruises on my legs), my only consolation was the entertainment on the small flat screen in front of me. But it was busted, so I heaved a sigh, popped my sleeping pills and dozed off to the sounds of gum chewing and endless yelling of “Hoy! Kumusta ka na? At taga saan ka? Domestic helper ka rin ba?” Translation: “Hey there? Where are you from? Are you a domestic helper as well?” I thought I had died and God had sent me to my very own private hell.
• On my way back, I had to bravely take the economy flight once more. This time I had already resigned myself to being trapped like a sardine in a sardine can with all these OFWs smelling of AXE and Charlie cologne while my Jo Malone evaporated into thin air.
  
  

Now tell me if anything there was purely humorous and not offensive. Where is being responsible if a writer pens something like that? I don’t use AXE or Charlie but I don’t think I should be mocked if I did. I was not in that plane but if I were and I sensed that Malu wanted to slash her wrist because she’s trapped with an OFW like me, I probably would have saved her from agony and would have slit her wrist myself. That bitch would learn her lesson later in hell where she will be roasted like a pig. But nah, I wouldn’t do that. I just said it tongue-in-cheek, didn’t I?

If Malu was able to say that of OFW’s who sacrifice a lot to earn decent money, what could she say of the bedraggled barbecue and cigarette and sampaguita vendors in the streets of Philippines, who also try to earn decent money and I’m sure could barely afford to spray themselves with AXE or Charlie?

Her article which tried to be “sosyal” by dropping brands and labels and names reminded me of the famous blogger Bryanboy. I thought if it was Bryanboy who said in his blog what Malu said in People Asia, I would have understood it. A blog is a blog and is as free as it could possibly get anyway, but print media should be far more responsible. But lo and behold, Bryanboy even chastised Malu Fernandez, saying “I am MOVED every time I am on a flight with OFWs. I am reminded of their resilience. Of how hard they work, and how they keep the Philippines going. The economy relies on their bravery. You should have slit your wrists, hon.” Well, what can I say? I love Bryanboy I’m ready to post my Bryanboy-pose photo in his website.

Bombarded by protests and blogs and hate mails, Malu even refused to apologize at first. Mockery and insult and self-adulation might be in her blood, for after she’s been inundated with protests and hate mails, she even said that if OFW’s read anything thicker than People Asia Magazine, they would have found her article humorous. “Although it may sound elitist to you the fact is this country is built on the foundation of haves, have-nots and wannabees. One group will never get the culture of the other,” she added.

But the protests would be too much to bear. On 23rd August, my friend Joey told me TV Patrol carried a news item that Malu Gonzales resigned from Manila Standard and had issued a letter of apology. My friend, who earlier refused to pay attention to the controversial article, saying that it would only make Malu more popular, recognized the power of internet/ email communication in this issue. But more than that, I said it’s the power of the people’s resolve to fight bigotry and prejudice and injustice. If the people concerned had reacted the same way as he first did, Malu would have gotten away with it and continue to malign people anytime she wished.

To quote Edmund Burke: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

Age or Innocence

A few weeks ago a group of fashion designers visited my friend in our apartment. They used to be colleagues in Saudi Arabia where they had worked for several years. Some of them are already forty-something, and are still looking for a career. I wondered why none of the visitors exuded the aura I expect from someone setting the standards in the fashion industry. Was it their age? Or the fact that at their age, however talented they are, they’re still struggling to have a career? My friend told me that despite the long and fabulous years of working in the oil-rich kingdom, these fashion designers have not been able to secure themselves financially.

As I walked out of the house that night, I suddenly feared the prospect of getting old. In fact, I asked myself, am I old already?

This question has actually dogged me earlier this year, when I was turning 32. As I had always heard when I was a kid from people who were at the same age as I am now, at this age one is no longer “in the calendar”. And then recently a dear friend celebrated his 32nd birthday; 30 + 2 he called it. As he himself said, he too is no longer in the calendar. During the party which he intended to be intimate and so only the closest of his friends were invited, I was fixing my hair in front of the vanity mirror when I noticed wrinkles on my face. I wasn’t bothered; I just thought why beauty and age travel in opposite directions.

In writing this and refusing to admit I’m getting old, I remember JV, an activist friend in college, from whom I heard that people in their early 30’s are still part of the youth movement. Or was it late 20’s that he said? But see, my memory that used to remember complex scientific names and absurd terminologies in biology now falters. And this gives me the creeps: am I finally saying goodbye to the days of my youth? Am I now crossing the road to join what young people see as ancient, antiquated, un-cool people on the other side? Am I still called a Youngblood, or already a Highblood? Well, I am certain the latter is not too far away. Medically speaking, I am already qualified for it. A few years ago, I was in a state of panic for having been informed by our company doctor my BP had reached 140/100. I had every reason to freak out: my father died of cardiac arrest when he was only 32. It was at that moment, when it dawned on me that that 140/100 could actually be a harbinger of bad health news, when I realized that I should avoid feasting on bulalo, balut, sisig, and chicharon, that I began to assess myself, looked back at my younger days, and wondered and feared if ageing is a thing I should look forward to. It was at that moment that I realized I cannot be blithely and recklessly young forever.

As some of my friends drifted towards the third decade of their lives, as some of my female schoolmates who chose to be wives and mothers earlier than most began to look either blooming or bedraggled, I thought if growing old is actually a gift or a curse. Why are there people obsessed in botox and facelifts and age-reversal therapies? And why are there people who prefer to age gracefully, wrinkles and age spots written all over their faces?

However, thinking of how much wisdom a person could have as he ages, why should anyone fear not seeing his age among those numbers in the calendar? After all, a calendar is only ephemeral; we hang it year in and throw it year out. But the wisdom that comes with the age equivalent to the number that we don’t see in it is imperishable. As wine tastes more divine as it stays longer in the cellar, so does man becomes wiser as he gets older. The scary part is that man is not wine. Therein lies the difference: the older the wine, the more it is respected; the older the man, the more he can get disregarded.

I had already spent so much time thinking and fearing how my life would be when I am 60, or whether I would be lucky enough to reach that age. Morbid it may seem, but I have also thought of cranes, wheelchairs, death. I have thought of diabetes, kidney failure, heart attacks, and Alzheimer’s. I have thought of how a social pension could cope up with inflation.
But why bother myself with these things? I should stop thinking of the negative forces that surround an aging man. I should look forward to getting old because I want to know if I would gain the same amount of respect that I give to my older relatives. I want to know whether silver grey hair and wrinkles could instantly exude command and authority. I want to know whether being given a 20% discount on most of everything is like hearing “You still look great and agile, sir” or “You need a walking stick”. I am certain I am not getting married, but I want to know how it feels to walk my young nephews & nieces to the park. I want to see if my money at that time would still be enough to buy them Haagen-Dazs. I want to tell them how it was to work in the Middle East. I want to see if Andre Agassi’s or Pete Sampras’ son would follow their fathers’ path and obliterate the records set by their fathers and the ones being set by Roger Federer. I want to see whether a woman could ever be President of the United States. I want to see if the Philippine government could still find a way to take this country out of the morass it is deeply buried in, or would continue finding ways to make it buried deeper. I want to know if the Filipino people could ever be wise and right in voting people that lead the country. I want to know what, after texting, could be Filipinos most common pastime.

I am ready to grow old, but feel I am still young, and while part of me wants to dash into an old man’s wisdom and sensibility, a part also wants to stay basking in the glorious, carefree moments of youth. I am at the age of being excited and proud to be, well, kind of old, but still feeling robust, ebullient, and carefree, of always having excuses to procrastinate. I believe that youth is an entity that will always run in our veins, no matter how old we become. While teenagers now address me with po and opo, I feel that I still share some of their idiosyncrasies. I still tap my feet when I hear Eminem, but I thank God dearly when I hear the sublime music of Mozart. The mirror says I am well-dressed in barong Tagalog and suits, in khakis and loafers, in crisp shirts and wool trousers, but I can also see teenagers throwing a look of approval to my new white sneakers. I joined in the search to find Nemo, but I also drove down Mulholland Drive. Not only in myself do contradictions of youth and adult exist. My Lola now enjoys watching over her grandchildren, but still occasionally gets a kick from Red Horse. My mom has recently become a granny, but still thinks she looks fashionably dressed in dungarees. You see, in every bespectacled and grey-haired old man, Peter Pan still exists.

I don’t mind if I’m getting older and older year after year. Honestly, I don’t even mind when my friends say I look like a high school – no, not student – principal. Wrinkles and laugh lines may give away the well-guarded secret that we keep about our age, and surgeons like Belo and Calayan are there to make us look younger than we are. But why should we marvel at the artistic side of science doing well to hide the truth about wrinkles and laugh lines? Don’t we find beauty in the bark rings that chronicle the age of a tree?

I don’t mind if I look old. I don’t mind if I survive time and become really old. I know that my soul would retain the energy of youth, despite being tired from the anomie that I see in the world. I just wish I could have the priceless combination of youthful drive and mature wisdom when I grow old.

And of course, I wanna have the money. Nothing is much creepier than a man growing old without a penny to spend.