the boring talk
as fate would have it, none of my friends follow sports. my brothers are quite articulate with the subject. but they’re guys and guys are expected to have an inkling about the discipline. it’s in their DNA. aside from my significant other, who can distinguish raul bravo from raul gonzales blanco, i have no one to talk to, whenever tiger woods reaches another milestone. like that playoff win over stewart cink in Ohio. after that stumble at the US Open, tiger emerged from his bereavement on fire, capturing two majors. 52 titles in twelve countries, 12 majors at the age of 30, one great decade. surely, the people’s champion and his fans are not amused.
but i was more than amused, more ecstatic than you can imagine, when jun limpot finally won his first PBA title. thirteen years, it took him. he’s no longer the franchise player. his teammates are like ten years younger. one of them, marc pingris, is going out with danica sotto. and i always think of dina bonnevie’s children as little kids. i knew it occurred in july but still feels like a dream, so there. i got to shift loyalties every time limpot makes his move — from sta. lucia to ginebra to purefoods. i asked for his autograph three times, the last one was ten years ago when he was with SLR. i don’t really have a chance to watch the PBA the last few years but in this highly-interactive world, information travels fast. but sans TFC or the likes, i rely merely on texts and prints. moving live images are hard to come by from my quarters. sports telecasts may be easily accessible with a click of a button, but sleep and tiredness always comfortably wins me over. thus i feel like losing a part of my existence. yes, i have to read more on NBA players named kirk hinrich of the Bulls or chris paul of the Hornets and watch a bit of world basketball championship. the sad thing though, it’s not on my regular telly. plus i’m still in the concentration camp so i cannot waver even for a little while.
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