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During
my college days I got a summer job as a sportswriter for
a tabloid edition of a major daily. Although I never
wrote about sports for my school newspaper as I
preferred the more mundane things associated with my
school life, I leapt at the opportunity.
I was
one of three newbies tasked to cover the amateur
basketball league. It was fun to watch the games for
free, to be granted access to the team dugouts for
interviews, and to be invited to luncheons and dinners.
I even got the odd professional game, as well. Writing
about players and teams made me feel like I was a part
of the game because I had to communicate what I saw and
gleaned from the game.
It was
far different from today, where almost every writer has
his own laptop and he e-mails his game accounts. I had
to file mine shorthand or on a rickety typewriter, then
dictate them over the phone. I felt like Clark Kent,
except that it was sports. Seeing my byline on a
nationally distributed paper was priceless—someone
somewhere actually read something I wrote.
After
that conference championship, the winning team hosted a
lunch for the press corps but instead of attending it,
my editor had me cover another event. I looked forward
to the lunch but since I was given something else to
cover, it was no big deal. That is until someone butted
in. One of the paper’s senior writers overheard my
reassignment and she sidled up to me and wondered how on
earth I would learn to follow a lead unto its very end
if I was shunted off elsewhere. She said I had as much
right to be at the lunch since the league was “my baby.”
As I mentioned, it was no biggie since it meant an
opportunity to get another story; besides, who was I to
contradict the boss? Unperturbed, she said that after I
attended to my new assignment, I should still follow to
the lunch as her “apprentice.” I still remember her
words very well, “Ako’ng bahala sa ‘yo. Kausapin ko
si bossing.”
Ah,
naїvety, thy name is youth. I did my job, then followed.
I sat beside the senior writer when my editor arrived.
The surprise and restrained anger in his face said it
all. I made a boo-boo. He placed a firm hand on my
shoulder and told me to see him the following day. He
ignored me for the rest of the function. I lost my
appetite.
The
following day, I was called into the publisher’s office
(who was my aunt) and my editor asked me for an
explanation for my “not following orders.” I recounted
to him exactly what happened, so he called over the
senior writer. To my everlasting dismay and shock, she
denied everything. She even had the gall to say that she
chided me during the presscon for going there when I was
explicitly told not to. It was her word against mine,
and I lost. My editor told me that my summer job was
over. Before I left, I asked the senior writer (who is
the sister of a former pro basketball player) why she
didn’t tell the truth. She said that she never recalled
talking to me about going.
The ride
from the port area all the way home seemed like an
eternity as I failed to hold back the tears. Truthfully,
I’ve never forgotten that incident. It taught me that
there are a lot of dishonorable people in this world
(including some former classmates and business partners)
and to be mindful of orders. In a moment of regret, I
wished I continued with my art school and rued trying to
think I could write.
Who
would have thought that I could? A few years earlier
during my senior year in high school, my English teacher
returned an essay of mine disgraced with a huge “F” in
red ink along with a note to go see the principal. When
I asked my teacher (who is the mother of one of the
members of a very popular local band that I later signed
to their first professional contract) what I did wrong,
she said that I plagiarized my work. A smile broke out
on my lips as I explained to her that what I submitted
“was a lot of B.S.” I wrote it some 30 minutes before
class and completely made up everything. And if she
cared to check the information, none of them were
factual. After a little investigation here and there,
she changed my grade with much profuse apologies. It
was the first time I could recall that I could actually
write. Previously, I paid more attention to illustration
during weekends and summer breaks or to music as I
learned how to play a guitar and a piano (I formed my
first high-school band in third-year high).
But even
at an early age, I loved sports. I lived for it. I guess
even as far back as in high school, I knew that I didn’t
want to be a doctor or lawyer, much to my parents’
chagrin. My interests were always in the arts and
sports.
I have
always been a voracious reader and was even once a
champion reader back in school, but I’d say that a lot
of credit has to go to a certain sports magazine’s
swimsuit models for forever cementing my interest in
sports.
While
working as a copywriter for an advertising agency, one
of my first accounts was the pro basketball association
and I felt that I had come almost full circle. I got to
do some ads and its first-ever television trivia contest
with some nifty stats and numbers that up to that point
weren’t done yet. I wrote a jingle that its board liked
and got a huge compliment from its then-commissioner
that I knew my stuff and should try writing. Perhaps it
was also working with its production outfit not only
since many of its employees were later officemates of
mine in the country’s top sports cable channel, but also
because it further spurred an interest in broadcasting
and production work.
It was
during these years in advertising that I felt that the
industry and discipline refined my writing. The biggest
clients I ever handled were the country’s top telecoms
company and its national airline carrier. As was our
custom at that time, we devoted a whole month on the
preparation for the following year’s campaign. Four
teams were assigned for the presentation and,
internally, everyone at the agency thought that the one
my team conceptualized was the best of the lot. But
during our presentation, the telecoms then-vice
president, who is currently a columnist for our business
broadsheet competitor, shot it down but approved
everything else.
The big
bosses tried to fight for it but the client didn’t think
it held up. I was crestfallen throughout the rest of the
day and for the next few. But the following year, I
rebounded with my best year in advertising. Three of the
projects I worked on were nominated for an award and my
concept for the telecoms company’s next campaign was
produced.
It was
also during this time that I was writing for the
country’s top-selling newspaper writing about young
entrepreneurs, jazz artists and alternative music acts
and comic books. But that style would dramatically
change over the next decade after having lived abroad
and used up four of my nine lives.
In the
weeks leading up to my 100th column for BusinessMirror,
I wondered what to write about. It’s probably no big
deal for most columnists who’ve penned thousands, but
cut a newbie some slack. I’ve always put in a lot of
effort, passion and an alternative voice into what I
write. I thought of writing about a hundred
sports-related things to do before I die (that’s
something for a next column) and a totally nonhundred
related regular topics. I thought and thought some more.
Wrote even a few before I hit the delete button on them.
In the end, I went back to the beginning, when I endured
a false start to something I’ve grown to love and
cherish. And in doing so, I’ve been able to exorcise the
demons of that rough beginning of long ago.
My dad
calls it “the school of hard knocks,” and in some ways
he’s right. But it’s all about a literal love for the
game. |
