Just like any story of a mythical being, the Legend of Seven began when I was born. But mine was not marked by epic battles won against the evil forces or something equally remarkable. My birth, as I had gathered from our neighbors' stories, seemed to have sparked a streak of bad luck in my family.
And the first victim was my father.
Papa, then a promising professional basketball player, was in Manila for the semi-finals. Mama was left in Tarlac because she's due to give birth to me. Maybe I got too excited to see the world, I gave her a hard time in the delivery room we both almost died.
According to Mama, she had to go through C-section because of a coil choking me. She used to joke that I was already playing basketball in her womb and got tangled inside. Papa was playing when it happened. You know how instincts work when someone you love got into an accident? You become uneasy, your heart beating erratically, knowing something bad had happened. Papa experienced that. He suddenly got too nervous, he twisted his knee so bad it ended his career.
There weren't too many athletes from Tarlac who made it to the collegiate leagues, much less to the professional scene. Naturally, Papa, then known as The Ferocious Fausto, was considered as a home-grown celebrity. So it was a big deal when his career came to an abrupt stop at his peak.
If only ACL and MCL was curable back in his days, he could have made it back to playing in no time. But no. The closest he could get to playing basketball after the injury was to work for the coaching staff of the team he used to be a part of for before he decided to shift to the corporate job. And now as a coach of our barangay basketball team.
As the child with the spitting image of her father minus the creamy skin, I always overheard the neighbors, especially the tricycle and jeepney drivers hanging out at a nearby store, talking about Papa's glorious days. The thing about Kapampangans is that, they speak so loud even when they are huddled together. Keeping a hushed conversation is near impossible. How they described him—his clutch shots, blocks, defensive stops, slam dunks—never failed to make me proud. Until they got to the part where he got injured. Because of a baby who gave his wife a difficult pregnancy.
"But I guess, it's for the best." They'd say, realizing that I was already only within ear-shot, listening, and didn't want to offend me. "Fausto is happy living with his family. I only hope his boy, Six, would follow his footsteps. That kid's got potential. If only he doesn't panic too much when his team leads by a basket. I can tell he's scared..."
It's another story when they would start criticizing my brother. But my automatic reaction was to quicken my steps before I could regret doing something awful like flashing my middle finger or worse, throwing a punch. (Not that I had already done that though. But if pushed to my limits, I might have to do just that.) It was the least I could do. Afterall, Kuya had been the constant recipient of my bad luck because in spite of our banters, I always looked up to him and stuck with him like a shadow.
I just wished, really really hard, Kuya Six would make it big and that would show our neighbors that he'd achieve Papa's dream.
Even if that meant I won't get to see him play.
🏀🌞🏀
Beads of sweat rolled down my temple to my chin and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. How was it possible to sweat this much when I was not even moving?! Mama obviously felt the same way judging by how she profusely fanned herself with an abaniko even when the electric fan was already on level three.
Summer vacation was about to end. So was the inter-barangay basketball competition. As a matter of fact, while I was at home stewing in my own sweat, Kuya Six, L, and the rest of the San Rafael Voyagers were in a battle for the title against defending champions, Sto. Domingo Comets.
"A glass of sago't gulaman would be great, don't you think?"
I pretended not to hear her subtle suggestion and continued tinkering with my phone just to get myself off worrying about the ongoing game. If I said yes, it's synonymous to agreeing to step out of the house and under the glaring sun to buy the dessert. If I'd say no, we'd both melt in this heat and Mama would ask me the same question over and over until I couldn't stand the heat anymore or her slight demand to buy us something cold to eat.
The moment I stepped out of the shade and even with an umbrella flapped open over my head, I almost regretted it. Ot kapale! And the fact that every store nearby that sold palamig already ran out by the time I arrived did not help ebb my growing irritation. But then, I realized something. The only option left was to go to the nearest fast food chain, convenience store, or drop by Aching Bey's. All of which was in the vicinity of the open courts.
Where the championship game was being held.
Before I realized it, my feet was already leading me to the store near the court. My heart jumped to my throat when I heard a burst of cheers from the open courts. From the sound of it, it looked like it was a blockbuster game.
"Sago't gulaman?" Aching Bey asked the moment I stepped under the eave of her store. Thankful that there was only one customer, I did my best not to make eye-contact or whatever. The less people who knew I was there and rat me out to my brother, the better.
"Three please, 'Ching," I said with a smile.
"Great. We're down to the last servings. I'll check if they're ready." She went out of my sight leaving me to my thoughts and berating myself not to get closer to the game than I already was.
The open courts surrounded by the thick crowd was visible from where I stood. And the crowd going crazy every now and then was too much to ignore. I turned my attention to the other items being sold to distract myself. I even hummed a tune of the first song that came to mind just to block out the noise.
I promised Kuya Six I won't watch. I intended to keep my word.
It was the championship match. A do or die game. Against the still reigning champs Sto. Domingo Comets. For the past three years, the San Rafael Voyagers had tried to strip them off the title. But it was in all in vain. This year, kuya and the rest of the Voyagers doubled their efforts to bring the glass trophy home. I didn't want to ruin that chance by showing my face in the game.
But another thunderous cheer later and I found myself already behind the throng of people who came to the open courts. As I had predicted, it was a box-office hit. Colorful umbrellas of various sizes and flapped open blocked my view that no matter how much I tiptoed, I couldn't catch a glimpse of the score board. On hindsight, maybe that was good. It would be nearly impossible for my brother to know I was there. The smell of sweat was as thick as the crowd and the tension was equally palpable in the air. I trained my ears on the pants and huffs of players, the plays being called by those on the court, hoping that somehow, by merely listening could paint a picture on what went on. But the noise of the people shouting over each other whenever there was a missed basket, a loose ball, a shot drilled in, made that utterly impossible.
Out of other options, I turned to the balding man next to me. He didn't look like he's from the neighborhood either so talking to him was safe. "What's the score?"
Without looking at me, he answered: "Last I heard, 56-55. Comets."
My chest burst with hope. A one-point difference said a lot of things! I knew the lengths that the Voyagers went through– they practiced every day until seven in the evening, every weekend too–just to prepare for this game. I knew because I practiced with them. They gave up going to the mall or to the beach just to win the ever-elusive championship title. And to know that they actually had a chance was a big thing!
"How many minutes left 'til end of the game?" I asked again, my hands clasped together to whisper a quick prayer than to hold my umbrella in place.
"Last two minutes."
The information ripped a gasp from me and without thanking him, I elbowed my way out of the crowd that seemed to thicken by the second. I dashed back to the store, hoping that the dessert was already prepared for pick-up. I absolutely could not be spotted around the vicinity of the game!
In my haste, I tripped over my own feet just when I was about to reach Aching Bey's store. I used my umbrella to break my fall but the handle snapped and I ended up shoving someone sitting on the cemented bench perpendicular to the store's wall.
In between my profuse apologies and the guy's muttering because the soda he'd been drinking now lay spilled on the floor, I got up and tried to salvage what's left. But of course, it's all in vain.
"I'm really really sorry." Embarrassed, I lifted my eyes to meet his. Only to wince under his glare and I dropped my gaze back to the floor. That's when I noticed his extended left leg wrapped in Velcro and I remembered the photos of Papa when he got injured. "Is it ACL or MCL?" I blurted out as my eyes snapped back to his face.
He didn't look familiar at all. Perhaps he's from San Miguel who came to watch the game. But that's not the other notable thing I noticed about him. He looked so... white, almost bright. It was like the sun's harsh rays bounced off his skin like reflectors. His glare softened a little and his eyebrows lifted making me stop short.
My brain worked double-time to backtrack what I just said. "What I mean is, I'm going to buy you a new one–"
"Nevermind," he muttered, this time, I became aware of how deep his voice was.
Ignoring him, I turned to Aching Bey who was already packing the sago't gulaman I ordered. "'Ching, do you still have soda?"
"Ay, ala na! That's actually the last chilled one," she told us both, ruefully.
"It's okay," he repeated, his voice gentler now and my eyes swung to him again. Leaning heavily against the wall, he pulled himself up with effort it made me cringe and want to help him. "It's okay," he breathed out, his voice harsh, stopping me from giving him a hand.
And then I got another surprise because I had to tilt my chin up to meet his steady gaze when he finally rose to his full height. I mean, at five-feet-five, I was almost as tall as the boys at school. This guy would definitely tower over my schoolmates.
While I was busy determining our height difference (I guessed he was around five feet nine or ten at least) or wondering if he was around my age (I guessed he was older), Aching Bey handed me the eco-bag that had the three plastic cups of sago't-gulaman dissolving my thoughts about him to visions of Mama and I enjoying the dessert.
"Thanks, 'Ching Bey." I gave her the exact amount and then, a bright idea crossed my mind. With care, I took out one of the cups and handed it over to him. "Here."
He just stared at it and I grinned at how his bushy eyebrows shoot up to his hairline again.
"In exchange for the soda that got spilled," I offered with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm taking responsibility. Besides, this one's better to beat the heat."
He kept staring at me bug-eyed. But when I placed the thing on the table, his eyes tracked down the cup that had started to sweat and I caught a glimpse of his Adam's apple bob up and down his throat. That's when he fumbled to reach inside his shorts' pockets. "How much—"
"It's fine. Just..." Quickly, I gave his knee a glance before I flashed him the most reassuring smile I could manage. "I hope you recover soon." Feeling the heat crawl to my neck, I turned to the lady again with a pleading look. "Aching, please don't tell kuya I've been here, okay?' That, and I rushed back to our house without another backward glance.
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Ot kapale! = "Why is it so hot?"
Palamig = refreshments
Aching or 'ching = refers to an older female. Can be used together with a name or can stand alone
Ay, ala na = when roughly translated means: "Oh, there's no more."
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*Peg for Felix "Kuya Six" Ventura is John Vic De Guzman, former De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde Men's volleyball player