Tales of a Prodigal Thomasian

This recollection was first written a year ago right after I attended the alumni homecoming of my high school batch. No less than 25 years after we graduated and a quarter of a century of being out of touch.

After that evening, I should be forgiven if the reunion left me, as I suspect it did most of us, so overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions that it took a while to make sense of them all. And at least in my case, it took a long flight from Manila on my way to London for me to give my reflection a semblance of organization and set my thoughts into writing. There were just so many words waiting to be written.

Let me begin by saying that my experience at Santo Tomas deviated significantly from the mainstream and so certain perspectives should be unique to me. In all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if they strike others as "weird". During the round table introductions at a subsequent visit to the school, I did mention that I probably hold the dubious distinction of being the one who "almost" didn't make it to the current batch of silver jubilarians. That statement provides the context on which these accounts were written.

As this article progresses, it will be increasingly clear why I regard the visual presentation of those images from high school to be not only a nostalgic trip but, for most parts, a revelation as well. Many of the images, as they were shown during the homecoming, I was seeing only for the first time.

Except for initial attempts to be a YDT officer---which quickly turned me off because it required that I cut my hair at a time when long hair was "in"---I was never really a part of any school-sanctioned club or activity. The only times I was ever inside the auditorium of the Main Building was during the early part of first year and finally, during graduation day in 1980. Otherwise, every school program only presented yet another opportunity for me and my friends to cut classes.

In high school, for the first time in my young life, I had the freedom to go without a guardian. And so cut classes, I did. Me and my cohorts. Having just grown our wings, we were eager to fly. No matter the direction. We were young and felt immortal. We proceeded, often without caution, and played ever closer towards bright and dangerous light.

It didn’t help that I entered Santo Tomas with a tinge of reluctance, even sadness that my transfer, in the paradigm of my callow mind, meant that I could no longer follow the footsteps of my father whom I adored. It didn’t help that I was wont to compare my new environment to that which I left behind and it struck me as conservative and fragmented; wanting in alternatives to the traditions and the community spirit to which I had been accustomed. Yet, fate would have it no other way. And I rebelled.

Looking back, it appears that the only talent I exhibited in high school was getting into trouble. By my third year, I was a member of a fraternity. And not just any fraternity. I happened to join one which seemed to be the most pre-disposed to hostilities. In high school, I was ripe for their picking. The fraternity system offered at least a semblance of tradition and pretensions of brotherhood and community.Moreover, where the formal clubs appeared to be reserved domain of the bright boys, the frats welcomed even basket cases like me with open arms. There, I could excel. There, I could lead. It didn’t matter at that time that all these were superficial and, in the end, did more harm than good.

The reunion provided a venue for me to mend bridges and make peace with kindred souls who otherwise would never get into a tiff but with whom, back in high school, we ended up at opposing poles of the juvenile frat wars. From thereon, I it has been my hope that we could remain forever friends.No, I wasn't always an incorrigible student. That was why I was delighted to see batchmates whom I grew up with at San Beda. Witnesses to my metamorphosis from a consistent honor student as a Red Cub into a USTHS wayward. I was equally pleased to see classmates from my much tamer freshman and sophomore years when I was still, relatively, well-behaved.

Yet, for every face I saw, there would be more faces that I would look for. These would include the few colleagues who dared to attend Mapua just as I did. They could have served as my witnesses that there, I did pretty well. There, I would lead the student council and become editor of MIT's own, The New Builder. There, they were witnesses to how I hacked life as a working student struggling to keep his scholarship in the engineering school with--at least at that time when Mapua was still Mapua--- the toughest selective retention systems in the land.

I recall my days with the college school paper and how, without any formal training in journalism, my staff and I would learn a lot from reading copies of other school publications that would be mailed to us each month. This included The Varsitarian. I thought it had one of the most admirable lay-outs among all student papers at that time. I remember reading the name of the Varsitarian’s editor and not knowing for sure if she was a HS batchmate. Perhaps that is yet another indication of how out of touch I had been at UST?

Because up until the later part of senior year in high school, the only girls from USTHS that I personally knew were mostly family friends and relations. Somehow, I went to more parties with my cousins and non-Tomasino friends and so ended up meeting more girls from other schools. School fairs? Except when we were freshmen, I don't remember USTHS ever having a fair thereafter. I do remember attending Sienna's with my classmates every year. And Holy Spirit's because my sisters were there. So too was my girlfriend for most of high school.

As the slide show played on, the images that flashed in my mind included the first few times in my life that I made my mother cry. First, when I got very poor grades in Algebra. Next, when I presented her with a slip from Mr. Tagaro, then the Administrative Assistant for the Boys Sections, asking her to come to his office after I got into a fight. People talk about how USTHS is part of who they are. Well, these events were major turning points in my life!

It was my failing in Algebra under Mrs. Angeles that challenged me take up engineering in college. Somehow, I wanted to redeem myself as I probably did. Algebra was the only math subject I ever failed. Not a small feat considering that I took up BSEE which had the most math. During the board exams after graduation, the math segment was where I got my highest scores!
It took Mr. Tagaro and my class adviser, Mrs. Teresita Taas to make me realize the depths into which I had fallen. From then on, I walked back on to the path that was straight and narrow. By the fourth grading period, my grades would be in stark contrast to those of the first. I guess it’s a safe bet to say that by then, I had the highest marks in class in Physics and Trigonometry. And English Literature? That should already be a given!

Where San Beda gave me William Ernest Henley, Walt Whitman and Lewis Caroll, UST introduced me to the likes of Edgar Allan Poe and I became on a first-name basis with Bill (William to you, folks!) Shakespeare. Though as a recalcitrant teenager, I never really studied and merely went by from what I could recall from the lectures (since I cut so many classes, there wasn't much to recall and this explains my failing grades in Algebra), I kept on reading about history and literature.

Santo Tomas probably had the most extensive collection of literature books in the country and to me, that was a blessing. Though not exactly your garden-variety library-habitue, I did go there. Away from the watchful eyes of my frat brods whom I know would consider it conduct unbecoming. There I would read, one chapter at a time, Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck and Catcher In the Rye by J.D. Salinger.

Quite understandably, during my four-year stay, my favorite mentors would include Mrs. Mañago, Miss Ochoa, Mrs. Gutierrez, and Mrs. Songco. English and history teachers whose inspiration would serve me in good stead at MIT where appreciation for the classics enabled me to earn higher-than-normal grades in the soft subjects, pull up my GPA, and keep my scholarship. Many times, Humanities and related subjects would be my life-savers. Plus, they provided much-needed refuge from the otherwise dull technical stuff.

Sadly, the decision to transfer after high school was also driven by my personal need to leave UST if only to start afresh in a new environment. I thought it would be more difficult for me to arrest my downward spiral had I stayed on. As I chose to enter MIT, I recall that during the admissions interview, the guidance counselor took notice of the poor grades written on my report card particularly during the earlier periods. And then, the huge upswing towards the later columns. Most of all, she couldn't make out how I managed to get such a high score in my NCEE! Neither could I explain these to her. Not in a handful of sentences, at least.

I could not have survived the tough life in MIT and beyond were it not for the book-smarts I developed at San Beda combined with the street-smarts I learned at UST. Traits from the red school and those from the gold were put into good use at Mapua whose colors, interestingly enough, were red and gold.

At the end of almost every semester, it has become necessary for me to haggle for higher grades with a professor or two. This or, if I failed to make the required average, I would lose my scholarship and there wouldn’t be any next sem for me. Negotiating has become the gist of even what I do today in the field of international relations. Skills that had their debut one fateful day inside Mr. Tagaro’s office when I had to give him one good reason after another in a desperate effort to convince him that I should be given another chance. The clincher was this: "Someday", I promised him, "I shall make you proud!"

When I became editor in college, I made it a point to visit Mr. Tagaro and Mrs. Taas to personally hand them a copy of my first issue. If only to assure them that I turned out okay. That day, I recall seeing two boys waiting just outside Mr. Tagaro’s office. From where I sat, I observed how they were talking in whispers and seem to be wringing their hands nervously. I saw myself in these troubled kids. On my way out, I remember asking Mr. Tagaro to take it easy on them as he did to me.

Today, knowing how I had remained so faceless in high school, one might be tempted to ask: was I really there? After our initial contact, I am aware how some batchmates would check and double-check the Veritas just to make sure. They would not be alone in their uncertainty. Until now, in my professional environment, I have always been labeled as a Bedan-Mapuan. Am I really a Thomasian as well? Proudly I would answer: YES I AM!

Because even away from España, UST lingered. How could it not? I grew up in a Sampaloc street where the cross atop the Main Building could be seen each and every day. Like it or not, as a “Batang Sampaloc”, I was bound to have Thomasian sentiments. The school was an ominous part of the landscape that I grew up in. And even if not for the school itself, there would always be old friendships that will draw me back to that time in my life within its space. They are an undeniable part of who I am.

Often, I would miss my carefree days at Santo Tomas. I would pass by it almost everyday on my way from home to Mapua in Intramuros and back. In later college years, I was frequently bereft of jeepney fare and I would walk my way. It was quite an ordeal. As a respite, once in a while, I would take the time to pass by the chapel of the Santissimo Rosario. Every now and then, I would be going out with a UST coed and I would find reason to visit her at the campus. It was always good to get a glimpse of the old school grounds.

Occasionally, I would spend afternoon hours by the football field. There, I would gaze back with fondness at the memory of my first sip of beer, my first puff of weed, my first taste of rejection from a crush and ---what the heck!---even the unexplainable feeling of liberation and anxiety after my first time to cut class. Adolescence was a time for many firsts and it was while in high school that I went through most of them.

It was at UST where I caught my first glimpse of the world as it truly is. The transformation of my sheltered boyhood existence into life in living color. Complete with its ups and downs. It was there where I first learned to embrace change, even if it meant changing my dreams. To realize the hows and whys of adapting to widely heterogenous and disparate crowds each marching to the beat of a different drum. These, I went through at Santo Tomas with friends who have stayed on. Friends who have left. And friends who have passed away.

After the slide show was over, after the chit-chats and the revelry, I was left with a wish is that the bonds re-established and the new friendships made that night would not just be for naught. I have waited 25 years to be back with people who have touched my life in many different ways. I may not have another 25 years left to go. It was my hope that I should not have to wait that long to be with them once again.

Back in high school, we had a song that went like this: "The magic of UST High…" I thought then that it was so cheesy I refused to sing it. After all, I was quite apparently a reluctant Thomasian and most definitely a stubborn Taurean. The magic? I wasn't sure then. But 25 years after, now, I understand.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes

My Place in Pulilan

For each of us, there is a place which has the power to evoke memories from a special time in our lives. A place whose images bring us back to a time of wonderment and innocence, images that have lasted the onslaught of years, impervious to milestones and subsequent experiences which, though they may be more glorious and bold, have not drowned the mainspring of who we are, what we are, and how we came to be.

I had been to many places in my lifetime. My journey has taken me to five of the seven continents covering, as of last count, half a hundred cities in over two dozen countries, clocking no less than a million miles in Northwest/KLM alone. Yet none of these places could take my breath away, make time stand still, and cause my mind to wander off to another time by the mere mention of its name in the way that one small town, not too far from where I am today, can do.

Let me take you on a journey to my special place.

As an introduction, allow me to state that I am a Tagalog. I’ve got Bicolano, Spanish, Portuguese, Malay and (for good measure) maybe even some Chinese in me but for most parts, I am a Tagalog.

Though my province has produced illustrious names including the two del Pilars, Marcelo and Gregorio, Trinidad Tecson, Mariano Ponce, and Pio Valenzuela, among others, it is quite surprising that it has not produced a single Philippine president. But while only few of its sons and daughters were able to ascend to national stature in the realm of politics, it has more than its fair share of artists, writers and poets including national artists Virgilio Almario, Nicanor Abelardo, Amado V. Hernandez, and Jose Corazon de Jesus. Bulacan, after all, is the birthplace of Francisco Balagtas and of the balagtasan!

Let me be candid and say that none of these distinguished gentlemen whose names I just mentioned come from my beloved town, Pulilan. And while some historians place one of the ancient lords of Pulilan as a witness to the inscription of the country’s oldest surviving written record, my town’s hold on the national consciousness is most likely limited to its celebrated fiesta.

As a young boy, I remember peeking through the barandillas below the windows in our ancestral house to watch the old ladies dressed in baro’t saya while they danced the pandanggo and the marching band played folk songs even older than the ladies. In the afternoon during the fiesta, we would all watch the carabaos on parade, with their horns and hooves oiled for extra sheen, their hair shaved in a pattern. Most are adorned with flowers and ribbons and a few would be pulling carts just as fancily embellished. They are on their way to church in the kabayanan where the carabaos would kneel obediently as the farmers and their beasts pay homage to San Isidro Labrador, the town’s patron.

My maternal grandparent’s house, so I was told, is the oldest bahay na bato in our barrio of Balatong, named after soy beans which I never saw ever being planted there. That is the house where my mother’s family grew up in and so whenever we were in Bulacan, that’s where we stayed. Sometimes, four families --including ours and those of my other Manila-based cousins --would sleep there. We would lay down the woven mats and hang the mosquito nets and --presto!--we would all fit in. Either the living room, with its wide apitong floor planks were that spacious, or because we were simply small.

Only its ground floor was made of stone from thick and wide adobe laid down alternately and without steel reinforcements. It was originally used as a garage for the calesa although at the time of my youth, it merely served as a warehouse of sorts for sacks of palay and darak. The rest of the house was made almost entirely of wood from its trusses to its posts, sidings and walls. It was cozy and a gentle breeze would constantly pass through it owing to its large ventanas and ventanillas. Except for the old ivory statue which rested prominently atop the altar, the furnishings were modest and few and so we were free to run and play to our hearts desire without fear of bumping into or breaking anything.

The Cabrals of Pulilan were not at all as prominent as those from neighboring Hagonoy. But in the barrios of Balatong and Inaon where they resided, they were distinct because of their hispanic features. I took after my Lolo Temyong. Maybe not anywhere as handsome but enough to make me my Lola Kulasa’s favorite apo. Especially after Lolo died, whenever school was off, I would be my Lola’s frequent companion. In the summer, I would spend more time in Pulilan than any of my siblings and more than any of my other Manila cousins, in fact.

And so, I would know secrets about that house that none of them ever knew about. For example, on the floor in the bedroom underneath the almario, there used to be a secret door leading to a compartment where two, maybe three adults could squeeze. During the Japanese occupation, it was used for hiding purposes whenever sakang soldiers would inspect houses for guerillas. Lola Kulasa told me stories about the war and how at that time, the ceilings were used for storing rice which was in short supply because nobody farmed the fields. How, quite fortunately, they never ran out of rice until the American liberation.

Breakfasts in the old house are a treat. I can’t remember any place else in the world where champorado could taste so divine. Or carabao’s milk poured onto a bowl of fried rice with daing on the side. The bibingka? Or pandesal na putok generously smothered with butter from that shining red can? Or fried duck eggs? Or ensaymada straight from Malolos?

Although at that time in the 70s, the old house was already equipped with a refrigerator, the old paminggalan was still there and it never ran out of anything that can be pinched and eaten between meals. From the banggeras in the dining room and kitchen, one could see the pens where the chickens were kept and beyond the yard were rice fields as far as the eyes could see.

Kuya Enteng, the youngest of my Pulilan cousins although still a few years older than I, was always assigned to take care of me. (Years later, when he started going to college in Manila, he would shed the “Enteng” in favor of the more cosmopolitan “Vic”.) Together, we would take long walks. Sometimes even all the way to bayan which was at least five kilometers away. Along the road, we would take detours picking caimito or chico where we can. When in season, balimbing and macopa would fall and lay scattered on the ground. Even camachile which I never liked but would pick anyway because Nana Minang, my aunt, likes them.

In May, we would pick common flowers. Anything from kalasusi, santan, gumamela, even kampupot and take it to the visita, the small barrio chapel. Kuya Enteng told me that flowers are to be offered to the Virgen Milagrosa and that in lieu of flowers, one has to pray the rosary where each Hail Mary represents the equivalent of one rose. Picking flowers is a lot easier so that’s what we did.

At night, we would go downstairs to the bodega with flashlights in tow. The best and biggest spiders can only be caught in the late evenings. We were always on the look out for the gagambang kuryente, the fiercest of the various species of fighting spiders, but would take gagambang bahay just the same. We would place the poor creatures in matchboxes specially fitted with compartments separating one from the other. Once, I chanced on a gagambang salapitik which, when I took it back with me to Manila, won quite a number of bouts with rival spiders over a stick of walis tingting.

Among my constant playmates in Pulilan was a neighbor named Ramon who was also a Bedan but one grade younger than me. Theirs was the house in front of the basketball court and since the bigger folks usually played in the afternoon, we’d have the courts all to ourselves in the mornings! Together we would play ball for endless hours chanting Bedan cheers and singing the "Indian Yell". Each time we missed or fumbled, we’d blame it all or make fun of Ateneo, La Salle, Letran or Baste.

When we had enough money in our pockets, we’d drag our sweaty bodies and stop by Nana Celing’s store for “de bote” as we used to call softdrinks back then. My elders would frown on this. They’d rather we drink juice of some kind and they’d make juice from everything. Kalamansi, dayap, guyabano, sampaloc, kamias or santol. Forbidden to eat junk food, our merienda would almost always involve rice or its by-products. Sweet jam or ripe mangoes with rice, condensed milk poured on rice, minatamis na saging or langka with rice, ube halaya or leche flan with rice. Everything was fair game with rice. Alternately, we would eat suman, biko, espasol, puto or leftover bibingka from the night before.

Tata Eseng, being my mom’s oldest brother and patriarch of the clan, would always exhort the bachelors in the family: “Marami tayong bigas kaya’t kung kayo’y mag-aasawa, humanap kayo ng mula sa angkan na maraming ulam.” (Roughly, this translates as: “We come from a clan that has lots of rice so, if you’re going to get married, look for a spouse from a clan which has lots of viands.”)

Each time I had to come back to Manila, it was almost always with mixed emotions. Happy that I would be back with my family and siblings again. Sad because I would be leaving behind all the fun and the freedom of movement which I never get in the city. As kids, we were not allowed to play in the streets or outside the house and we know very few of our neighbors in Sampaloc.

In my early grade school years, I would begin the first few weeks of each school year shedding off the accent that I acquired in the summer. My burgis classmates, most of whom are exposed only to Manila-style Tagalog, found it odd to listen to me speak obscure words they have not heard of. I once recited “Invictus” in front of the class with my impeccable Bulakeño accent and my seatmate thought I was hilarious! Imitation, so they say, is the highest form of flattery. I didn’t think so. How many fights did I get myself into defending the honor of my heritage as other boys get overboard in imitating the way I spoke?

Soon enough, I would get rid of the accent. But the depth of my Tagalog vocabulary and my talent in verbal fencing never went away. Having been exposed to such colorful and poetic language, I can conjure at least fifty ways to say that a classmate is stupid. And while the average San Beda boy could only muster four or five synonyms for the word “ugly”, I could whip up a whole litany of how ugly I think he is and how he got to be so. Haha! Among my pals, I usually came up with the best explanation of why a teacher’s hair was combed a certain way, or why a passerby walks with a limp. I put this talent into good use writing poems in Tagalog for “Ani”, our annual literary magazine.

During schooldays, I would miss the afternoon siestas and the evening stories of kapres, tiyanaks, dwendes and aswangs which the womenfolk never seem to run out of. I would miss lying down on my Lola’s lap while I watch her and Nana Minang prepare nganga. How they would spread the apog and mascada on the ikmo leaf. Cut a piece of hitso using a strangely shaped scissor called kalukate and grind it in an adobe mortar using an oversized bolt as pestle. The rationale they often gave for chewing nganga was to make their teeth strong and this would elicit laughter because my Lola was bungal.

The food too, I would miss. Simple as they may be, such viands as pinangat na sapsap, pritong kanduli, tapang usa, hinalabos na hipon, adobong pinatuyo, even the more humdrum paksiw na bangus, sinigang na baboy or tinapang salinas dipped in halubebay never tasted quite the same back in Manila. Perhaps it’s the breeze. The lawiswis ng kawayan that accompanies every Pulilan mealtime. Or could it be that the mundane practice of putting a leg up on the bangko truly works wonders on the appetite?

And the champorado, I would crave for it over and over again.

It has been months since I was there. Nowadays, my family, my sisters and I would only go to Pulilan occasionally, each year less frequently than the year before. Only during birthdates and anniversaries celebrated at the pantyon where, after clearing vines away from the grilles and cleaning the chamber of dust and cobwebs, we would light candles, lay flowers and say our short prayers. My parents are both gone and at their request, they were buried there at the family mausoleum in the town cemetery beside the church of San Isidro.

We seldom go to bukid, if at all. As my grandparents and my mother’s generation, aunts and uncles, have all passed away and a good number of our cousins have relocated elsewhere, there is very little reason to go back to Balatong. There are fewer and fewer people still left there for us to visit, and we have no more place in which to stay. Though the barrio has not really changed that much (only apparently smaller) and a lot of the houses are as they were some decades back, we no longer recognize as many faces as we used to.

Last time I was there on an errand, I noticed that even the caimito tree where we used to pick fruit is still there. Leaves still dancing to the gentle sway of the wind, branches heavy with ripe fruit, sturdily standing tall inside what used to be Ka Orang’s yard. Should I stop by? But then, it dawned on me that she is no longer there.

Minutes later, with my son seated beside me, we drove pass our old house. I felt a bit of unease as I gazed at that sanctuary which was, once upon a time, so personal and familiar but which today has become so seemingly distant and reticent. There is a longing, an urge to show my son the secret doors, the places where the spiders hide, the rooms and the games we played in each, the stories told, the laughter shared. But that would be next to impossible. Strangers live there now.

And Ramon. My childhood friend and playmate no longer lives in the house across the basketball court. Two decades have already passed since he was shot in the middle of a demonstration at Mendiola a few weeks after former senator Benigno Aquino was himself murdered. Coming from two separate generations, these two Bedans shared the same fate and were both fallen by a bullet. One on the footsteps of a plane that brought him home, the other near the doorstep of his beloved alma mater. Ramon’s tomb lies along the path that leads to our pantyon.

Sad it is to realize that the only place in Pulilan I can still call my own is a tiny plot of land where loved ones I once saw in the flesh, very much alive, and who were all important parts of my life, have chosen to take their final stay. And they who were witnesses to my experience, whose testimonials could substantiate my claim to having once walked the streets and played the fields of this rustic town, they are now silent. Their lips could no longer affirm that I still belong to this place.

But for as long as I keep its endearing memories in my heart and its language rests in my tongue--- replete with its florid and fiery splendor---Pulilan will always have a special place in me.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes
Pindutin ITO upang mabasa ang salin sa Tagalog.

Tennis, Mitzi & Me

Eric was quite surprised when I asked him to play tennis with me that Sunday afternoon. It had been no less than six months since I last played with him or with anybody for that matter. Throughout that long period, all my time was divided between my studies, work, and Mitzi. These days when I seldom find myself unoccupied, maintaining a girlfriend and at the same time indulging in a sport as demanding as tennis is no mean feat. Eventually, I end up making good in one and neglecting the other.

The weather was fine. The sun was temperate enough so as not to hurt one’s eyes with glare when one goes to serve; no strong wind current that may jeopardize the ball’s direction and make it go wild. A writer may liken a tennis game not only to a conflict between two men but also to a classic battle between man and the elements. And just like any other game, the kindness that Mother Time would allow herself to give affects the course of any love affair.

The clubhouse was just a cigarette away from our place. As our car turned right into the parking space, I noticed all the courts were already taken. It was a quarter to five and that’s to be expected. That meant we were in for a long wait. If there’s anything in my life that I hate most, that’s waiting. Just the other day, Mitzi came thirty minutes late for our date and boy, did I blow my top! Mitzi became my girl when we were still in high school and upon graduation, her parents sent her to the States to study and so we split up “for practicality’s sake.” On her return, we found ourselves back into each other’s arms again. Still, she had a lot to learn when it comes to being punctual. What started out as a simple exchange of ungentle words eventually ended up in a bitter argument which saw us turning our backs on each other.

So there I was trying to forget. Tennis is one of the best outlets one can find. Hit the ball hard enough and you can just imagine yourself smashing your life’s problems away into oblivion. If Mitzi and our affair can make me forget the goings on in this damned world and set my racket aside for a while, so can I forget her by keeping myself busy wielding my racket now that she’s gone, so I philosophized. As Eric and I finally had our chance to play, however, I realized I simply can not get my game going. My backhands were a hopeless lot. My forehands were just terrible. My serves almost always land in the net. The first three games alone ended up in the same forgettable score: 40-love. Oh well, life is indeed like a tennis game. The more “loves” you get, the more you lose. Eric could only shake his head. I beat him the last time, you know. “Is something wrong with you?” He asked. I said “No!”

The match commenced in no time at all. I lost. Eric and I took a brisk shower to shed off the smell of sweat. A hotdog sandwich and a bottle of Coke after that saw me searching my pockets for twenty-five centavo coins. I may have lost the game but-- boy! --I won’t allow myself to lose my girl just like that. As I headed for the lobby to get my hands on the nearest pay phone, it dawned on me that my racket won’t help me forget this time. Mitzi was the one who introduced me to the sport in the first place. I dialed the number and it was busy….Darn it!

Copyright ©1984 The New Builder