THE virus veers us away from the usual. That’s because Covid-19 paralyzed practically the universe.
No games so no gyms.
No plays and shin-busting so no pitches.
No three-point shootouts so no arenas.
No cheering as coliseums are closed.
No queues as ticket booths are shuttered.
Empty parking lots at the Cubao Big Dome. Smokeless hot dog/burger stands. Popping popcorns gone silent.
In short, no events at all so nothing to write about. Nada.
What to do in this eerie dead-air situation when topics for sportswriters have become as scarce as rains in summer, as invisible as a bank deposit of a businessman gone bankrupt?
Improvise. Rummage through my souvenirs? Or diary time? Either way, go.
It was almost 20 years ago today when the XXVII (27th) Olympics played in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia.
Before the Games could begin on September 15, 2000 (ending October 1), I flew to Sydney one week ahead of the opening ceremonies. You know, I had to fix my habitat at the Olympic Village.
For one, I needed to install my war room within the confines of the Olympic Village, where I was one of more than a thousand sportswriters around the world were billeted. You know, my laptop connections, modems and e-mail traffic, anything about transmitting my stories to the Inquirer real fast—direct from my foxhole for nearly three weeks.
For another, I had to acquaint myself with the Aussie transport. From the Olympic Village where I stayed to the Olympic Stadium where the massive Press Center was located was a train ride lasting about 30 minutes. Since the train system to me was as alien as online banking, I made several roundtrip stints to really master travel time and the route. You miss one coverage due to tardiness, your day is fucked up.
Thank God, I never missed one beat. Even as I had to produce a minimum of five stories a day (one was my interview of Venus Williams, the female tennis gold medalist that year).
That was a ton of stories a day, considering that we didn’t have athletes good enough to be competing for medals. Truth to tell, we didn’t win even a single bronze that year, a far cry from our silver finish in the 1996 Atlanta Olympiad from boxer Onyok Velasco.
Well, we did almost crash into the medal tally in Sydney but for a bum officiating that robbed our boxer surnamed Ladon of a quarterfinal stint.
After the debacle, I distinctly remember what the late Mel Lopez, the former Manila mayor and our feisty national boxing president then, whispered to me—almost sobbing: “Sorry, Al, but we didn’t have enough money for the referees and judges.”
Sad, but if it was happening then, it does still today. The reason why our Olympic moguls have barred boxing federation officials from overseeing the 2020 Tokyo Olympic slugfest. Pathetic.
THAT’S IT The historic Rizal Memorial Coliseum, built in 1954 for the Manila Asian Games, is now one of Metro Manila’s improvised quarantine stations for Covid-19 patients. It was refurbished for the just-ended SEA Games where world champion Carlos Yulo easily won the gymnastics’ floor exercise gold.