IN 1998 I received the rare honor of being named Captain of the Philippine squad to the World Team Golf Championship in Santiago, Chile. More than 100 countries regularly play in this biennial meet known globally as the Team Olympics of Golf.
My appointment remains one of the major highlights of my golf foray. I cannot thank Benny Gopez enough for this. It was Benny who recommended me to the coveted post to Gen. Eduardo Ermita. Benny was then the secretary-general of the National Golf Association of the Philippines (NGAP) and Ermita the NGAP president. Ermita (we fondly call him General) would proceed to become the Executive Secretary of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, a position he would serve with distinction.
I visited the General once in his posh Malacañang office in the company of dear friends Tony Sisante and Jake P. Ayson. When the General learned that I’ve retired as sports editor of the Inquirer, he eagerly went out of his way to find me a column-writing job. He called “some people” at Bulletin and Star but, unfortunately (or fortunately?), not one of them could be reached.
As Jake P. Ayson would now love to say, almost each time we are inebriated by what the Indians call “the crazy water,”: “Their loss is BusinessMirror’s gain.”
But back to Chile.
As provided for by tournament rules, every country entered in the World Team Golf is allotted four players, with all of them playing for four days and the best three scores counting each day for the country.
In Santiago I had a very young but extremely talented crew composed of Gerald Rosales, Cookie La’O, the US-based Bong Luna and, yes, Michael Que. If memory serves, all were teenagers, except Rosales. But what I am pretty sure of is, Que was then only 19.
I have always been a realist. Because this was the Golf Olympics, I knew we were up against the tallest of odds.
But that did not deter me from mapping out plans for my boys—true grit and fighting spirit written all over their faces—in my determined bid to give our country a decent finish.
And I think we did.
We finished in the top 20 again I guess, a showing that was consistent with our previous performances which, to my profound delight, drew warm applause from Benny’s delegation members like Tony S. Jake, Sergio Austria, Admiral Luisito Fernandez and the late Rico Javier (may his soul rest in peace).
Twenty years later, my four boys are leading separate lives.
Luna returned to America.
La’O married well and retired young to become a family man.
Gerald Rosales, like Michael Que, plods on, hoping to also hit pay dirt one day.
Only one man is left standing—on the golf course.
In a sense, that is Michael Que today.
Now 39, Michael Que can call himself an accomplished golfer. He had just won the Tokyo Classic’s Tokai Cup, one of Japan’s majors.
It made him a four-time winner on the global stage, having previously won the 2004 Vietnam Masters, 2008 Philippine Open and 2010 Selangor Masters.
Yes, it was 20 years since I kept hammering into the heads of my four boys my humble version of a deathless slogan to score well in the World Team Golf—and in every tournament hence for that matter.
Every morning in 1998 in that somber locker room in Santiago, Chile, before they teed off, I would tell them, in conclusion of my pep talk: “Boys, remembers this always: Greed for the green, not for the pin.”
By just hitting the green, consistently, the birdies will come—almost naturally.
I’d like to think that that’s what it was for Michael Que on Sunday in Tokyo. He hit the greens of 16 and 17 for back-to-back birdies.
He won by two over YE Yang, the South Korean winner of the 2009 PGA Championship.
He won P10.22 million, his biggest paycheck ever.
He won hearts, including mine—his biggest catch.
THAT’S IT When renovations are through to improve the living quarters of our athletes at the Rizal Memorial Sports Complex, one wing of the building should be named “Daraliay Hall” in honor of Rastafari Daraliay, the 11-year-old wushu hopeful who died after falling off from a double-decked bed while asleep at the RMSC team quarters about 3 a.m. on Saturday. What a waste, tragedy.