ONE by one, they are leaving.
Jun “Bote” Bautista, Raffy Marcelo and Benjie Castro. All brilliant broadcasters. Gone. Upps, include Hermie Rivera, the boxing manager-cum-sportscaster; gone, too.
Butch del Castillo, Cip Roxas and, just last week, Roy Acosta. All eminent newspapermen. Gone. Upps, include Monica Feria; gone, too.
Bote and Raffy were both my golf buddies and glass mates. Only until recently did I learn from Ray Butch “Elvis” Gamboa of Bote’s real name: Augurio Camu.
Raffy was one of a kind. At the height of our golf madness during the much-dreaded martial-law years, Raffy would almost willingly absent himself from his anchor job at GMA 7’s 6 p.m. newscast in exchange for another 18 holes of golf at Veterans in Quezon City.
I am the “accidental” godfather of his child. During one drunken spree after 36 holes of golf, Raffy said to me: “You will be the godfather of my new-born son.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are the craziest person I’ve ever met,” Raffy said. “Much crazier than me.”
Benjie was the dzSR studio anchor, when I was still doing Philippine Basketball Association radio analysis. His father, Angelo Sr., was my poker mate and glass mate, as well. Before signing off, Benjie had a radio show featuring only The Beatles every Saturday.
Hermie was the manager of former world boxing champions Luisito “Lindol” Espinosa and Morris East. He was the late Joe Cantada’s sportscasting partner in boxing. Hermie loved to buy me neckties and drinks when he came a-visiting from his base in Newark, San Francisco, California.
Butch and Cip were great business writers and columnists/editors who I had the pleasure of sharing unforgettable moments together while killing a bottle quite a lot of times at the National Press Club.
Monica was a dear friend of writer-journalist-poet Sol F. Juvida. Through Sol’s brokering, Monica acquired my first car: a Mini Cooper van—virtually for a song.
Now to Roy Acosta. He was the Inquirer’s managing editor when I was a sports columnist of the same paper.
As the Inquirer’s second in command, Roy’s main job was to whip his reporters into tip-top shape at all times. He was a drillmaster, whose booming voice struck fear to the weak of hearts—and to those sleeping on their job.
You’d either love or hate him.
Those who hated him were always on the lookout for faults. When they found one, they pounced on Roy like crazy.
It was, of course, a trumped-up charge—a case that had really no leg to stand on.
Not wanting to dignify his accusers, Roy resigned—as only men of dignity would.
Some years later, Roy and I would work together again. He was this paper’s managing editor when Popong Andolong allowed me to start my motoring column here in 2007.
After about a year later, Roy, then this paper’s editor in chief, gave sports editor Jun Lomibao the green light for my “That’s All” column.
For the record, both columns—resurrected from the Inquirer—had the say-so, of course, of Boss Anton. Thanks again, Boss.
Then it happened. Roy left this paper. Things happen for a reason, you know.
But after a little while, word was out that Roy would be back.
“Just threshing out some kinks,” Boss Anton said to me.
Then Roy got sick. Next thing we hear, Roy’s dead.
“We lost a hidden hero of Philippine journalism,” wrote Recah Trinidad in his well-read Inquirer sports column last week.
Red Smith called his departed friends, “absent friends”.
I call them vacationers. They leave, but not forever.
THAT’S IT Whether it’s Japan or South Korea that Gilas Pilipinas will be facing next, doesn’t matter. At the rate Gilas is bamboozling the opposition, no more reason to panic at this point.