i couldn’t think of a title so i might as well go with this…

                It hurts less not to care. Tumbled down a flight of stairs? Sure, you’d end up with a few bruises on your shins and your elbows, but a bruised ego? Hardly. Ketchup on your shirt? Even on a date you wouldn’t really give a hoot. Airballed a potentially game-winning free-throw? Your teammates may be crying but you could laugh your tails off.

                “Looks like someone drank some tough juice,” you might think to yourself. But truth be told, when I was much younger I was overly sensitive. Err…okay, so that’s a tad bit of an understatement. Try “had the habit of wailing for several minutes without stopping for a second to inhale to the point of asphyxia.” Whether I was happy, sleepy, hungry, or constipated, I knew only one way to express it: let out a tantrum. But I was under my parent’s dominion. As my dad once said, “It’s my house, it’s my rules.” And in their house I couldn’t cry my way in and out of things. “But you’re too sensitive not to cry,” I thought to myself. So I went for the next best option: stop caring.

So I cared less about school. I studied only fifteen minutes before a test, started working on my projects only hours before its submission, and took downs notes only when…wait, I didn’t take down notes at all! I cared less about our national situation. I jumped straight to the sports section in the newspaper and skipped CNN, ANC, and all those other boring channels when I watched TV.

But if there was one thing that I really couldn’t give the slightest hint of concern about it would be football. I always thought it was the dumbest sport ever. Imagine twenty guys (!) meandering across an over-sized lawn all trying to boot a ball past a net. It may sound simple, but I’ve seen more sense and structure in my five-year old cousin’s essay than in this buffoonery. While all of this nonsense is taking place, two guys just stand waiting on opposing sides of the pitch. I’m not kidding, that’s all that they do. Okay, so there are the occasional contort-your-body-in-the-most-awkward-way-possible-to-prevent-a-goal moments, but all that for a lousy leather ball? Ugh. Cramped legs, stained shorts and ninety minutes later, no one scores. I just couldn’t stand this madness.

Unfortunately for me, I went to a school that boasted of just 400 students. Yep, you read that right: the entire school, not a batch. Instead of inter-batch intramurals, the school was divided into two teams. On one hand, it was easy to select players for the different sports since we didn’t have too many students to choose from in the first place. On the other, we knew we were going to have to field in the dorky guy with the glasses who couldn’t tell his body to turn left. In my case, it was the latter except that I don’t wear glasses. The team desperately needed a goalkeeper. Now, I have no idea what our team captain had for lunch that day, but he figured since I couldn’t kick a ball if my life depended on it I might as well catch it. I reluctantly agreed.

It rained on our first day of training. I sat quietly by the steps of the clubhouse thinking to myself “What on earth am I doing here?” After several minutes of brooding, my teammates finally called me up. I lumbered my way up to my spot between the two posts. One by one, they took a whack at the ball with the hope that they could sail it past me. Now, I don’t speak Tagalog, but to them I say: “ASA BOY!” …Okay, I take that back. There were moments where I found myself unable to react to a shot and embarrassingly concede a goal.

As quickly as Christiano Ronaldo could dart through a football field, the day of the competition arrived. It was only two weeks since I first took up the sport and I could already feel the pressure weighing down on my sweaty palms; with them I could spell success or doom for the team. I started the game at the deepest trenches of the bench. Four goals later, I found myself in between the posts. We got ourselves in quite a fix. Four-nil down didn’t look too promising. It was barely half-way through the first half and defeat was imminent. But hey, it sure helps to calm the nerves! We were down and definitely out, so I had nothing to lose.

A strike! The ball charges at the goal. It never parts with the ground and heads towards the far corner of the goal. I drop my knees and the ball soars out of play. Oohs and aahs. My first save.

Another strike! The ball bounces off the ground and heads towards the post opposite where I stood. I lunge at the ball with my body parallel to the ground. The ball skims past my fingers. Cheers and boos. Goal.

The game ended in a 7-1 bloodbath. Fortunately for us, this was a best-of-three. We still had our chance to redeem ourselves and I had my time to shine. I may have conceded three goals in the first game but they didn’t come by easily. I merited the starting position and was confident that this game was ours. I held them scoreless in the first half while my teammates struck goal twice for their part.

Enter the big guns.

They decided to bring in Team Korea to play the second half against us. Not one of them was Filipino, so it would be safe to assume that these guys really knew how to play. And, boy, did it show. A two goal advantage quickly became an even money bet. We were lucky enough to eke out another goal only to have it negated when they struck for a third time with a few minutes remaining.

3-3. With the game still undecided I didn’t see how I could last playing extra-time. To our surprise, the officials declared a penalty shootout. This time, I no longer had my teammates to bail me out. It was a test of intestinal fortitude. It was keeper versus striker.

Four times I guessed right. The ball went right alright…their right (See! I told you I can’t tell myself to go left!). We missed one of our attempts and if they scored on this last strike the game would be over. I bent my knees, stretched my arms and took a deep breath in anticipation. “Left,” I told myself.

It would fall on deaf ears.

My momentum forced me right. With the corner of my eyes, I saw the gravity of my error. The ball flew past my left shoulder and into a wide open net. An hour’s worth of football was decided by split-second indecision.

On the ground I laid. I laid there weeping, broken yet complete. I haven’t cried this way since I was a kid. After what seemed like an eternity of hiding all my tears in apathy, I found something that I cared about. My heart may have grown calloused but there was still passion burning inside of it. God must have a really good sense of humor for using a game I once bitterly despised to make me realize this.

Could this new found passion in my heart also translate to my academics? To my country? To God? To a girl, perhaps? It may hurt less not to care but I would much rather burn in passion than rot in apathy.

~ by jedomps on March 15, 2008.