Dad’s home

It’s easy for me to tell in detail the story of how and why I–someone who never played a sport in her life–became a sportswriter.

Simply, it’s all because of my Dad.

My Dad used to take me to ball games often when I was a kid. I remember peeking from the corridors heading into the court of Cuneta Astrodome, taking in the sights of the packed bleachers. We didn’t get seats since we didn’t get tickets because my Dad only had a pass that got us entry into the coliseum and that was it. We just stood wherever we could to watch whichever PBA teams were playing.

My Dad used to record the 1997 and 1998 NBA Finals games on the Betamax (or was that already a VHS?) that aired in the mornings so he could watch them when he got home from work. But the devious child in me got to those tapes first, and I would watch the Bulls-Jazz rivalry unfold with fascination despite having little knowledge of the sport I was watching.

My Dad would lock himself in the master’s bedroom each night his favorite team was playing while we were all banished to the living room to watch something else. I remember hearing his frantic shouts when Ginebra makes a run. I even remember him crying in pain because, as he would later tell us, he hit his knee somewhere when he was jumping for joy over some exciting Ginebra play.

My Dad was a Ginebra fan, so I was a Ginebra fan. I was able to watch Gordon’s Gin Boars’ 1997 PBA Commissioner’s Cup championship and learn Gary Granada’s Ginebra song by heart because he recorded those games, too.

My Dad used to bring home those popular sleazy tabloids (with the pages where there were naked women already ripped off LOL) and hang them on the mounted rack behind the bathroom door, and I vividly remember reading the cycling stories in the sports section with great interest–because at that point, any sport managed to draw me in.

My Dad can be mean when he watches sports (and truth be told, even when he wasn’t watching), so I always imagined us watching the games together and talking smack about how dumb the referees were or how our team’s players needed to get booted out. It would’ve been something that we could’ve done every Sunday.

But he moved halfway across the world to give us a better life, and everything I imagined turned out quite the opposite.

I remember him telling me–while in the throes of our family as we know it ending and his reluctant move to the US–that I only wanted this career so I could go chasing basketball players, and not really for reasons related to writing. So I had to carve my path into sportswriting all by myself–with no one to take me to the games or mansplain the plays to me while we watched on TV.

But look, I still made it.

My Dad finally flew back home in 2020, after 17 years of being away. It should’ve been a feel-good story of a longtime homecoming–if only he wasn’t coming back with his right body paralyzed after a debilitating stroke. Yes, my Dad was here again–but with his negativity multiplied tenfold and his will to live just gone.

Watching the game together never happened again. Maybe not in the way I used to remember.

Because now, when I watch the Gilas Pilipinas games from the couch for work with my Dad sitting on his Lazyboy in the corner of the living room, he and I would exchange comments about how a certain coach should get fired or how this player should be replaced. We celebrated the Philippines’ gold medal win in the Asian Games together in our living room, too.

My Dad doesn’t shout and curse at the TV anymore over excruciating calls or clap like a maniac during wild comebacks like I used to remember him do. Hilariously, it was my turn to do all those things now.

So no, playing sports growing up wasn’t the reason why I got into this career. It also just wasn’t a beat I stumbled on because they had no space for me in news or lifestyle. I wanted to be here. I’ve wanted to write sports as far as I can remember, and there was one person to thank for it.

Sure, maybe I’ve mixed up some of these memories. Maybe I’ve embellished some of these anecdotes over the years of trying to make my career origin story sound better than it really was. But the one thing I’m sure I didn’t make up was this: it was my Dad, with his tough love and sharp tongue, who unknowingly steered me into this dream I’m living.

Six crazy years since

So it’s been six years. Six unimaginable years of countless heartbreakers, several life crises, a pandemic–A FREAKIN’ PANDEMIC IN THIS DAY AND AGE–and the inevitable mental health issues that came along with all that hot mess. But here I am, going back to my bloggercore that has so helped me get through tough shit at every life phase.

Instead of talking my myself on Twitter and exposing my crazy to people I work with (and yes, hi, I’m still in the field of sports), why don’t I ramble on here?

I guess you can say this is the official story of my survival after what has been hellish last four years of this life. I guess, yes, the following facts I’m going to list down are worth celebrating, considering I’m still here.

Well… I’m 34 now, but I’m still a reluctant mother to a soon-to-be teen (yes, can you believe the baby I have been talking about here is turning 9? Insane).

I lived through my mom–my bestest friend in the world–leaving my side for the first time in this lifetime to go abroad; my dad suffering a debilitating stroke and living with us for the first time since I was in my teens; a pandemic that took three years of my life I will never get back; finally freeing myself from my life’s WORST decision (lmao) but leaving me ultimately alone; and being diagnosed with clinical depression with anxiety.

Oh! and I also went back to my fangirl roots (but more of that later. I GOT SO MANY STORIES TO TELL).

Wait. Yes, I survived. But still just barely. Is that something you celebrate? I guess that’s up to me to define.

But if you ask the me today–the version of me who is making a comeback to blogging (for god’s sake) when everyone else is making money off Youtube clips and Twitter engagements–I’m not faring any better than the person who used to write diligently here six years ago, with all her early motherhood issues and different versions of heartbreaks.

When does it get better? Who can tell? Oh well. Welcome back to me, anyway.

Everything I ate in New York

I want to tell you everything about New York and how in love I am with this city. There’s something about walking in its streets that makes you want to do it everyday for the rest of your life. I can’t say the same about taking the subway, but you get my point. It’s an amazing place, but I don’t think my writing can ever do it justice.

Aside from working (yeah, sigh), mindlessly walking around, drinking beer, lounging on park benches and scouring for cheap kicks, what I constantly did in three weeks was eat (a lot). I consumed a copious amount of beer, ice cream, and pizza because that’s what New York is all about (at least that’s the part of New York I can afford).

So how do I tell the story about my trip? Let me show it to you through food.

Missing Hong Kong? Do a Binondo food crawl

This time last year, we were roaming the streets of Mongkok and getting our hands on every street food we could see in Hong Kong. Our afternoons were spent gobbling down waffles lathered with peanut butter and condensed milk and fish balls swimming in spicy sauce and getting drunk on milk tea.

Since a Hong Kong food trip this year is out of the question (but I’m going to Bangkok!!! wooohoo), we settled for Binondo instead for our Chinese food cravings. I realized that I’ve been to Binondo several times (just for the food), but I’ve never eaten anything outside of Wai Ying and Eng Bee Tin. Thanks to the Filipino foodies, I got an idea how to change that.

Disclaimer: I don’t know how to describe food (but I’m going to try). I just know what I like! 😀

Of banana boat rides, wine toasts and super friends

In the middle of my crazy schedule, I found the time to fly to the Bahamas and vacation with my crew. I don’t always go on banana boat rides, but when I do, it’s with my homies LeBron, DWade, Melo, home girl Gabrielle and hubby CP3.

Best banana boat ride ever.

(I say the more ridiculous things below.)

Expectations vs Reality

Tonight, I am at the beach house. I find that everything is a mess, but I just don’t have the strength to do anything about it. Not tonight. I open the fridge, pop open a bottle of Merlot and walk out to the front porch. I sit on the slightly damp couch. It has been raining the past few days so everything around me is wet. I set down my glass of wine, and put my feet up. It has been another exhausting week, and my mind finally gave out. The tabs I’ve been wanting to close for weeks finally crashed. My head is blank but I let the sound of the crashing waves fill my head. I stare at the long stretch of beach surrounding my house. It looks pristine even under the pale moonlight, but not as beautiful as when the sun is shining mightily over it and I could see the sand sparkling in between my toes as I my footprints during my morning walks.

I wait. It’s one of those rare times I’m at home and do the waiting. So I fill my glass over and over until I have drained the bottle. That’s my cue to go to bed. It’s late, but I’m still alone.

I walk up to my bedroom and find that like the rest of the house, it’s also a mess. The bed is unmade, some papers have flown because I left the window open all day. But I just walk right past them and lie down on my side of the bed. The pillows are cold. Everything’s cold. But not for long.

I doze off. I find that it’s easier to just fall asleep when you’re mind’s not racing and chasing ideas after the other. This is the dream.

Tomorrow, I will wake up. There won’t be crashing waves, but just the sound of rain violently pounding on the rooftop. I will find myself in a bed too small for 3 people in poorly-painted room. The first thing I will see before my eyes could even fully adjust is an assortment of clothes hanging where it shouldn’t be. Everything’s a mess here, too. Because whichever reality I’m in, mess follows me.

I will be welcomed to a brand new day by the sound of an infant crying, and suddenly all the thousand thoughts that I worked so hard to fend off last night will come rushing right back. This is reality.

The picky TV geek is in a coma

Tonight, for the first time in a long time, I had a chance to watch TV. I had a few hours to kill and with my backlog of shows begging to be trimmed down, tonight would’ve been a perfect place to start.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I spent that few golden hours in between Elle falling asleep and me needing to follow suit just staring at the ceiling, not moving an inch.

So this I ask with all the emotions I could muster: what the fuck happened to you, Celest?

Didn’t TV use to be my life? Every chance I got, I watched. TV used to be my escape. You could insult me and say, “Dude, you’re really overreacting it’s just TV.” But here’s the thing, it never was for me. TV was life. It was passion. It got me through the rough days. It transported me to places I wanted to be when I Hated where I was. It got me through heartbreaks. It got me through the worst part of raising a newborn–the sleepless nights. TV was there. TV was best friend.

And for me to just give up on it without a fight, is just sad and incredibly inconsiderate of me. What’s even sadder is I couldn’t give the decency of a logical explanation. But honestly, even I am stumped. Hundreds of episodes sitting there unwatched, headed to waste.

But there’s really no point in resuscitating something that’s not responding any longer. Tonight confirmed something, I’m ready to give up on TV for now.

Here’s to hoping somewhere along the road, I get the surge of energy to go chasing after you, TV. I’m going to love you back, one episode at a time.

(Though the picky TV geek in me is a coma, this blog, however, will continue to live. At least if you can call one blog post per every two months as living.)

Save Me

The TV geek in me is dying a slow, painful death.

Facial Hair Glory

My love for men with facial hair isn’t a secret. It’s all over my web feeds. Just look at how I obsess over Stephen Amell every day. Though my lust, uhm, love for him goes beyond his stubble. Have you seen those arms?!

Back to the point.

Honestly, there’s nothing sexier than a man with perfect five o clock shadow. Pretty boys don’t have a space in my heart, rugged looking men with slightly unkempt facial hair, however…

Anyway, where else can I find these men to swoon over when my partner can’t grow a`decent beard to save his life? On TV, of course. Through out the years of I’m extensive fangirling, I have come up with a list of men whose hotness levels are through the roof just because of, you guessed it, facial hair.

Overcoming my fear

I’m afraid of many things. Aren’t we all?

And don’t we do the things we do just to never face those fears? When we’re scared of failure, don’t we strive to be better just to never end up on our asses?

That’s what I did, well, tried to do.

My mother had me when she was 19, and life didn’t quite turn out the way she wanted it to be. To put it bluntly, kids got in the way. I saw that with my own eyes. I saw how she gave her self away and how she put our needs above hers. She wanted to be many things, but she would never leave her family just to chase those. Seeing my mother give her life, sacrifice so much and sometimes never get anything in return, that’s when I developed a fear of being a mother.