Walang Basagan Ng Trip: How my Mamita and everyone in my family found out that I am schizophrenic
My Mom, utterly bored from the Pacquiao-Bradley undercard, decided to watch Game 7 of the Heat-Celtics Eastern Conference Championship with her three sons and two of my Am-boy cousins. I don’t know what the hell went into her mind, but this was like me watching Englebert Humperdinck with my Lolo and Lola.
She sat beside me on my cousin’s Lazy Boy couch. Mamita witnessed how I was screaming at the screen, at a certain Brandon Bass, trying to teach this NBA player the proper way to defend Cyborg LeBron. “Tangina Bass! Bobo mo! Sag lang, sag off! Make him take the jumper! Fuck!” (#HOFSHMH hand on face, shake my head)
Yes, I was repeatedly going ballistic at the TV screen, as LBJ kept on leaving B-Bass in the dust during the waning moments. (as if he was an MMDA official trying to flag down an 18-wheeler driven by someone hell-bent on running him over). For me, the very slim chance of my rage magically sending electric signal to knock some sense into him was the only thing I, and the Boston Celtics were hanging on at that point. That was dumb, but I was counting on it out of desperation.
But LeBron finally figured it out. He knew he was the best player on the court and he was acting like it; so much so that Mother compared her to Michael Jordan (maybe the only basketball player she knew before LeBron and James Yap, and after the Crispa-Toyota guys). At that point, with The King going berserk, all what’s left was for that deep Mortal Kombat voice (FINISH HIM!) to prompt His Highness and Friends to send my C’s to their Fatality.
Their apparent demise was causing involuntary movements on my body. It seemed like I was a schizophrenic on an insane interval, and I could FEEL everyone laughing at me with restraint. Even though my eyes were as focused on the screen as if I was watching HD porn, the gravity of them taking pleasure at my vulnerability was annoying, because I thought it was affecting the outcome of the game. Their reactions pushed me to my emotional edge. I was about to break down.
And then, with less than sixty ticks left in the game, my eyes started to get full and puffy. And then I saw Doc Rivers teary-eyed. I was teary-eyed too. And then out of nowhere, Mamita tried to comfort me, “Bab (her term of endearment and short for “Baboy” because I used to gobble two Big Macs when I was a kid), Okay lang ‘yan.” And just like that, IT happened. Those three words hit home.
I started to sob. I tried to hold them back, but the tears kept falling like Shane Battier’s 3’s. Everyone instantly stopped laughing and there was awkward silence in the room. They were shocked that I cried over a basketball game. I’ve created a force field that repelled everyone from me — including Mamita.
So she silently left the room like a ghost. I guess my sadness pushed her away. But if there was one certain thing she walked away with, it was this realization: Wow. That’s how much my son cares about the Boston Celtics.
Tsismis spreads like cold peanut butter (uneven with some details left out) and fire in the Raya clan. That’s why I was prepared to take the crybaby jokes the next day.
With the typical all-girls private school accent, my sister launched the barrage, “Ku-yuh, why do you care-uh so much about Boston?”
I stared them down with KG eyes and said, “I’m a Celtic!!!”. And then I pumped my chest so hard and followed up with, “Bakit ikaw baliw na baliw ka kay Katniss?! Walang basagan ng trip!”