Not Your Usual Fairway Tale

A round of golf can be distressing. Not just because of missed birdie putts and slices going beyond golf course boundaries. After more than two years of playing the game, I’ve somehow accepted that these are part of the game -my so-so game. 

Then, my caddy -a  married, female caddy, who, according to the other caddies in my flight, is physically abused by her husband. In times like this, it’s easy to turn from a lousy golfer to a lousy marriage counselor. 

“(Tell her to) Leave the husband,” I suggested to one of the other caddies.

“She can’t,” downright rejecting my bright counsel. “Four kids!”

The simple life I knew, for a brief moment, became like a game of golf for me, difficult and complicated. I searched my golf bag for a brochure on “How to Deal With an Abusive Husband” or “How to Keep a Happy Life Despite Having a Miserable Married Life.” Nothing in the bag that will help. 

Nothing more I can do for now. I switched back to being the lousy but handsome golfer which I consider myself to be. Not a miracle worker.

But miracles do happen when a prayer is lifted. This I believe!

That night, I had a special not-so-golf-related entry to our family prayers.

I raise this morning cup to a better golf game for me and to a better life for someone I hardly knew.

Cheers! 

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Saving The Planet, My Way

Tell me. When was the last time you didn’t do what you were supposed to do, but still made a difference to the planet’s well-being just because?

Yesterday, I saved several liters of water. Because I didn’t take a shower. Or a bath. Or a spritz of steam under my armpits.

I’ve been so used to take one after my afternoon runs which I now do almost everyday. But yesterday, I had to leave early afternoon for a late afternoon meeting with one of my big clients. I came back home around dinner time. Dog tired and mentally-drained, missing a shower was a treat I couldn’t resist. Yeah, when you’re my age, you’d understand.

Hey, I didn’t sweat a half-a-drop yesterday. But even if I did, it would still have been ok because I am an ABCC11 gene carrier. Yep, I don’t smell. Bath or no bath. I’ve never used deodorants toda mi vida.

Which brings me to how much, then, did I contribute to air pollution yesterday? Nada. Zero.

Summary of my contribution to Mother Nature:

  Water saved.

  No air pollution.

  No noise pollution (did not honk horn in traffic).

Conclusion: There are times when being useful means doing nothing at all. That’s efficient living, ain’t it?

I am not declaring war vs. taking a shower. Yesterday just happened the way it did –peacefully. 

God bless Mother Earth.

Cheers!

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Crossings

Long before I’ve picked up the game of golf, I’ve always wondered what’s the inside of a golf hole looks like. Like is there a chance a scorpion lurks in there waiting for a hand? When my brother and my bros-in-law gather, they’d talk seriously about their crazy sport much like cardinals do when electing a new pope. Back then, I didn’t understand why drive a small ball with a long thin stick into a tiny hole hundred yards away under the heat of a scorching sun. No way, Rory. I’ll never play. 

That was then. Now, because I play the crazy game, I understand golfers better. I’ve seen what’s and what’s not inside that hole. And why drive that small ball with a long stick? I’m not telling you!

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Before this K-pop craze and prior to traveling to South Korea, I didn’t like Korean food. I did not approve of the Korean ‘invasion’ of the Philippines -the restos, the students, the music. But after visiting South Korea, I met and befriended some nice Koreans that led to a change of heart… and palate. The travel tamed my own prejudices towards Korea. Now kimchi and ramyeon are a staple food for me. K-drama, too!

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Coffee for me then was piping hot, white and sweet. I didn’t get it when people drink it black. I mean, where’s the fun in a bitter bold brew? Ain’t it supposed to brighten up a sleepy day? But after my son, Andre, brought in his espresso machine, I learned what real coffee is -more than just a simple beverage. The notes. And the aroma. The comfort it brings. The bitterness depreciated slowly until it wasn’t anymore. I am a changed coffee man.

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I could go on with more of these crossing stories: running; having covid; being a father with rowdy little tykes; getting old; losing hair. I’ve jumped from one end of the 38th parallel to the other to learn a lesson.

When you find a connection, you find appreciation and respect.

I raise this cup. Cheers!

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Plant Now, Shade Later

“A society grows old when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.”

This beautiful proverb will sound Greek to you if you’re unconcerned about your grandchildren’s grandchildren. But the ancient Greeks, turned out, did. The not so ancient past and the present are proofs of that, albeit imperfect.

I see myself as an old man because I am. I am turning 62 in a few weeks. Sixty-two in any language, shape and form is old. And I have an opportunity to be that person in the proverb not just because I am old. But also because I am in the present when my actions can help shape the future.

Over the next few months, I am not just flicking a switch or turning a water valve, I will prepare my heart and mind to elect the new leaders of our country.  

I prepare by praying. That God will anoint those that I vote for. That they may not only serve people wholeheartedly but also bring people closer to God, and be pleasing before God.

I prepare by contributing not only my time but also my resources knowing these will not go to waste or be pocketed because I will not be voting for proven thieves and crooks who have enriched themselves thru corruption. I am paying much attention now to my conscience more than ever.

Part of what makes this planting difficult is the fake information out there surrounding those who cannot tell the difference. 

I am only in the present until I am not. And in the shade of the tree I am planting now, I hope many will find rest sitting.

Cheers!

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Learning from the Past

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results –Einstein

I agree with Albert Einstein. But I confess I don’t consistently practice what it promotes.

Like two days ago. After nearly a year, I’ve finally made good use of my health card membership for a blood chem. Clinics and hospitals were last in the list of places I would ever want to go to due to the pandemic. Also, tied in last place were funeral chapels.

And here’s my confession. I was actually hoping -praying that results of my lab tests are ok, esp my uric acid level. For the last few months, my diet consisted of high purine foods I should have avoided. And prayers may just be what I needed for a different result.

In the afternoon, the verdict came. Although my cholesterol and sugar counts were all ok, my uric was off the chart. So silly of me to expect a normal count even if my diet hasn’t changed since the last blood test.

I can’t expect a different result if I did the same thing over and over again:

I can’t expect that my muscle mass to increase if I only did the same weights, the same reps, the same sets every workout;

I can’t expect my resistance to get better if I ran the same frequency, the same route, the same length, the same time, every run;

I can’t expect to have a better bottom line in my business if I employed the same services, the same marketing, the same efforts;

I can’t expect a better country if I elected the same criminals, cheaters, liars and thieves into power. It’s like finding a hammer to hit your stubborn head hard with. It can’t be any clearer than that!

I must do better, think better, choose better. Unless I am a bigger fool myself.

I must learn from the past. I must never forget. 

Cheers!

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And Archie was His Name

I didn’t consider us friends as we only knew each other casually because he was friends with and 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑎𝑑𝑎 of my brother and my cousin. But Archie knew me and I likewise knew him. We came from the same town -Dinalupihan, Bataan.

When I entered as a freshman at #Mapúa, he was already in his 3rd year as a Civil Engineering (CE) student. The only decent conversation I can recall with him was the time I saw him with my brother and cousin in the campus. Knowing that I was new, he asked the standard question:

“How’s college life?” 

“Who is your professor in Math 113?” 

Many students then were avoiding a family of “terror” professors named Magtira. Only a lucky bunch of few made it out alive.

“Ok 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔,” I answered, “Mrs. Magtira-Paulino.”

He laughed hard and wished me luck. His wish may have helped because I got through that class and two more from the same house of terror unscathed.

I didn’t get to see much of him because our school building (EE) is a bit distant from theirs (CE). And, of course, I’ve made my own circle of friends and study groups later on.

The last time I saw him was during a forum in the gym where the daughter of then president Marcos was a guest speaker -Imee Marcos. He was last of those given the chance to ask the speaker a question. His question drew laughter from the audience that somehow didn’t sit well with Ms. Marcos. After the forum, he was whisked away by the bodyguards in broad daylight, and three days later, was found dead -tortured.

Our young minds were terror-struck.

We didn’t know if more students were taken, as the entire media was controlled by Marcos.

We tiptoed our way to school and back every day.

Will they go after his casual friends, too? His 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑎𝑑𝑎?  

News about him in school was transmitted only through whispers. No text messages. No social media.

That was one hellish nightmare we all had to go through as students. None of us deserved it.

Archie, you are remembered. I know how much your family has suffered, especially in chasing that elusive justice for many decades after your brutal death. 

This cup I raise to our casual friendship -albeit shortened.

Cheers!

#ArchimedesTrajano

My First Time

This morning, my barista son asked how my body feels. I showed him a pinky finger. Confused, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

I answered, “No, it’s the only part of me that doesn’t hurt!”

Yesterday, I played the most grueling, most exhaustive, most painstaking, the best and the equally the worst 18-hole game of my life. And that’s not just the reason why Andre asked how I felt this morning because it was my first-ever fairway game. Ever. At 61 years old. A fossil for a new sport.

My initiation to this sport came about when this brittle eggshell of a body finally gave up on playing basketball and tennis. When Tom Watson and Jack Niclaus finally called it quits, I entered the late, late show. So for starters: the usual driving range, Youtube sports academy and dozens of wannabe coaches namely my son and his cousins.

And yesterday was my inaugural. They said the course, compared with all that they’ve played in previously was unforgiving. Too many bunkers. Too many lakes. Too many mounds. When asked what I thought of it, I said, “Too much grass!”

The rules that my two brothers and five of our children and nephews made for me were forgiving, to say the least. They gave me one-grip gimmes and unlimited mulligans but even those I ran out of.

It was very tiring. My skin got burned under the steaming heat of the near-summer sun. I got dehydrated. My fingers blistered. At back nine, my back banged! So why freakin’ play? It’s just my form of relaxation. Let me be.

In life, it’s never too late to be late. I raise this cup to my golf buddies!

Cheers!

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