Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD
I was sitting by the balcony on my condo unit this morning, senna tea in hand, watching the steam rise and curl in the still air. The EDSA Hi-way felt unusually slow outside, as if everyone on the road was in a relaxed mood. But inside my head, it was anything but slow. The headlines I had
read earlier were still tumbling around, refusing to settle. Taiwan defeated Gilas Pilipinas. The Senate decided to archive the case against Vice
President Sara Duterte. Two entirely different worlds, yet somehow, they’ve
been sharing the same space in my thoughts all day, taking turns stirring
something deep in me. They’re two completely different worlds—basketball and
politics—but for some reason, they’ve been playing side by side in my mind like
two games on the same court. And the more I contemplate it, the more I see how
much they have in common.
Basketball is not just a sport here; it’s something that’s
woven into our everyday lives. You see it in the barangays, where kids shoot
hoops on rings nailed to coconut trees, some barefoot, some in slippers that
break mid-play. You feel it in the way neighbors crowd around a flat TV during
big games, shouting as if they’re in the stadium. So, when Gilas lost to
Taiwan, it wasn’t just a loss—it felt personal.
I was watching the game, remembering the days when our
“Bara-Bara” style was feared in Asia. No set plays, no rigid systems—just
instinct, grit, and passion. We’d make the kind of shots that coaches would
never dare to draw on a whiteboard. But against Taiwan, the old magic didn’t
seem to work. The players had the heart, yes, but not the same unity of
purpose. It was as if each one was playing his own version of the game. Taiwan,
on the other hand, played like a team that knew exactly what it wanted and exactly
how to get it. It hurt to watch because it wasn’t just about missing baskets—it
was about missing connection.
Not long after, I saw a US news headline: the Philippine Senate
had archived the VP Sara Duterte case. I feel so tired and don’t know how to
react; I just sat there, letting it sink in. I could almost hear the noise from
both sides—supporters breathing a sigh of relief, critics feeling robbed of a
chance for accountability. Social media was ablaze with passion. The emotions felt
familiar, like watching a close game where the referee makes a call that half
the crowd loves and the other half hates.
The thing about basketball is, you can always play another
game. The scoreboard resets. But in politics, the decisions linger. They shape
the rules of the next game before it even starts.
That’s when I realized what was bothering me. Both in
basketball and in politics, we seem to have this “bara-bara” way of doing
things. In sports, it can offer us glorious moments but also painful defeats. In
politics, it’s riskier. Impulsive decisions and hasty reactions can result in lost opportunities for the country.
It also made me think about how emotional we are as a
people. We love hard, we fight hard, and we take everything to heart. When our
team loses, we question the whole program. When a political case is dismissed,
we question the entire system. It’s because we care. Sometimes too much,
sometimes in the wrong way, but always from a place of wanting better.
The challenge is what to do with all that emotion.
Respecting results doesn’t mean going quiet. We can talk about what went wrong,
study it, and learn from it—just like a coach studying game replays. Our passion
will always be our trademark, but it needs a plan to go with it.
Whether it’s on the court or in the halls of government, the
goal should be the same: work toward something bigger than ourselves. That
means learning to filter through the noise, fight misinformation, and focus on
the truths that matter. It means celebrating the small wins—even in the middle
of a loss—because those wins remind us that there’s still something worth
building on.
People say we need to bring back the heart. I think we never
lost it. What we need is the soul—that deeper sense of purpose that connects
everything we do. I imagine a Philippine team, whether in sports or politics,
made up of people who know they’re part of a bigger picture. Not just playing
for stats, not just making moves for personal gain, but working as if every
pass, every decision, every sacrifice is for the country.
If we can do that, then our losses—whether to Taiwan or in a
Senate session—won’t break us. They’ll shape us into something stronger, sharper, and more united.
Gilas losing and the VP Sara Duterte case aren’t just
stories in the news to me. They’re mirrors. They show us our strengths, our
flaws, and the path we could take if we’re brave enough to learn. Unity doesn’t
mean we have to agree on everything; it means we’re willing to commit to the
same bigger dream.
So maybe the challenge isn’t to bring back the heart—it’s to
bring back the soul of the Filipino. Ready to play, ready to lead, ready to
win—not just for ourselves, but for the nation we all claim to love.
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