*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
I watch basketball the way I study governance—slowly, quietly, and always suspicious of noise. Years of observing power, whether in government corridors, law-enforcement classrooms, or inside basketball arenas, have taught me one hard truth: arrogance always shows itself early. It hides behind confidence, applause, and the illusion of instant importance.
That is why the statement “Hindi ko kilala si Raymond Aguilar—ano ba average niya sa PBA? ” hit me deeply.
When Juan Gomez de Liaño publicly said he had “never heard of” Raymond Aguilar and even questioned his averages, it was more than trash talk. It was a worldview exposed. As a basketball fan, I shook my head. As a political analyst, I felt uneasy. As a public safety and law enforcement educator, I recognized the pattern immediately. I have heard the same tone from young officials who believe popularity replaces accountability and early success excuses disrespect.
Raymond Aguilar is not just another player. He is a long-time substitute center of Barangay Ginebra San Miguel, one of the most storied franchises in Philippine basketball. You do not last that long in a team like Ginebra by accident.
The issue began during the PBA Season 50 Philippine Cup quarterfinals when Aguilar parodied Gomez de Liaño’s premature in-game celebration—a moment that quickly went viral. Instead of letting the moment pass, the response escalated online. The question that followed—“What does he average tho? (PBA)”—reduced value to numbers alone.
That question misses the point.
Raymond Aguilar responded not with insults, not with a press conference, but with quiet symbolism. He wore a shirt that read “Mr. Never Heard.” No shouting. No online war. Just a silent reminder that some of the most important people in any institution are never the most visible.
Raymond Aguilar has spent years doing the uncelebrated work—providing frontcourt depth, absorbing contact, mentoring quietly, and being present when stars rest or falter. He has been part of seven championship teams, not because he demanded attention, but because he accepted responsibility. In governance terms, he is the career civil servant who never trends but keeps the agency running. In law enforcement, he is the senior officer who corrects behavior before misconduct becomes scandal.
Even Tim Cone, a coach known for discipline and zero tolerance for entitlement, has consistently valued Aguilar’s presence. Keeping a player for so many years in a championship-driven system is not charity—it is trust. It means that beyond minutes and numbers, this player understands the system, protects the culture, and preserves institutional memory. In government, these are the people who keep agencies standing when politics shakes them.
What unsettled me most about JGDL’s remarks was not just the disrespect, but the logic behind it. Hindi ko kilala. Ano ba average niya? This is exactly how corruption begins.
In public service, corruption rarely starts with stealing money. It starts with arrogance. It starts when young officials dismiss senior staff because they are “unknown,” ignore auditors because they are “not popular,” and treat institutions as obstacles instead of safeguards. It begins when worth is measured only by visibility and numbers.
JGDL’s arrogance mirrors this danger perfectly.
As a rookie enjoying early success, he is still in the phase where the system has not fully adjusted. Defenses have not yet closed in. Scouting reports are incomplete. In governance terms, this is the period before a full audit, before the Commission on Audit steps in, before compliance checks, before command responsibility is enforced. Early success creates the illusion of invincibility. And illusion, when left unchecked, becomes entitlement.
That entitlement is the seed of corruption.
I have taught law-enforcement officers who started strong—brilliant even—but collapsed later because they believed early praise exempted them from rules. They questioned elders. They mocked procedure. They treated discipline as insecurity. When accountability finally came, they were unprepared—because arrogance had already replaced humility.
That is why veteran correction matters.
Raymond Aguilar’s response was not personal—it was institutional. In governance, we call this early intervention. In law enforcement, corrective discipline. It is leadership saying: we correct this now, or we pay for it later. Silence would have been more dangerous. Silence is how arrogance becomes culture, and culture—once corrupted—destroys teams and governments alike.
Barangay Ginebra did not win championships on stars alone. They won because men like Raymond Aguilar accepted roles that never make highlight reels but save seasons. Backup center. Insurance. Stability. In government, these are the people who keep records clean, processes followed, and institutions standing long after administrations change.
Raymond Aguilar did not start this issue.
He simply refused to let disrespect pass unchecked.
As a basketball fan, I admire talent.
As a political analyst, I fear unchecked power.
As a public safety and law enforcement educator, I know where arrogance leads.
The moment a person measures worth only by visibility and numbers, corruption has already begun.
And so, to the young athletes chasing applause and the young public officials chasing influence, hear this from someone who has seen both triumph and collapse up close: talent will open doors, but only humility will keep them open. Do not fear audits—they protect you. Do not resent oversight—it saves you. Learn to listen before you speak, to serve before you demand, to respect before you rise. Because the game—like governance—will eventually audit you.
In the end, I return to what Barangay Ginebra has always stood for—Never Say Die. It is more than a chant shouted by fans in red. It is a declaration of values. It is the refusal to surrender to arrogance. It is the belief that discipline outlasts noise, and humility outlives entitlement.
Corruption, like premature celebration, always thinks it has already won. It mocks the quiet workers. It underestimates the veterans. It believes power, numbers, and visibility make it untouchable. But the game is never over. Audits come. Accountability tightens. Command responsibility is enforced. And those who endured—those who served quietly, corrected early, and refused to quit—are the ones still standing.
Raymond Aguilar’s journey reminds us that corruption is not beaten by arrogance, but by patience; not by noise, but by consistency; not by shortcuts, but by character. Never Say Die is the belief that even when institutions are shaken, they can still rise—because integrity has endurance.
And as long as there are athletes who respect the game, public servants who honor their oath, and citizens who refuse to surrender to cynicism, corruption will never have the final word.
Because in this country—like in Barangay Ginebra—we do not give up, we do not bow to arrogance, and we do not stop fighting until the right side wins. Never. Say. Die.
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