Please get your foam finger out of my face

It was a strange predicament I found myself in. Walking the school grounds, my sole mobility in stark contrast to the rapidly increasing density of people assembling around the gymnasium. Like bees to a hive, there they were: sleep-deprived college students, saved-up allowance ready to be dished out for UAAP tickets.

The absurdity of the moment was not lost on me, of course, especially because I had access to tickets just the previous night. See, in a family that has made having a cousin or an uncle or an aunt (cheerleaders) in the thick of college basketball every few years, whether as a star player, a cheerleader, or even an assistant coach, tickets seemed to be as available as the tasty paella in family reunions in my aunt’s Merville house.

There they were swarming around the ticket booth. And there I was the previous night with tickets in my hand. I felt? Nothing.

A Brief History of Pseudo -Athleticism

My susceptibility to basketball ambivalence was perhaps written in the stars — or at least my feet. Born flat-footed and prone to illness, me in sports felt about as unnatural as Charlie Sheen in a seminary. From skin asthma (1993) to primary complex (1994), I had it all. I had so much of it, in fact, that it seemed like my doctor was inventing new illnesses to diagnose me with, like furunculosis (2004) — a name so improbable to my chemistry teacher, he decided I was lying. And so, I gravitated towards the arts, a kinder and, at least to me, more nourishing field that played more to my strengths rather than my weaknesses.

A pre-Bulgari Kirsten Dunst be-ing sexy, cute, and popular to boot in Bring It On. Get your ya-yas out!

Not to say that I didn’t try. There were attempts at participating in my uncles’ late afternoon ball games — a practice that ended when one day, I realized that they didn’t want to disrupt their shooting (of balls in hoops) with my proposed shooting (of my Medieval-themed movie, which would’ve given Peter Jackson a run for his money but alas).

There was a lot of pointless trying, actually. I would try basketball, soccer, volleyball, one time even baseball, badminton, and even tennis. The only sport I didn’t embarrass myself at turned out to be aquatic — swimming, which makes sense since one of the characters of my epic move would’ve been a merman in the Sub-Mariner tradition. For four years, I slaved away on my high school’s swimming team — a sort of purgatory for mild high school coolness, where Speedo-wearing was compulsory and the reward was muscle mass and a medal or two (or in my case, none).

I ended up Sub-Mariner when I was gunning for school spirit.

Eventually, college happened and I realized you didn’t have to be an athlete to be cool, my extended family’s and high school’s archaic notions of social hierarchy be damned. You can be exceptional without being athletic — which seems like common sense now but an audacious, even foolish, thought then.

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

It’s a funny concept, school spirit. Win a basketball championship and you’re a school god — a fountain of school spirit and supreme sacrifice. Win something like, say, a debate championship and you get an “Uhm, thanks” — good luck getting decent funding.

“You haven’t watched a game? Ever?” I remember the months nearing graduation and getting that line of questioning a lot. It was usually followed by an “OH MY GOD! Where’s the school spirit?”.I guess it’s all relative when it comes to the definition of school spirit. For me, someone who was the editor of the school paper, I figured hours and hours of editing a day and making sure relevant news reached the student body could also mean “school spirit.”

But hey, that’s just me. I wasn’t toting around a foam finger or anything.

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For your daily dose of post-adolescent angst, tweet me at www.twitter.com/raymondangas.