Skywalker memories

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; – Rudyard Kipling, “If”

Samboy Lim made us believe that a Filipino could fly. Although his gravity-defying skill also came with a heavy price (10 surgeries), his daredevil acrobatics thrilled us no end. He was probably the first basketball superhero in the country, a Superman on the court, and a mild-mannered Juan dela Cruz with a quick wit off it. He never said anything bad about anybody, and was always willing to lend a helping hand. Moreover, he loved basketball to the very end. He played it, taught it, talked about it, lived it, well past the point where most others had moved on to something else. It’s ironic that someone who valued physical strength and ability like he did succumbed the way he did.

This writer first became aware of the Skywalker even before he was christened such. The 1985 Jones Cup, the year before I graduated and entered the workforce, was his coming-out party for me. The US led by six just after the first half, when Samboy and his best buddy Allan Caidic each hit a three-point shot, then a little used tool laughed at as a gimmick. The Americans were stunned, unprepared for such a fightback, and despite having two future NBA players on the roster, lost.

Four years later, I joined Vintage Enterprises as a courtside reporter and halftime show producer. I interviewed Samboy when he was healthy. In 10 seasons in the PBA, he only completed one, and was named to the Mythical Second Team. I still have the photo of us from the 1990 PBA All-Star Game, when, injury-free, he was named Most Valuable Player. That season, he and Allan bannered the unprecedented first all-pro team that preceded (and I insist, superseded) the US Dream team. Few people knew that he had been playing with a torn shoulder, and was being injected with painkillers before very game. But when Coach Robert Jaworski needed a basket, he would put the ball in Samboy’s hands.

After he retired, I would play against him in the broadcasters’ tournament organized by San Miguel Corporation. Well into his 40s, he would score in the 40’s effortlessly, with casual jumpers and lay-ups. Once in a while, he would still dunk, just to assure himself that he still could. He would squeeze my arm and ask me if I had been working out, which I never did. It was his way of telling you that he wanted you to take care of yourself. He would never say anything that might offend anybody. I always aspired to be like him in that respect, though I rarely could. As an opponent, he would make you feel woefully inadequate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to dislike him. Nobody could. He was just using his skills, skills that were touched by the Divine. Who could hate that?

I last spoke with Samboy three weeks before he was struck down by stroke. We sat down in Dumlao Gym, where he was doing his Skywalker basketball clinics. It was probably the last interview he ever gave, at least the last one on-camera. He talked about life and basketball, avoiding anything serious, appreciating the life that basketball had led him to Letran to the youth team to NCC and, after EDSA, straight into the PBA.

Why do we wax lyrical about Samboy Lim? He had distilled life for us into intense, exciting moments that we always looked forward to. I’ve always had a soft spot for high flyers and players who could work under the basket: Julius Erving, Freddie Hubalde, Samboy. But the Skywalker was different. He played with such abandon, soaring – and often crashing – the way many of us were afraid to. Everyone wants to fly up to the glorious sun like Icarus. But very few, like Samboy, truly did. It was even hard to envy him. He never rested on his ability, but maximized it, another uncommon trait. For Filipino basketball fans, we will miss both sides of the coin: the superpowered basketball demigod who flew above, and the ordinary man who walked among us.