Almost forty-years ago, at the age of twenty-four, I went to the Philippines to act in the movie Hamburger Hill, one of a trilogy of Vietnam movies, that came out between 1986-1987 along with Platoon and Full Metal Jacket. During filming I wrote a novel/chronicle/prose-poem/military log. I never published it or even showed it to anyone, but have now dug it back out.
November 3, 1986
Sunday morning, 1100 hours. I am walking over to a basketball court/parking lot across from the San Mig restaurant to see if any early birds are celebrating the Sabbath full court. They are not, so, it occurs to me to combine my basketball jones with my desire to hop a jeepney, urban explorer/archaeologist fantasy, which had been receiving constant postponement.
I jump on a jeepney and head deep into the ragged outskirts, the concrete turning to cardboard, the tile to corrugated tin. The beer halls are open, the sweatshops are open, the churches are open, the sewers are open. I pass a b-ball court going thirty kilometers an hour, but there are no soldiers manning, and so I press on, still searching, passing pesos between the driver and the passenger who just got on board.
I ride deeper, yet, the roads turning to dirt, and after a near head-on with three goats, I see exactly what I’m looking for; a neighborhood, street with boys on the block and a weathered wooden square stuck to lamppost with a wobbly rim and shoelace net. The court/street is red-brown dirt and on it gallop a handful of twelve-year-olds, bouncing a ball so bald it barely has any orange left. I tap the driver on the shoulder and ask him to stop, but he just slows ways down, and off I leap into the world of barrio basketball.
I stand by the hoop and watch for a minute, drawing curious looks from people of all ages. I had no idea how I would be perceived-- As whitey in the wrong part of town or some bleached novelty inspiring giggles and whispers? I was hoping to be a roundball ambassador and hero of the proletariat, but at this point I’ll settle for a couple of jump shots and a smile here or there.
So, here I am, standing in the middle of a Manila barrio, watching some young Filipinos play our game, and having a very good time when my status gets upgraded from observer to participant and the ball placed in my hands. Seven Filipino kids stare at me like I’m a magician at a birthday party. Their first question, of course, can you dunk? I can barely touch the rim, so I shake my head and they laugh with disappointment. I squeeze the ball, which feels like a large peeled onion in my hands, give it a few bounces on the loose gravel-dirt, then take a lay-up while slapping the backboard. The funky non-dunkers move. They appreciate it.
I’m on my fifth jumper when I notice seven kids have turned to forty. They encircle me, watching with great seriousness. It’s like a cultural audition for the role of the American ballplayer, and whenever I look up another pair of incredible brown eyes are focused on me.
I perform for around five minutes when a strong young man about sixteen, steps out of the crowd and walks toward me like a brown Wyatt Earp. He is their chosen warrior: barefoot, gold-toothed, the veins in his neck like the roots of a mighty tree. Chants of “one on one” spread like malaria, the kids now holding hands in excitement
And, so it is to be, that I, looking to find a little exercise and check out how the locals live, am now engaged in a beautiful waltz of sport and pride, standing in the middle of a large human circle with a ball, a hoop, his dreams, and the knowledge that I am not going to let this kid beat me no matter what.
I make a foul shot and get the ball first, then drive hard to the left and score. They cheer for me like I grew up above the cock fighting joint across the street! The screaming starts and they urge the warrior to retaliate, and bring glory to the neighborhood, which he does with some nifty ball handling and a nice touch from ten feet. He furiously tries to hold back a smile that is wrestling with his upper lip, and when I give him a high-five on a nice turnaround jumper, a few teeth break through the dam of his mouth.
The fans cheer loudly as we trade moves and hoops, many girls now watching and a slew of old men gathered behind the basket, pumping their fists and baring their gums. Mothers watch from cinder block second-stories, babies in their arms, and cars stop in the street to see what all the hub-bub is about.
I finally prevail, 11-8 but he’s thrilled the crowd with behind the back dribbles and twisting shots. When my last jumper goes through the hoop, the crowd erupts and affectionately taunts the warrior, which he seems to enjoy. It seems they are happy I beat him, and that keeps their dream of America alive. America, where everything is better, the houses, the air and especially the basketball. They relieved by my victory. It keeps their belief system intact.
After the game, my new friend (I endeared myself to him when I blocked his shot) invites me to join him for a 7-Up at one of the roadside, warm soda and cigarette shacks that also sell lottery tickets. We sit, drink, and tap out some monosyllabic Morse code, accompanied by a lot of nodding and smiling. While we chat, a circle of fifteen young boys come closer and closer, staring with no embarrassment, entering an almost trance-like state as if they are amazed that I drink with my mouth. I turn to one of them and smile and he bites himself with laughter, running into the arms of his parents who are a few yards away.
When we were cast in the movie, they sent us a package of information about the Philippines. Stuff about climate, malaria, money exchange, the price of phone calls, etc. Another thing in the packet was about places to avoid. I think the quote was, “All cities have their ghettos and Manila is no exception. Here are some areas we think you would be happier staying away from.” As I sat with a fifteen-kid entourage, people offering me soda, fruit, grilled chicken on sticks, children jostling for position just to be near me, I looked up and saw a sign that read “Pasay Road, Pasay City.” Pasay City was the first name on the list of places I would be better off staying away from.
I visited Peru in 2000 and the two words of english every kid knew was Michael Jordan. Ambassador indeed.
Excellente! Small typo near the end: “All cities have their ghettos sand Manila is no exception.”