Sweat. Sweat like I've never experienced, pouring out of my pores at an alarming rate, flowing down my skin and cascading onto the wooden gym floor. It's the oldest gym in Manila. Alex used to play here as a kid 50 years ago, but it reminds me a lot of an oven. I'd ditched my sopping, sweat saturated shirt half an hour before, but after the fourth "last" game, my drechedness has reached a new high.
Drenchedness. . . Is that even a word? It is now. It's all I can think of to describe my glistening skin and soggy shorts. But this is basketball in the tropics, and it's what I love doing probably more than anything else in the world.
As I joined my fifth (and eventually final) "last" game, my mind wanders back to different moments in my life that served as preparation for this ministry. I picture the community center court in Singapore that I went to every night after dinner for years on end. I picture the court at my school at lunch time, and sheepishly walking into fifth period class with a drenching white uniform shirt. I recall the sight and smell of the steam rolling off my body and joining the medley of stifling humidity and cigarette smoke of onlookers after a long evening of basketball. Basketball. . . That's what I'm playing at the moment.
It's like clockwork to me now. Instead of tick, tick tick, the syncopated BAK BAK BAK, BAKBAK of the basketball permeates the humidity. The feeling of its dark, worn leather on my fingertips as I dribble is a comforting, familiar feeling in every part of the world. As I stare forward at the rim, some 35 feet away, my peripheral vision takes in the players moving around haphazardly, a chaotic and beautiful dance number on broadway. This is my stage; this is OUR stage, and we love the moment.
It's after the game now— after the respectful handshakes and thank you's, the high fives, the cacophony of congratulations and frustrations in different languages. . . And we gather together and pray. The big, scary looking guy with two arm sleeves and the beginning of a leg sleeve of tattoos. The 61 year old former professional basketball player. Fifteen teenagers who spectated the game sheepishly come forward to satisfy their curiosity. And there he his, the imposing white boy who sweats a lot, sitting in a personal puddle of perspiration. . . that's me.
Pastor begins an introductory speech in a mix of Tagalog and English. I remember that they used to call it Taglish when I lived here as a kid. Alex shares his testimony. They surprise me by asking me to share. I tell them about the time I broke my leg and learned that the beauty of basketball had been wasted on my own selfish desire for popularity and fame. I tell them that basketball, a language that we can all speak fluently, is only worth it if it is played for the glory and praise of a Lord and King that deserves it. Some of them nod. I taste salt as I'm speaking. We pray. Some repeat the prayer to become followers of Jesus. I hope Pastor can help them grow. I hope they're sincere about it.
We start packing up. I forgot a change of clothes. I'm still soaked as we walk out and look for a jeepnee to take us to the train station. At the train station too. In the car back from the train station. I arrive home 2 hours later; I'm still wet.
But I'm "home" now. Really, I've been at home the whole day. For some people it might seem exotic, exhausting, exhilarating or extreme. But for me, this is just expected. I feel pretty lucky. Then I fall asleep.
