The Next Best Thing
by Rhialyn Dadap
      This is not the piece I was planning to submit today. I planned to write something remarkable, something that will leave the readers gaping in wonder and astonishment. Something way out of my league, in other words. When I set out to write this, I envisioned the task to be smooth and easy, not anticipating the number of times Iâd hit a wall, the hours Iâd spend agonizing over a paragraph loaded with grammatical errors, and the frequent bout of laziness that tempted me to indulge in an hour or two of irresponsibility. To succumb to such temptation, however, entails a lot of consequences. The first is that my instructor will make a face again, the one that says sheâs disappointed in me. The second is that the pile of schoolwork I have to finish just keeps growing with each day I delay. The third, the one that has convinced me again and again to get out of bed and face my computer is that mocking voice inside my head, echoing âMao ra gihapon ka, wa gihapun ka nag-utro.â I have been battling with that voice for years now, ever since that fateful day in Borongan, Samar, when I resolved to be, pardon the clichĂ©, the best version of myself.
      It was a hot and humid day in November. The gym was crawling with peopleâstudent writers in jeans and hoodies, coaches and teachers clutching thick folders and giving last minute pointers to their charges. The photo journalists stood in the distance, looking for the perfect spot to shoot, heaving their equipment with both hands lest they drop them in the melee. Everywhere there were clumps of students whispering excitedly among themselves, eagerly waiting for the game to start. In the middle of it all, I stood rooted to the spot, dazed and bewildered, growing panicky by the minute. I was part of the crowd but I was alone.
      I was a small girl, barely reaching five feet, unruly hair escaping a hastily pulled ponytail. In my left hand was a small tattered notebook where everything my teacher had told me was written. It wasnât much but it was all I had. As I took in the commotion around me, I wondered how those notes could possibly help me win. My opponents all looked formidable, with their eyes framed with thick glasses and their fancy looking gadgets tucked in their elbows. Knowledge is power, and I knew I didnât have that much. If only my coach was with me, I thought fleetingly. But no, I only had myself and my meager notes.
      The whistle blew. The game began. The players crouched in the middle of the court, waiting for the ball to be tossed in the air. What happened next was a series of dribbling, passing, shooting and rebounding. But that was all I could make sense of the confusion; my coach had taught me those words and what they meant. I didnât like basketball, didnât even watch the occasional game being played near our house. I was a girl after all, and girls, my mother would say, should stay in the house sweeping the floor and washing the dishes. All I knew about the game was its most basic ruleâthat the ball has to go through the hoop to score. I didnât know why at one point, a player was allowed to shoot without his opponents guarding him, or why the ball was given to the other team when they took too long to shoot. But I watched and listened because what else could I do. I watched when a player hit a three-pointer for the fourth time and took note of his jersey number. When I couldnât understand what was happening, I eavesdropped on the discussion of a nearby writer and his partner. I also glanced very surreptitiously at their notes, and just as silently scrawled them down on my own draft. If I sensed them giving me suspicious looks, I just feigned ignorance.
      The clock kept ticking. The ball kept rolling. But still I remained as clueless as when the match first started. So for lack of a better idea, I stuck to my original strategyâwatch and listen. That was why, when chaos erupted five minutes into the third quarter, I saw everything from the very beginning. I saw when the guy in a number 35 jersey deliberately elbowed his defender on the way to the ring. I saw when the offended player with an almost murderous gleam in his eyes made his way toward guy 35 even after the shot was made. I looked for the referee and found him talking to another officer, completely oblivious to what was about to happen. It was only when a player was downed and both teams were involved in fisticuffs that the two managed to disengage what looked to be an ugly display of foul temper and unsportsmanlike conduct. The gym grew loud with the players throwing accusations against each other, pointing their fingers and trying to break free of the refereesâ restraints. The atmosphere was ripe with excitementâcameramen clicking away at the sideline, student writers craning their necks to get a better look. âWhat happened? What happened?â they asked each other. They could only speculate. I didnât bother asking the same question. Nobody would understand me anyway. I spoke Bisaya, and as far as I knew, everybody else spoke Waray.
      Finally, the gym quieted and the game continued. This time, while everybody else looked on, I kept on writing, only glancing up when a play was made. At last, something I completely understood, something I could write about. When the game ended, everybody flocked around the players, writers flinging questions after another, their answers barely audible in the din. The scene was much like those seen on television where journalists cluster around a celebrity trying to get his attention. I was jostled and shoved in every directions, almost knocked over when a writer forced his way to the front. I got my first taste of what it was like to be a journalist. Though I knew it was nothing compared to the real deal, and I might get some sore muscles afterwards, I loved every minute of it.
      We were given exactly one hour to write and polish our articles. Everyone got to workâŠwell, everyone but me. I wasnât sure what to write. Should I focus on the game? Or concentrate on the fight itself? Unlike the other contestants, I had no one to answer my questions, no one to compare notes with, no one to tell me what to do. The game was a blur to me. I had my secretly copied notes, but I didnât know how to put them into words. When almost ten minutes had gone and my paper was still empty, I had no choice but to write about the only thing that made sense to meâthe fight. At the back of my mind, I knew I should probably write about the game, how one team outscored the other, which team excelled in which quarter. But my hands had different plans. As I handed over my paper at the nick of time, I consoled myself with the fact that at least I finished it. I might not win, but I did what I was told to do.
      Awarding day came and I wore a blank face. I wished we didnât have to attend but Maâam Dora, my coach, had insisted. âJust in case,â she had said. The first category called was straight news writingâwhich I also joined. Nothing. My name wasnât called and I pretended not to care. Inside though, I was a little embarrassedâstraight news was the easiest category there was, or so the conference speakers had told us. I tried to tune out the names of the winners being called for the next categories. âSports Writing in English category,â the emceeâs voice came back and still I tried to appear nonchalant. âFourth place, from the Division of Southern Leyte,â I couldnât hide my interest by that point. And then the most astonishing thing happened. I heard my name being called. I expected someone from another school to win, like Bontoc or Malitbogâtheir coach had been to numerous press conferences. To say that I was surprised would be a massive understatement. The next thing I knew, I was walking toward the stage, my coach beaming at me from where she sat with the other participants from our division. I was ecstatic. Proud. Overwhelmed. Sure, it was just fourth place, but I wasnât about to forget that out of the sixty something who competed, my piece was ranked the fourth best. I was so sure I couldnât do it, wasnât cut out to be a writer, didnât have what it takes, but the slip of paper Iâve been given on stage proved otherwise. I was thirteen at the time.
      Since then, I poured myself into journalistic writing. I borrowed books from my English teachers, photocopied pages of good articles, bought newspapers whenever I happened to be in a city. It wasnât the best training, but it was the best I could do.
      The next school year, I was chosen to be a part of the radio broadcasting team. Even then, I was a fast-talker, my friends had to literally stop me whenever I get carried away. I have learned, in a very painful way, that reporting was not about how fast you speak, but how you speak and deliver a lot of information in a short amount of time and still be understood. I almost got ejected from the team for speaking too fast. We didnât make it into the regional level, but I was named Best Reporter.
      It was then that I started dreaming. Someday, Iâd become a journalist. Iâd go into places where the action was taking place, write about famous people and interesting things, perhaps even risk my life in my quest to report to the world what was happening. Someday, Iâd have my dream job and my father would no longer need to cut trees and destroy forests for a living. I loved my father but I couldnât help but wish a different kind of work for him, one in which he couldnât get arrested for illegal logging. Forget the survey that ranked a journalist as the fifth worst job to have. It was the best job for me, and I would become one someday.
      When someday came, it wasnât quite like Iâd imagined. April 2014, about five months after Yolanda, while the rest of the world was slowly recovering from the super typhoonâs devastation, my worst nightmare occurred. My father and my uncle Junjun were caught felling a tree branch, almost the size of a utility pole up on the mountain we called bulhang. The DENR had received an anonymous call reporting the distant sound of chainsaw on a Good Friday, which, for them was a grave offense. The police came, confirmed the report was true, loaded the chainsaw, shuffled my father and uncle inside the mobile car, and held them in the precinct. When we heard the news, I couldnât bring myself to go to the police station. I couldnât look at my dear father, so kind and loving, held inside a cell. A tree branch, that was what troubled me the most. My father has cut down so many enormous trees in his life, and he got arrested for cutting a branch. The irony was painful.
      A family friend had asked my father earlier that week to help him repair his hut if heâs got time. My father had readily agreed. He was going to do it for free. He did a lot of helping without asking for anything in return. During the wreckage after Yolanda, my father had volunteered himself and his chainsaw in clearing the streets of demolished trees. Heâd worked for days, not caring that his own yard was also a wreck, and that his back would be sore at the end of the day.
      After a series of negotiations with the chief of police and the mayor, they were released from jail. An arrest was made so the police had to file charges, using false names on the papers. But although they were freed, the chainsaw has to remain in custody. The authorities saw it as a just punishment. I saw it as the end of a dream. That chainsaw was our livelihood. It was the reason we had food to eat, clothes to wear, money for school expenses. That same equipment would have helped send me to a good university. It was my last year in high school and weâve talked about our plans. My father would continue cutting treesâlegally since it was allowed after the super typhoon. I would enroli either in Tacloban or in Ormoc, we havenât decided yet, and pursue my dream. But with the stable source of income yanked away from the family, I had to look elsewhere. I had to forget my dream.
      Now, as I write this story, I feel like the same thing has been happening all my life, in different scales. I would plan something big, imagine something wonderful, envision something beautiful only to have life snap me out of my illusion. Dreams are tricky that way. Theyâd lure you with the promise of a perfect future beyond the horizon and youâre helpless against the pull to get there. But when you finally arrive, if you get there at all, you fall off the cliff called expectation and land on your hide in the tide of reality. Studying to become an English teacher and writing an autobiography may be a far cry from my dream of writing features and articles and sports stories, but at least itâs something. I didnât get perfect,  but I have this chance to write and express myself. I still get the pleasure of accomplishing something. Still, if there is a small part of me that still yearns for the kind of thrill I experienced that momentous day in Samar, that insists thereâs more for me out there, I ignore it and embrace the next best thing.
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