The Sweet Ginebra Pain

A short message from a sports related Twitter account drained the life out of me.
Raymundo misses triple; B-MEG wins #ManilaClasico

B-MEG wins. B-MEG wins. B-MEG wins.

It’s been well over eighteen hours since that fateful tweet graced my timeline.

It’s been several months since I last watched a Ginebra game live.

It’s been about four years of championship drought.

Four long, grueling, heartbreaking, life altering years of thirst for a championship.

And when everything seems to be falling into their rightful places, it ended with a put back that came off of a missed bucket with a breath remaining in the game.

Last breath taken. Game is over. Time to move on.

But between the last breath that was taken and the time to move on, one little thing happened.

The moment that final buzzer went off, the moment that time clock expired, the moment that tweet was posted, hundreds of thousands of hearts were broken.

Scratch that.

Hundreds of thousands of hearts were ripped out, smeared with coarse sea salt, chewed by some caveman, spitted on the hand and played with like Play-Doh, then thrust back in to the rib cage.

Terrible. Painful. Excruciating.

It felt like your ass was Avada’d, then raised from the dead just to be crucio’d back into the grave again.

For a long time last night, I just sat and stared at the computer screen letting the grief consume me.

Die hard fans of Ginebra. Together in it, but alone.

Together wrapped in misery of the two point loss, but alone in dealing with the pain of being almost there and not making it.

Manong might be driving his jeepney with agony at the lost bet.

Ate might be washing the dishes with sadness at the PJ Simon put back.

Kanto boys might be drinking Ginebra with anguish at Kerby’s missed trey.

But do you want to hear something funny? We still come back.

After all the stomping that has happened to our weary hearts, we still come back.

We still fill the Big Dome up to its damn rafters even after all these years of desolation.

Why?

Because we are Ginebra fans.

The fans that other fans love to hate.

The fans that bemoan every missed call.

The fans that complain losses like we own the league.

But most importantly, we are the fans that even after several beatings, many losses, and countless heartbreaks, still stand by our team like we’ve been winning the hardware every single conference.

Si Manong driver. Si kuyang construction worker. Si ateng saleslady. Si Buboy. Si Sandra.

Every Ginebra fan might be feeling down and out, but pain is okay, lest important.

Because this pain will only make that next conference more exciting, that next game more thrilling, and not to mention, that next championship much sweeter.

So, just like last year, the other year, and the year before that, let’s wait for the comeback of our favourite Gin Kings.

Our favourite Gin Kings who, win or lose, always left every single thing they’ve got on the court.

Our favourite Gin Kings who, win or lose, will come back hungrier than they were last night.

Our favourite Gin Kings who, win or lose, has made us all proud.

So. Damn. Proud. Every. Fucking. Time.

The Gin Kings have played well, gave us that shimmering hope of another shot at glory, but everything has come to a screeching halt.

This tourney has all come to an end for Ginebra, for you and for me and the entire human race.

Pain is inevitable. Embrace it, revel in it.

But don’t let it swallow you whole, because just like every single day, it ends, and a new morning dawns upon each and every one of us.

I woke up to torrential rains and howling winds today.

Seems fitting with how things went last night.
No, I’m not feeling down and mellow.

I’ve let this rain wash away my sorrows while eating homemade chocolate and listening to Rachel Wong’s Invisible Strength, waiting on the promise of sunshine tomorrow.

Or next day. Or next week. Or on September 30.

Author:I'm a Knee