Game Magazine
August, 1973
Arturo D. Cariaga
From a small flickering distant light, a comet grows to an intense bright flame illumining the heavens. This is how the Toyotas shone in the current MICAA games, proving that they deserve to be called the Comets.
They were the cellar-dwellrs in the Panamin tournament last summer and improved imperceptively during the Palaro. Such lackluster performances earned them virulent derision from the bleacher bullies. And when the MICAA season rolled in, the oddsmakers were quick to consign the Comets way behind older ball clubs like YCO, Mariwasa and San Miguel.
To everyone’s surprise, however the Toyotas put up a spirited campaign and entered every game like it was their last.
Smelling a secret behind their rapid rise, we sought, cajoled, cornered, baited, buttonholed, studied, befriended, spied on, raided, pleaded with, hounded, chassed, inveigled, intruded on, enticed, induced, observed, bothered, and (hingal!), brooded about the Toyotas. In the end found out that they had no secret at all, their success was due to only one factor: a strict regimen of physical fitness and round-the-clock program to improve their game.
Regular roadwork covering at least eight kilometers, weights, calisthenics, and
practice scrimmages comprise one aspect of their training. They eat a protein
and iron-rich diet, get adequate rest and sleep, and just enough relaxation.
They study their games, both as individual players and as a team, and regularly hold clinics with their coach and trainer. A video camera helps recall how they actually played against rival teams.
Although the value of individual skills is recognized, teamwork and cooperation are given emphasis. Either we win as a team or go down as a team seems to be the slogan of team coach, Nilo Verona.
But the crucial factor that determines the success of any team is the attitude of the players composing it. Do they really aspire to win, to improve their game? Do they relate well to one another so that the welfare of the entire team becomes more important than a single player’s glory? Are they inspired by the others, by their coach and their manager? Do they give the best of themselves everytime they step inside the court?
To know all these, we set out one evening to see the Toyotas in scrimmage and talked to some of their outstanding players.
Sludging along like the proverbial postman. Swing down Pasong Tamo Extension into a brand-new gym. Warm light of mercury vapor cascading from the rooftop and the shouts of men pouring their juices and strengths in a practice scrimmage.
Sonny Jaworski, Big Boy Reynoso and the younger Tino, Orly Bauzon, Mon Fernandez, Francis Arnaiz, Segura, Camus, Rodriguez, and the rest of the star-studded Toyota stable. Teams A and B. Mr. Dante Silverio watching with fond, kindly eyes. Coach Nilo Verona cocking his head to the right to catch a positioning error. Shouting instructions. “O.O, what kind of dee-fense is that?”
Despite the foul weather, a gaggle of fans watch the scrimmage. Eyes pop up as “Jawo” brings down the ball, fakes a shot, feeds to Arnaiz. A short dribble, a light bend of the knees to give power to the jump, a flick of the wrists, and the ball climbs up to the open mouth of the basket. Clap-clap-clap, respond the benchwarmers to Team A.
But Rodriguez inbounding – that fashionable word – throws a baseball pass to Segura at midcourt and Team B has a chance to even the score. Ompong rushes to the keyhole with Fernandez breathing at the back of his neck. Segura in a running jump and the jutting hand of Fernandez threatens a block. Segura shifts the ball from left hand to right, turns around in mid-air and lobs the ball in a hook shot that goes cleanly into the hoop. Clap-clap-clap goes the non-partisan bench.
The new Jaworski is evident even in the scrimmage among friends. Not as overeager and ball-hungry as in the Panamin series last summer, he is now feeding, assisting, directing the play, throwing a screen, pulling down the rebound, and otherwise behaving like he was the elder brother of the younger players on the team.
He is still as aggressive and rough as ever, hustling for the ball, harassing his man, staring down and wilting the defenses of the opposing team. But he seems to have found a new delight in feeding an open man under the board, and attempts a shot only if he has a clear chance.
Banking on his bulk and experience and a surprising style of heads-up basketball, Jawo is the morale-boosting superstar behind the meteoric rise of the Comets (if you’ll pardon that interstellar mixing of metaphors).
Back to the ball game. A barter of set plays and a literal pain in the neck brought about by too much looking up at the towering Toyotas. The scrimmage finally peglegs to a stop. Players start drifting to the open door while the others take a few more practice pops. Ompong has seen Lulu and comes over to say hello. Fort grabs the moment for some quotes, facts and figures.
Hovering near Francis. He consents to meet us the following day. Rene starts giving off bright ideas – from the flash gun mounted on the Nikon F. Rolly’s eyes focus on two comely girls just came in from the cold but decides against making a pitch. Two bucks jingling in his pocket.
Mr. Silverio, now alone on the court, showing ‘em how to sink in those shots. Counting his score. He converts about fifty percent of his attempts. Not bad.
Saturday. Take a cab from the Game den to San Lorenzo Village, listening all the way to the steady whirr and tsk-tsk-tsk of the meter. A modern contraption of fortune.
Comet quarters – stronghold of all but the married Toyotas – is a big Spanish-type house in a plush neighborhood of funeral quiet. One big hall. The sala merges with the dining room – one long table with 12 chairs, a smaller square table with four. A billiard table to the left. Kitchen doorway to the right, a clatter of pans, the smell of cooking. Also to the right, immediately as you come in, are steps leading to the bedrooms. Sit down on the sofa. Above you are wrought iron chandeliers looking heavy enough to bash in your brains and twelve blowups of the team members (kulang yata) and a bikinied girl enjoying Australian surf on a Qantas poster. Two TV sets, a stereo, two Daikin wall-type aircons, a white racer bike leaning on the hallway. Under the coffee table before you, looking like a limp rag, is a white Pekingese. Asleep.
After some minutes of tiddling our thumbs, we go back to the front porch. Take photos of Arnaiz bathed in sufficient light as soon as he arrives. But it is Fort who arrives first. Better late than never.
“I know now why they call us Press. We are always pressed for time.”
“Corny.”
“There he is. With Big Boy.”
“Hi, Francis.”
“Hi. Sorry. Did you wait very long?”
“It’s all right. Can we begin now?”
“Sure.”
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