Champions aren’t born; they’re made

When I was a child, the highlight of my day came at the very end of it. My mother—then already a full professor with the UP College of Law—would come home and exchange her law textbooks for our bedtime stories. Night after night, she would lull me and my brothers to sleep with fantastical tales of cats in hats, big bad wolves, and child chieftains lording it over past their bedtime wherever the wild things may be.

But if there is one other story that has secured its place in my childhood memories, it is Mary Mapes Dodge’s lesser-known fable titled “The Little Red Hen.”

So the story goes: The titular character, planning to bake bread, asks her farmyard companions to help her plant, harvest, and bake some wheat. Alas, the other animals refused. But when the bread was finally baked, the little red hen asks: “Who will help me eat the bread?” To this, her animal friends expressed a much more generous disposition.

Quickly and gleefully, they answered: “I will!” Now, depending on which version you have read, the little red hen may or may not proceed to share the pastry—but only after sternly admonishing her animal friends on their work ethic, or lack thereof, and unapologetic volte-face.

“The Little Red Hen” serves as a cautionary tale about consequences and consistency. It is likewise an inspiring tale about hard work and, possibly, forgiveness. But last but not least, it is also an allegorical tale. A commentary on society’s disappearing act that is not only unfortunate but unnovel, and the ultimate prestige that awaits. Society’s sudden reappearance at the end of the show to share in the success, for which it had little to no contribution.

There is no denying that everybody loves a winner. And to be clear, there is nothing wrong about that. Winning, may it be in the neighborhood court or on a world stage, is a splendid thing. In the past year alone, Filipino athletes have risen to the occasion, bringing glory to their teams and the flag they carry. The Philippine women’s national football team made history by bagging the country’s first Asean Football Federation Women’s Championship. Nesthy Petecio won Olympic silver in boxing, while Hidilyn Diaz took home the country’s very first Olympic gold. Just last Saturday, Alex Eala became the first Filipino to win a US Open title.

In the Philippines, we are more than happy to celebrate our heroes. Cash, cars, and condos have been pledged and awarded to our bemedaled Olympians. Earlier this week, a Senate resolution was adopted lauding Alex Eala’s most recent feat.

It is all too easy to celebrate winners. The true challenge has always been in making them. Unfortunately, however, like the beastly neighbors of the little red hen, the Filipino people have time and again failed to give its support when it mattered most. To recall: Hidilyn Diaz had to train in Malaysia for her world championships bid. And, of course, who could forget the Philippine Sports Commission (PSC) debacle when it falsely claimed to have funded Alex Eala’s semifinal finish in Roland Garros in 2020. The PSC would later issue an erratum, and admit that no such funding had in fact been given.

Why are we so quick to stake a claim in our athlete’s success, yet so slow in supporting their efforts? Beneath the Philippine infatuation with getting it right is the Filipinos’ crippling insecurity with getting things wrong. Because while we may, indeed, love winning, we hate losing even more. It is for this reason that we are only ever willing to invest in our athletes when they have already won! Ironically, however, it is precisely this segurista, play-safe attitude that hampers our winning prospects in the first place.

You see, champions aren’t simply born. They are made. The big W is but the culminating moment where ambition sees fruition—an occasion which, as rare as it may be, we can never quite have enough of. It is a happy ending built upon twists, turns, and denouements in an athlete’s life. The hours-long bouts we see on television and read about in our newspapers are but a small fraction of the months, years, and decades they invest in mastering their craft. Yet our desire to always be on the winning team leads us to overlook the importance of preparation. We relegate the process in exchange for a product plated gold, silver, or bronze.

From a strategic point of view, it is unwise to invest in our athletes only when they’ve won. Fortune, after all, favors the prepared. But more than that, it is simply unfair.

If we will share in their success, then we must first share in their efforts.

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