Persistence
MOST PEOPLE I know favored Miami. Probably because it reminded them of the great Chicago team of Michael Jordan, Scotty Pippen and Dennis Rodman, whose faces and figures adorned posters liberally plastered on the walls and ceilings of jeepneys and buses. If indeed they had not been lovingly painted onto them, along with Kiss and Bon Jovi. Miami had its own triumvirate in the form of LeBron James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh.
But the only thing I myself had going for Miami was its coach, Eric Spoelstra. In case you still don’t know, Spoelstra is half-Filipino. His father, Jon, has Dutch-Irish origins, while his mother, Elisa Celino, hails from San Pablo, Laguna. I’m surprised he hasn’t been written about or featured extensively in local media. He’s certainly one huge success story as success stories go, and one certifiable Fil-Am as Fil-Ams go.
It’s impressive how he has managed to get as far as he has. He was player himself once, and distinguished himself as a point guard. Which must have taken epic skill and even more epic effort given that he isn’t particularly tall. You can see that in his players towering over him during huddles. But he has the brains, or basketball IQ, to make up for the lack of height. He rose through the ranks of coaching by showing an extraordinary aptitude for it. “A lot of players want the discipline,” said Pat Riley when he turned Miami over to him, “they will play [hard] for Spoelstra, because they respect him…. He’s a man that was born to coach.”
But I’ll leave him for another day. There’s a more inspiring story there. There’s a story that should tug more at the hearts of Filipinos.
That’s the story of Dallas.
Interviewed on the basketball court right after they won the championship, Jason Terry had a brilliant reply to the question of what it took to win the championship. It was, he said, the individual stories of the Mavericks cast. It was the story of Dirk Nowitzki, Jason Kidd, Shawn Marion, and himself. It was the story of their coach, Rick Carlisle. It was the story of the people who were laughed at for believing in them.
It was the story of a bunch of losers who were not supposed to win. But did.
Nowitzki epitomized that story. Possessed of vast skill and talent, he led his team to victory upon victory during the regular season only to fade in the playoffs. It happened several times, the worst in 2006 when Dallas lost to Miami in the Finals after leading 2-0. Dallas made a lot of excuses for it, which led Wade to lash out: “Dirk says they gave us the championship last year, but he’s the reason they lost. He wasn’t the leader that he’s supposed to be in the closing moments. At the end of the day, you’re remembered for what you did at the end.”
For years after that, Nowitzki—and Dallas itself—would be remembered for what they did in the end, which was to fail again and again after coming tantalizingly close to greatness. Nowitzki—and Dallas itself—would gain a reputation for being soft, a bunch of people who had talent but no character, who had promise but no capacity to fulfill.
So when they came face-to-face with Miami again, most everyone gave them up for lost. Sure they blanked out the Lakers, sure they put down the pesky Thunders. But Miami was another animal entirely. Five years ago, when they faced them in the Finals, they were the heavyweights, Miami had only Wade. And they lost. Now, they were a ragtag band of recruits from teams that also had a long history of losing, while Miami had James, Bosh and Mike Bibby in addition to Wade. Win against them? That was like winning the lotto.
The Finals were really decided in the second game. Miami already had one game tucked under its belt and needed one more to hold serve. And they were well on their way to it. Up 15 points with only five more minutes or so into the game, they were bumping chests and whooping it up on the court. And then everything changed. Slowly, arduously, miraculously, Dallas started closing in, inch by long inch, point by scrappy point, shot by impossible shot. The last, courtesy of Nowitzki himself who had the announcers gasping for breath, and superlatives, at the unbelievable-ness of his moves. Fittingly, he would make the winning shot, and Miami never knew what hit them.
“Persistence,” Nowitzki would say after the game. “Persistence,” his teammates would say after the game. “Persistence,” his coach would say after the game. That was what hit Miami. The Mavericks knew they were behind, they knew the lead looked formidable, they knew Miami was formidable. But they had been in that place before, they had bit the dust before, and always they had fought back, always they had climbed back. They were just too damned persistent.
The rest of the games would feel anticlimactic after that. The second game was the flashpoint, the turning point, the character-defining moment. It brought inevitability with it, character shaping destiny as it does in a Greek tragedy, except that this would not end tragically, this would end triumphantly. Nowitzki would rush off from court at the moment of victory, he had tears in his eyes and wanted some quiet space in the locker room to take all of it in. It was redemption. It was vindication. It was liberation.
Surely that must have a special resonance for us? Surely that must hold some deep meaning for a country that has been laughed at, scoffed at, counted out for getting tantalizingly close to greatness and always faltering? Surely that must have some profound lesson for a people who are said to have boundless talent but no character, so much promise but so little capacity to fulfill?
The lesson is simple. Hard work pays off. Never giving up pays off. Persistence pays off.
Enough to get you to the top of the world.
