Blessed Are Those Who Wait

It was 7:20 in the evening.  A light train barreled into the Carriedo LRT station near Quiapo Church a couple of minutes after another train rolled toward Doroteo Jose.  Passengers filled every square foot of the carriages.  For every passenger that disembarked, two took his place, something for physicists to ponder how two objects could take the space vacated by one.

First train. Still not enough to activate my fourth-train rule (do not squeeze yourself into a rush hour train unless it is the fourth train, you’re terribly late for your appointment, and there’s a big interval between trips).  A train stopped on the opposite platform.  Seconds later, a male voice came on the PA system announcing a code yellow.  My medical clerkship had taught me that people are dead serious when they talk in color codes like code blue for a dying patient.  I started wondering what yellow code meant for the LRT-1 folks.

I anxiously looked around for stampeding passengers.  Everyone on the platform was relaxed.  I sniffed the air.  The only noxious fumes came from the smoke belchers on Carriedo and Rizal Avenue.  No additional security personnel came on the platform.  Still the yellow code bugged me, and the idling Baclaran-bound train told of a possible technical glitch.  Trains breaking down in the middle of rush hour would surely complete a harried commuter’s day.

After ten minutes, the platform was like the MGM Grand Arena hosting a Manny Pacquiao fight.  The male speaker then announced the lifting of yellow code.  The train across us shut its doors and resumed its course while a train from Central Terminal Station made its way to Carriedo.  The passengers were packed tighter than sardines in a can.

Fifteen minutes had passed since I stepped on the platform.  Under normal operating schedules, three to four trains would have already passed in that time span.  The delay promised a longer procession of overloaded trains rolling in from the south.

I was ready to break my fourth-train rule, but there was little room for my lean frame in the train.  There would be a fifth train, a sixth, a seventh…an eight…a ninth.  I reassured myself to keep from cursing as I had just visited Quiapo Church.  Besides, cursing would not bring us an empty train.

Minutes later, everyone gazed at an approaching train as if they were gawking at a celebrity on the red carpet.  The attention was well deserved because there was only one person in that train:  the driver.  Cheers and laughter erupted from everyone, and a cheerful stampede erupted the moment its doors opened.  Comfortable in my seat, I thought of the people who stood beside me on the platform minutes earlier and squeezed into the second train.  They had a few minutes’ headstart, but I had a seat while they were standing cheek by jowl.

-Prospero Pulma Jr. -

Yellow Stars, Blue Stars, Dead Stars by Prospero Pulma Jr.

Yellow Stars, Blue Stars, Dead Stars by Prospero Pulma Jr.


First, Pacquiao painted a blood-splattered mosaic of busted blood vessels and flesh beaten to a pulp on Miguel Cotto’s face and we, Filipinos, glowed like little yellow stars for the pugilist was the first to win boxing’s Holy Grail. Then, CNN picks Efren Penaflorida as its Hero of the Year, and we, Filipinos, burned like little blue stars for the Philippines has again recognized the teacher as a hero. Then, some Maguindanao warlord did a Slodoban Milosevic, and we Filipinos imploded into dead stars, devouring all hope that Philippine politics is crawling away from its old haunts, the cesspool of intrigues and slaughterhouse of broken limbs.

Then, Malacanang sees the butchers only as boys who pelted glass windows with rocks and nothing else, so a mad scramble ensues to call on men neck deep in the blood of tingi-tingi drug dealers and rugby boys/cellphone snatchers. Though as devilish as the warlords, they hunt vermin who prey on the law abiding, small but vermin still. The challenge comes to the men, mad from seeing Justice repeatedly defiled by due process and technicalities, to come to Maguindanao and remind the local Slodobans that Justice is not always the blindfolded lady holding the scales, that sometimes it turns into a witch who buries those who cross her in graves that she herself would not remember, that its enforcers are not always judges in clean robes but butchers too.

Philippine Boxing Association by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Philippine Boxing Association

The future of Philippine boxing is bright, very bright. And we’re not even talking about Manny, Nonito, Bryan, Z., Marvin, and all those champion pugilists with boyish and harmless names. No, sir. We’re talking big time here.

If the current trend continues, the Philippines will soon have light heavyweight and heavyweight champions both in the amateur and pro circuits so powerful that their opponents would wish Filipino cagers never discovered the hidden power of their fists. Cagers? Yes, sir. You’ve read it right because the Philippine Basketball Association has a new sideshow. And it’s not the old and boring cheerdance number. For the price of a courtside ticket, a fan can discover who among the local basketball heroes can dance like a butterfly like Muhammad Ali and sting like Mike Tyson.

All that the fan has to do is pick a target, heckle him to death like yelling that his sisters are better basketball players, and pray that he grabs the bait. And voila! The fan has discovered Philippine boxing’s latest hero who will have lots of time to call Freddie Roach after he is sent to the naughty corner for a year or a lifetime perhaps. Of course, the “talent scout” must remember to bring painkillers, lots of it, because the tryout is going to make Fight Club look like a matchup between Spongebob and Barney. And the scout should not forget the waiver.


Prospero E. Pulma Jr.