ESCAPE

By Raoul Suarez

I went to the wet market today, the kind of place where the air is always thick with the smell of fish, fresh vegetables, and the faint perfume of cooking oil from nearby stalls. Noisy. Chaotic. Alive. Exactly what you would expect from a small community market.

As I moved past the stalls, I overheard a conversation between a middle-aged woman and a teenage boy. They could have been mother and son, for all I know.

“Puro ka na lang basketball upod sa mga migo mo,” the woman said, her voice carrying the tone of someone who had repeated the same complaint more than once.

I do not even know what the context was, but the line stuck. In my mind, I thought that it is better than picking up a bad vice. Honestly, I wish I had the same problems.

I have never really had that experience with my own boys. They never took to sports the way I hoped they would. I tried to expose them to basketball, even football, but the interest was never there.

I would bring them along to watch games, buy them a ball, encourage them to play in the park, but they just were not drawn to it. And I cannot force it. Passion is something you discover on your own, not something a parent can hand down like an old jersey.

Still, hearing that mother’s complaint triggered something in me. It reminded me of the role sports have played in my life, not just as a pastime but as a lifeline.

Ball games have always been my escape. Basketball was my first love. It didn’t really love me back, so I tried my luck in football and found another home in that sport. They aren’t quite the same, and they have different demands, but they both get the job done. They help me forget my troubles, at least for a while.

Playing keeps me grounded. It keeps me physically sound and keeps my mind from straying into darker paths. If it were not for the ball games, I know exactly where I would be. Back in the grip of alcoholism, for sure. Maybe gone too soon from a car crash brought about by drunkenness, reckless abandon, and utter stupidity.

Maybe that is the irony of it all.

Some parents complain that their kids are always out playing ball, while others like me wish they were. The truth is, it is not really about basketball, football, or any other game.

What matters is that we all need an escape. Something that makes the burden a little lighter. Something that eases the pain. Something that silences all the noise. For some, engaging in sports does the job. For others, maybe music, painting, or even writing. Whatever it is, it can mean the difference between surviving and breaking down.

For me, it has always involved a ball. The court became my sanctuary, the field my confession booth. Every game was a way to sweat out the pain and quiet the noise in my head. It pulled me away from the bottle and from choices that could have ended everything too soon. It gave me not just exercise, but community, structure, and a sense of achievement that I could not find anywhere else.

I do not know if my boys will ever share that passion, and maybe they do not have to. What matters is that they find their own kind of saving grace. It does not have to be the same as mine. They just need something that keeps them alive. Something that makes them whole. Something that makes them true to themselves. Just the way sports did for me.

Walking home from the wet market, I kept replaying that overheard line in my head.

“Puro ka na lang basketball upod sa mga migo mo.”

What started as a random snippet of conversation between strangers somehow left me with mixed emotions.

On one hand, I envied that mother for having a son who was so consumed by something as simple and wholesome as basketball. On the other hand, I wondered if she even realized how lucky she was.

I went to the wet market today. I overheard a conversation between a middle-aged woman and a teenage boy. They could have been mother and son, for all I know. And if the “problem” was really about the boy playing too much ball, then she does not know the blessing she holds. Some of us would give anything for that to be the only worry in the world. I know I would.