The Final Score: A random Tuesday night with the Azkals

The green of the pitch, bathing in the bright lights of the Rizal Memorial Football Stadium, welcomed spectators to the arena. I remembered the first time I marched into fabled Wrigley Field in Chicago. The feeling was the same. Two kids in Chieffy Caligdong jerseys ran to their seats. Right before kick-off, I inhaled a unique blend: Vito Cruz smog mixed with the aroma of grass, with hints of cheap perfume and expensive cologne, punctuated by the collective sweat of a half-empty stadium. It was the smell of anticipation. The match was frenetic as it was idyllic. There was a relaxed pace, not in playing it, but in actually watching it. There were occasional shrieks and sighs. But the soundtrack of the match was mostly chatter. A man on my left uttered "Mulders" effortlessly. Parang may kababata lang siya sa Cavite na Mulders din ang last name. Phil Younghusband scored. One-Nil. It shattered the steady hum of possessions and opportunities. It snapped the different conversations around the stadium for one transcendent moment. Then, people slumped back into their chairs, continued the stories Phil gamely interrupted. A fan on the opposite side of the stadium kept blowing a horn. Someone from behind remarked, "Ano ba yan? Parang may nagbebenta ng binatog." What a great way to spend an evening with family or friends. What a great way to watch sports in an open-air venue. Next year, I'll sit near the Kaholeros so I'll experience their home-made drumbeats in high-definition. Maybe a pilgrimage to Barotac Nuevo beckoned as well. James Younghusband fired a cannonball! Goaaaal!!! Two-Nil. As soon as the celebration waned, a man quipped, "Ganda ng bomba ni James!" We couldn't see the players' faces the way we see them up close on television. But fans identified players by the grace of their moves, the awkwardness of their shots, the brightness of their boots, the promise of their crosses, the relief from their saves. A man started a "Chieffy" chant in our section. Nobody followed. People around me talked about the players. They traded gossip. They spotted Jinkee Pacquiao. I also heard analysis in different forms. Some were scientific. Some weren't. Then, in bursts, to break the rhythm of chit-chat, they screamed the players' names with corresponding adjectives in English, Filipino, Bisaya, Ilonggo, Jejespeak, Bekimon, Spanish or Taglish. Phil scored again. Three-Nil. High-fives for everyone. Unnecessary hugging transpired. Among coiffed amigas and painted faces, knuckleheads and smarty-pants, alaskadors and reklamadors, the young and the old, the purists and the party-goers. There should be an Azkals version of the seventh inning stretch. We could have belted out our adaptation of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". Football is still not a national pastime. But after Matthew Hartmann launched goal number four into the net, after we were again serenaded by the sights, smells and sounds of a friendly on some humid, nondescript night, it still felt like it could be. - GMA News