The Final Score: Bobby Parks runs down the court

If you grew up watching Bobby Parks, you won’t feel the need to add “senior” or “Sr.” to his last name. It’s Bobby Parks. He’s Bobby Parks. The Bobby Parks. The son, Ray-Ray Parks, is a related story. The father is a legend. The son is potentially legendary. I know their stories are connected by lineage, by blood. Unavoidable. Inevitable. Fabled. But at this moment, as we mourn the passing of a PBA great, I think of Bobby Parks. The father. The import. The legend. [Related: Legendary import Bobby Parks Sr. passes away] Bobby Parks is gone. Cancer clearly respects no one. He was 51. For my generation, our stories of basketball wouldn’t be complete without him. So much of my youth was devoted to watching him play. He played that long. He was good for that long. To think, I wasn’t a Shell fan. I wasn’t even a Parks fan. I suppose when players reach a certain level of universal respectability – sa sobrang galing at sa sobrang bait, wala ka nang choice but to admire - allegiances to teams or personalities no longer matter. The strangest thing about remembering Bobby Parks; I can’t recall specific moments caused by unearthly skills. I’m sure players who competed against him can. I’m sure coaches who had to create defensive plans against him can. I’m sure my more senior peers can. What I recall is a body of work. I can say the same thing about Norman Black and Sean Chambers. It’s not about remembering one shot, dunk, three-pointer or game-winner. He won seven PBA Best Import trophies. What remains is the totality of one man’s impact. Hence, what sticks out isn’t one special moment. Instead, I see a recurring image. Bobby Parks takes a jump shot. No big deal. I can still see the shooting form: elbows in place, the flick release, legs gracefully extended, minimal facial expression. It’s the same damn form all the time. Swish. He runs down the court. No hand gestures. No imaginary finger pistols. No bang-bang. Nothing. It can be his first field goal. It can be his thirty-fifth point. It doesn’t matter. He just runs down the court. The Shell marching band plays a victorious tune from the bleachers of the ULTRA (now PhilSports Arena) to celebrate Bobby’s basket. A driver, who can actually hear the marching band outside, cruises along the street, drives past nearby Valle Verde Country Club, recognizes the tune, looks up and goes, “Si Parks na naman siguro yan.” A Vintage Sports’ cameraman dutifully focuses on Parks for the post-field-goal-victory-lap-mid-shot. Parks dominates the television screen in his red Formula Shell jersey or yellow Shell Rimula-X uniform. “Parks is quietly amassing points anew.” Joe Cantada’s mellifluous broadcasting voice blends perfectly with the marching band, the applause and the image on TV. Parks scores. The band serenades their hero. Cantada honors the moment with eloquence. The classy sequence ends the same way each time. There goes Bobby Parks, running down the court, with confidence that doesn’t grate and respect that never fades.  - GMA News