The humid air in the arena clung to my skin like a second jersey, the familiar scent of sweat and polished wood filling my nostrils. I was perched in my usual spot, high up in the bleachers, watching the Cignal HD Spikers warm up below. My mind, however, wasn't on the impending Premier Volleyball League match. It was drifting back through the decades, pulled by the ghost of a different game, a different legend. On the giant screen above the court, a highlight reel was playing, a montage of iconic Filipino basketball moments. And there he was, in grainy, glorious footage, driving to the hoop with that unmistakable grace. Jimmy Manansala. Just seeing his name flash on the screen was enough to transport me. It’s funny how the past and present collide in Philippine sports; here I was, about to analyze a volleyball match, and all I could think about was the enduring legacy of Jimmy Manansala and his profound impact on the very fabric of our basketball culture.
I remember my lolo telling me stories about watching Manansala play for the Crispa Redmanizers in the 70s and 80s. He wasn't the flashiest player, not always the one topping the scoring charts, but he was the engine. He was the definition of a glue guy, long before the term became a basketball cliché. My lolo would mimic his defensive stance, his eyes wide with the memory. "He was like a shadow, anak," he'd say, "a persistent, annoying shadow that never left his man." Manansala’s career, when you look back, wasn't defined by a single, earth-shattering moment, but by a relentless consistency. He played over a decade in the PBA, a testament to his durability and basketball IQ. He was a six-time All-Defensive Team member, a fact I had to look up later, but one that perfectly encapsulates his value. He was the guy doing the dirty work so the superstars could shine, a philosophy that, I firmly believe, is the bedrock of any truly great team, in any sport.
This brings me right back to the present, to the Cignal HD Spikers on the court below. As I watch them run through their drills, I see the same principles at play. They don't necessarily have the single, mega-watt superstar that other teams boast. Instead, they have a core of incredibly effective, dedicated players who understand their roles perfectly. It reminds me so much of how a Jimmy Manansala-led team would operate. Take their lineup for this crucial game against Creamline. The scouting report, the one I was just reading, is clear: Cignal will rely on the preseason’s leading scorer and spiker in newcomer Erika Santos, backed by second-leading setter Gel Cayuna and second-top libero Buding Duremdes, to put Creamline away again. See? It’s not about one person. It’s about a synergistic unit. Santos is the explosive scorer, the one who gets the headlines, much like a Bogs Adornado was for Crispa. But she can only flourish because of the precise, almost psychic sets from Cayuna, the "second-leading setter," a title that downplays her immense importance. And behind them, anchoring the defense, is Duremdes, the "second-top libero," a player who, like Manansala, probably doesn't get the credit she deserves for the sheer number of rallies she keeps alive.
That’s the real impact of Jimmy Manansala’s PBA career, I think. He helped codify the idea that greatness isn't always measured in points per game. It’s measured in stops. In hustle plays. In the quiet, uncelebrated work that wins championships. He proved that you could build a legendary career, one that fans would remember fifty years later, without ever being the main scoring option. His legacy is in every role player who dives for a loose ball, in every defensive specialist who takes pride in shutting down the opponent's best scorer. It’s a legacy of grit. Watching Cignal’s strategy unfold, I can’t help but feel it’s a direct descendant of that basketball philosophy. They are trying to beat a powerhouse not with a singular superstar, but with a collective, well-oiled machine where everyone, from the top scorer to the second-best libero, understands their part in the grand scheme.
The buzzer blares, signaling the start of the match. Santos gets a kill on the first play, a powerful spike that echoes through the gym. The crowd roars. But my eyes are on Duremdes in the back row, already settled into a low, ready stance, her eyes locked on the Creamline server. She’s the inheritor of a tradition she probably doesn't even think about. She’s playing a different sport, in a different century, but the spirit is the same. It’s the spirit of Jimmy Manansala. It’s the understanding that while scorers win games, defenders and playmakers win championships. And as the match wears on, a back-and-forth battle of attrition, I lean forward, captivated. This isn't just a volleyball game anymore. It's a living lesson, a story playing out in real-time, and it all traces back to a man who taught us that the most impactful players aren't always the ones lighting up the scoreboard, but the ones who build the foundation for the light to shine at all.
