In the world of numerology, the date 1/1/11 is serious businesses.  For the unfamiliar, numerology is the practice of using numbers to interpret a person’s character or to divine the future.  Basically, it claims that all things are reducible to numbers.

No lie.

That’s why Oprah Winfrey launched her cable-network channel, OWN, today.

Now I am someone who is guided by my intuition, as well as my emotions, not by logic, or practicality.  I need to “feel” it.  My mom, on the other hand, is an accountant, an adept problem-solver, who has an IQ worthy of Mensa.

Not me.  I don’t really like numbers.

Yet who am I to go against Oprah?

I’m following her lead.

After taking a 3-month hiatus, I’m re-launching this blog, which I originally conceived from the cornfields of Indiana, last summer, with the help of my good friend, Samuel Autman.  He’s an Associate Professor of English at DePauw University.  We entered graduate school together in the Fall of 2005.  When we looked around the room, we discovered that we were the only two people of color in the Nonfiction program.

“I want to write about sports and beautiful women,” I told him.

With the new year comes a fresh start.

According to Patricia Kirkman, the author of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Numerology, the number “1″ in itself is all about the individual, changes, new beginnings.  But when we add that to the rest, 2011, the “2″ comes first.  Two is about partnerships, emotional, the peacemaker, hidden secrets.  Numerology, itself, is about unlocking secrets.  So when you add it all together, 2+0+1+1, it equals “4.”:  Four is about putting things in order.

You follow me?

“Four is the square.  Four is a box.  Four wants everything done right,” Kirkman said.  “We are going into a universal year that says, ‘I don’t care what you did last year.  It doesn’t matter anymore.  Now we’ve got to build a stronger foundation.’”

Amen to that.

Four is my destiny number, which you get by adding all the letters in your full birth name.  Women with a 4 Destiny are sensible, hardworking, and live life with integrity.  In order to fulfill my destiny, it says that my mission in life is, “to create permanence in situations and to turn dreams into reality.  You major goals are to improve and reform.”

Consequently, I’m also turning 40 this year.

In numerology circles, there are three master numbers–11, 22, 33–which possess more potential than others.  They require time, maturity, and great effort to integrate into one’s personality.

Eleven has been referred to as the most intuitive of all numbers.  It represents illumination, charisma, and leadership.

And Oprah ain’t no dummy.

That’s for sure.

She’s got 11s behind her in astrological circles.  She’s an Aquarius, which is the 11th sign of the zodiac, and rules the 11th house of the zodiac, which regulates hopes and wishes.  That’s been her mission on television, to fulfill hers, as well as strangers, and studio audiences.  The 11th house also regulates the community at large, another Oprah trademark.

So by choosing this date, 1/1/11, Oprah is honoring her natal chart, both her life and her career.  And oh-by-the-way, she was born on the 29th of January, and 2 plus 9, equals 11.

Oprah’s life path number is 2, which is doubling of the first number, 1, Eleven, or 1+1 equals 2.  So it brings with it, twice the strength of new beginnings, the individual, changes, purity.

Numerologists, and astrologists alike, consider people and events associated with the number 11 to be givers, innovators, and humanitarians.

On her website, Oprah said, “My vision for OWN is to create a network that inspires our viewers and makes them want to be who they are on their best day.”

Thank you, Oprah.  I knew it was time to burst out of my hiatus.

It’s a new beginning.

I turn 40 on Aug. 3rd this year.  8+3=11.  That means my life path number is also, 2, twice the power of a number 1.

And when you add it all up, it’s time.

To put things in order.

Happy New Year, & New Decade, everyone…

I arrived at Madison Square Garden last Wednesday some fifteen minutes before tip-off.  Lines at the windows rolled nearly ten people deep.  Still, I waited.  Folks turned in vouchers for free tickets.  Parents hung on to their kids by the hand.  The pulse rate at the Garden reached over 100 beats per minute, with the intensity of a Bon Jovi concert in East Rutherford, New Jersey.

Minus the rugrats.

When I got to the counter, I asked the clerk if he had one open seat in the sections behind the backboard.  Usually, these seats remained available up to the last-minute during the regular season.  In the playoffs, I figured, 25, maybe 35 bucks, tops.  No problem.  The dude punched in a bunch of different codes, and each time, his formula came up empty.  Nothing.  Not-a-one.  Then he tried another route.  Meanwhile, I felt the stares of half-a-dozen fans behind me, eager to see some good playoff hoops action.

So when the son-of-a-bitch told me he had one seat available, on the floor, next to the basket, my non-practical-it’s-okay-to-splurge-on-yourself ass didn’t even hesitate.

“Sure,” I said.  “I’ll take it.”

The New York Liberty hosted the Indiana Fever in a critical Game 3, do-or-die, lose-and-go-home WNBA Eastern Conference semifinal playoff game.

And I wanted–no, needed–to be a part of it.

With that, I gave the man my American Express card, and he swiped it for 260 bucks.

I freaked out.

Yet in return, he gave me an access pass to a sporting event not even the little girl in me could have ever imagined.

…

I was 13 years old when I watched Cheryl Miller lead the U.S. women’s basketball team to its first gold medal at the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles.  They trounced the competition, from Yugoslavia to South Korea, winning by an average margin of 32.7 points per game.

During the Olympics, Miller averaged 16.5 points per game, leading the team in scoring, rebounding, steals, and assists.   And at 20 years old, she revolutionized the game of women’s basketball, both in the international scene, as well as at the collegiate level.  She came with a complete-game arsenal, from the defensive boards to the outlet pass, right down to the double-pump finish.

Score.

She patterned her game after Julius Erving, bringing style and flair below the rim, as well as her own brand of showboating on the court.  As for her hang time, let’s just call it, ridiculous.  From 1982-86, she won two NCAA national titles at USC, earning two NCAA Tournament MVP’s, and three national Player of the Year Awards.  Before that, her high school career was, as Scoop Jackson called it, “beyond sick,” becoming the only player, male or female, to be name a PARADE four-time All-American.

During her senior year, the bitch dropped 105 points in a game against Norte Vista High School.

Sick.

Beyond sick.

Add to her all her accolades, the second all-time leading scorer in NCAA history, a Pan-American Games gold medal, a Goodwill Games gold medal, a James E. Sullivan Award nomination, and you have the most dominant woman’s basketball player of her time.

In fact, SPORTS ILLUSTRATED dared to call her the best basketball player in the country, period, regardless of gender.

And I wanted to be just like her.

Because playing professional basketball in this country was not an option back then, Cheryl Miller retired from the game to pursue a career in coaching, and later, broadcasting, hanging her high-tops for good after she suffered a knee injury.

Meanwhile, younger brother Reggie launched his future-Hall-of-Fame career with the NBA’s Indiana Pacers.  And the USA women’s team went on to win another gold medal at the 1988 Olympics, before settling for the bronze at the 1992 Olympics.

…

I flashed my ticket to the usher, who directed me to Gate 63, an end-court entrance, which faced the backboard of the home team’s basket, against the bright lights of the World’s Most Famous Arena, MSG, or simply, the Garden.  With each step down the flight of stairs to the floor, my anticipation for an unforgettable experience began to thump in my chest.  Some 16,000+ New York-lovin’ sports fans filled the seats of the nearly 20,000-seat capacity stadium.   I sat in my folding chair, VIP-seating alongside the who’s-who of professional basketball, in time for the concert-like drama of the player introductions.

Everyone’s on their feet.  Lights dimmed.  And the PA announcer got on the mic.

Prime-time pumpin’ adrenaline.

Bring it.

I remembered the first time I ever watched the Liberty play in New York in front of their home crowd.  A newfound friend from the Bronx offered up an extra ticket to a bunch of us that morning via a text message.  I hit the reply button on my phone in an instant:  i’m down.  send.    Later that night, we met up at the Flushing Meadows Corona Park stop off the 7-Train, as we walked over to Arthur Ashe Stadium on a typical hot-and-humid night in Queens, two summers ago.  For the first time in history,  a professional basketball game was being played outdoors, on the same court, where Venus and Serena Williams won two US Open women’s titles each.  On that occasion, a near-record breaking crowd of 19,393 witnessed an historic spanking of the NY Liberty by the Indiana Fever, 71-55, amidst the fireworks in the moonlight.

And I was never the same after that.

When I watched women play professional basketball, running-and-gunning up-and-down-the-court, blocking shots, and shooting threes from behind the arc, outdoors, I knew that’s why I came to New York City.

This is where big dreams happen.

And along the way, I’ve learned many lessons about my own limitations.

Last summer, my fourth-year in grad school, I played one-on-one ball with my homegirl, a fellow Pinay sister-friend from Seattle, who had just earned her Masters in Public Administration from NYU.  When she moved to East Harlem from Brooklyn Heights to a two-bedroom, comfortable pad of her own, we met each Saturday morning, at a run-down court in Harlem’s Morningside Park to shoot hoops and shoot the breeze, perfecting alley-oop shots till we quit.  No matter what, even if she hauled her ass home at 4 am after tearin’ it up at the Friday Freedom Party, we met at 10 am on that court, for b-ball practice, and later, a soul-food brunch.  In between our missed shots, we talked about our families, our goals in life, and our loves lost along the way.  Most of all, we met up on the court like most folks meet for coffee, not so much to sharpen our lay-ups, but because we wanted to support each other.

As summer rolled into September, I took a 3-month assignment in Joplin, Missouri, and we stopped meeting for our b-ball sessions in Morningside Park.  A few weeks later, an intruder had broken into her East Harlem apartment, she moved out, and I offered her refuge in my university apartment during my time in the Midwest.

When I returned in the winter, we traded our summer alley-oop passes for online episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, 90s dance moves to Bell Biv Devoe, as we started hatching ideas on our respective returns to the West Coast.

….

While Magic, Michael, and Larry reclaimed the gold medal for the U.S. men’s basketball team in Barcelona, the U.S. women regrouped after a disappointing showing at the 1992 Olympics and the 1994 World Championships.  Determined to regain its spot at the top on the international podium, USA Basketball assembled 11 of the best American women ballers in the country, who embarked on a 10-month global training tour, competing against many national teams and U.S. collegiate teams.  Olympic veterans Theresa Edwards, Katrina McClain, Ruthie Bolton, Jennifer Azzi, and Carla McGhee returned to the team, joined by a trio of youngsters, who later formed an Olympic dynasty, themselves:  Lisa Leslie, Sheryl Swoopes, and Dawn Staley.  And fresh from an undefeated, NCAA championship season with U Conn, Rebecca Lobo completed the women’s version of the 1992 Dream Team.  They compiled a 52-0 record to sellout crowds, on their way to the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, where the U.S. women coasted to the gold medal, averaging 102.4 points per game.

That team laid the foundation for the WNBA.

Since the All-Star Break this season, the New York Liberty–anchored by Cappie Pondexter, a two-time WNBA Champion with the Phoenix Mercury–reeled off a franchise-record 10 straight wins, to finish 22-12 for the season, earning the second-seed in the East.  With the series tied at one-a-piece, New York looked to clinch Game 3 on their homecourt, awaiting the Atlanta Dream in the Eastern Conference Finals.

As I sat down in my seat, behind the Liberty basket, I enjoyed a front-row view of all the action.  A few times, sweaty bodies dove for loose balls, as they almost hugged my lap.  Just like on TV.  I looked up nearly five floors above me, where Patrick Ewing’s retired #33 jersey hung up in the rafters, as well as the New York Rangers’ 1994 NHL Stanley Cup championship banner.  Here, ghosts of Reggie Miller knocking down eight points in 16.4 seconds continued to haunt the Knickerbocker faithful, and yet, on that night, New York cheered on their team against Indiana, as if the 1995 Pacers were in town.

To my left, the cameraman’s assistant sat on a box, offering me LifeSavers, Tic Tacs, and Dentyne in between post-up plays, a battle for the boards, and offensive put-backs.  Kia Vaughn.  Taj McWilliams-Franklin.  And Pondexter willed the team to victory.  We offered our own play-by-play commentary, high-fives, as our hearts nearly stopped beating the final twenty-eight seconds of the game.  To my right, a buddy of Knick forward Wilson Chandler sported a green silk chiffon scarf I almost swiped from his neck, it was so pretty.

Crowd-pumpin pop music rocked the speakers all night.

Even Frank Sinatra.

And everytime starting point guard Leilani Mitchell handled the ball, I hollered her name at the top of my lungs, like an island-b-girl happy to see ohana in the big city.

At 5’5″ tall, Mitchell rose to the starting point-guard position, after the Liberty released Loree Moore in the offseason.  Last year, she played with a heavy heart, as the Liberty finished 13-21 for the season, a second franchise-record worst, and her mother, an Australian of Asian descent, lost her two-year battle to breast cancer.

Her mother died in March 2009.

When Mitchell asked head coach Pat Donovan what she needed to do to be more  of an impact player, Donovan replied that she needed to be more scrappy on defense, while improving her thee-point shot.  She went to work on her game overseas in France during the offseason.  This year, she earned the WNBA’s Most Improved Player of the Year Award, leading the league in 3-point shooting.

Recently, I looked up her mother’s ethnicity, which is a mix of Filipino, Malaysian, Singaporean, and Indian heritage.  And somehow, it mattered to me that a part-Pinay point guard played in the WNBA, as if that was me, directing the Liberty offense, like I had imagined many times on the courts in Harlem.

With :03 seconds remaining, Fever point guard Briann January missed a game-tying three-pointer, and Liberty forward Essence Carson grabbed the rebound.  New York hung on for a nail-biting victory, 77-74, with no time left on the clock.  Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” started bumping in the background.   16,682 in attendance stood in their feet.  And Alicia Keys echoed the sentiments of the fans in a recorded chorus.

“… let’s hear it for New York.  New York.  New York.”

My feet remained on the hardwood floor, and I turned to my left.  I gave the camera man’s assistant a friendly fist-bump for the most exciting basketball game I had ever seen.

“It was a pleasure,” I said.

He smiled.  “See you Sunday, Game 1?” he asked.

I nodded.  Even though I knew I wouldn’t be there.

I walked out of the Garden, onto Seventh Avenue, into the neon mega-wattage of Times Square.  And on this night, I remembered why I still live in New York City.

A week ago, 22-year old Maria Venus Raj became the most talked-about fourth runner-up–ever–in the history of the Miss Universe pageant.  

Her response during the final question and answer portion of the competition has been second-guessed, analyzed, and criticized by pageant pundits and fans alike.  It has generated well over 2 million hits on YouTube.  Bloggers have chimed in on the discussion.  And former beauty queens quickly have rushed to her defense in the media. 

Maybe she should have just used an interpreter, so that she could have articulated a better response in her own language, they said.  And who’s to say, had she spoken in Bicolano, how her depth and complexity would have come across in her answer? 

Girlfriend is Cum Laude, after all. 

Instead, we get to poke fun at her “no ’major, major’ problem in her life.” 

Before that moment, she rocked a bikini with a sexy-swag, floated onstage in an elegant evening gown, and represented herself as nothing short of beautiful, in the semifinal round.  And if this were a Supermodel of the Universe competition, she would have bagged the title, easy. 

But it ain’t.   

In an interview with ABS-CBN news, Gloria Diaz raised the issue that Filipinos competing in international beauty pageants should be allowed to speak in Tagalog. 

“The problem I think is, like me before, she thinks in Tagalog. So, ‘major major’ is what? Malaking malaki o bonggang bongga? The context is lost or misinterpreted abroad, even among Filipinos,” said Diaz.

When Miss Mexico stepped up to the bowl for her final question, figure-skating gold-medalist Evan Lysacek fed her an opportunity to win the championship when he asked her to comment on the effect of unsupervised Internet use on today’s youth. 

Miss Mexico looked over at her interpreter, who repeated the question in Spanish, before she nailed it, pausing three times for the translation, when she said ”the Internet is a necessary and indispensable tool.” 

Sure.   

After that, Nikki Taylor asked Miss Australia for her thoughts on the government’s role when it comes to regulating clothing, to which, she replied that “fashion is freedom.”  And when forced to give her opinion on the death penalty, Miss Jamaica remarked that “life is a gift, given ultimately by one Creator, and that none of us as humans have the right to take a life.” 

One-by-one, each of the finalists, forced themselves to take a stand on a social issue, and each delivered a spot-on-strong answer.  When Jane Seymour asked Miss Ukraine her feelings on having to enter full-body scanners at the airport, she replied that it was a “security issue.”  So no, she didn’t mind, at all. 

And when William Baldwin asked Miss Philippines what one big mistake she has made in her life, and what she did to make it right–surely the easiest question of the night-the title was hers for the taking. 

Ever since Venus Raj became Binibining Pilipinas Universe back in March, she has not escaped controversy.  Soon after her coronation, the Binibining Pilipinas Charities stripped her of her title due to inconsistencies in her birth certificate.  It caused a giant uproar among her Filipino supporters.  They spearheaded online petitions, Facebook fan pages, signature campaigns, blogs, and letters.  A month later, the organization reversed their decision, and Venus Raj was on her way to Vegas.

Born to an Indian father and a Filipina mother in Doha, Qatar, Venus Raj sported the good looks of a warrior-princess, the attitude of a runway diva, and the enthusiasm of a provincial teen-ager all rolled-into-one.  With her Filipino-Indian mixed heritage, Venus carried the long legacy of Miss India and Miss Philippines titleholders on her side:   

4 Miss Universe crowns.  

10 Top-5 finishes.  

18 semifinalists. 

7 Miss Photogenic awards. 

For weeks, Miss Philippines emerged as the front-runner, earning the highest score in an online poll conducted on the Miss Universe website.  And for the first time in 11 years–not since Miriam Quiambao placed as first runner-up in 1999–the Philippines sent a legitimate contender to the Miss Universe pageant. 

All night long, Filipinos in the audience shook the walls of the Mandalay Bay auditorium with their raucousness. 

So when Miss Philippines choked on her final question with a sort-of girlish naivete, I belted out an “oh, no!” at home, which seemed to silence the Pinoys in the crowd. 

Sigh.

She blew it.  Enough said.  And with that, the current drought for Miss Philippines since its last Miss Universe title remains at 37 years… and counting. 

So why do we care so much? 

Filipinos love a beauty pageant.  It’s in our culture.  And if there’s one competition that the Philippines can compete in consistently, it is the sport of beauty, in all its subjectivity, and objectification of women.   

Let’s face it.  The country has yet to field a team to qualify for the FIFA World Cup Tournament.  Floyd Merriweather refuses to fight Manny Pacquiao.  And no athlete from the Philippines has ever won the gold medal at the Olympics. 

And in the golden age of the Miss Universe pageant, the Philippines boasted two winners in a four-year span.  Not bad for a country that’s suffered centuries of colonization, graft and corruption, and natural catastrophies. 

In an interview with ABS-CBN News, Miss Philippines had this to say about her now-infamous response to the final question:

“Wala naman talaga akong mistake na ginawa sa buhay ko. I think it’s not a mistake, never ever… I’m a very positive person. Everything na nangyayari sa akin, I take it as a challenge, something na magiging positive in the end kahit na anong masamang nangyari sa’yo.”

Well said, Venus. 

Well said. 

Manila Times front page

On July 19, 1969, the Filipino nation witnessed the outcome of a global competition on television only the man on the moon landing eclipsed for the Americans.  In Miami, Florida, sixty-one delegates from around the world vied for the title of Miss Universe.  It was broadcast live via satellite to an audience of some sixty million viewers. 

Just days earlier, with the eyes of the world on the historic lift off, my father, Lieutenant Junior Grade Cruz, who, along with his three enlisted men from the Philippine Navy, listened to the cheers of the Americans, nearly as loud as the blast that had rocked Cape Canaveral.  At the time, they served as foreign naval students at the Naval Training Center in San Diego, California. 

As Apollo 11 jettisoned Saturn V—the rocket which had propelled it into Earth orbit—eighteen-year old Gloria Diaz stole the limelight from the astronauts, at least for one night, and brought home the title to the Philippines.

With the competition underway, the Miss Universe pageant played on the big screen in the training classes of the School Service Command.  Electricians.  Technicians.  Yeomen.  Shipfitters.  Pipefitters.  Repairmen.  Commissary men.  Disbursing clerks.  Petty officers turned into recruits, lieutenants into cadets, who whooped it up like frenzied fans at an Army-Navy football game.  Across the ocean, body bags stockpiled in the jungles, villages were ambushed, and limbs lost in artillery fire, but America continued to send its battalions into the rivers of the Mekong Delta.  So when Bob Barker announced Miss Philippines as a semi-finalist, my father was the first to cheer on his country with the pride of a nationalist, while the Filipino stewards cooked and cleaned in the global fight against communism. 

In a prestigious competition that awarded the title of the world’s most beautiful woman, Miss Philippines upstaged the delegates from Europe and Latin America with an enchanting hybrid of Spanish-infused beauty and English-speaking spunk that the pageant universe had yet to see since Marco Polo discovered the Orient. 

“We screamed so loud.” Papa told me.  “But nobody could hear us.  We were outnumbered.” 

After Miss Philippines triumphed as Miss Universe, The Manila Times ran the cover story the following day.  “RP’s Gloria Diaz Wins Miss Universe Contest!”  “Gloria’s Victory Thrills Nation.”  “‘Binibining Pilipinas Takes Title; Miss Finland is Second.”  It was an epic moment captured on the front page; an elated debutante now reigned as the world’s queen of pretty.  Right below the photograph, the headline of the century screamed across the page. 

“MOON LANDING TODAY.” 

In every other major city, man’s greatest achievement dominated the news media, except that in Manila, it came in second.  For a country, whose President and First Lady paraded through the slums of their people like Asia’s Camelot, Miss Universe helped to elevate the young democracy into a delusional monarchy.  On a state visit to the Philippines, where the issue of the U.S. military bases remained unpopular with the people, President Nixon captured it best, sucking up to the neo-colonial state, when he said: 

“America may have conquered the moon.  But the Philippines conquered the Universe.”

Later that year, my father returned to his wife and two boys in Quezon City, Philippines after his nine-month visit to the United States, a boastful officer of the Philippine Navy, saluted by Filipino nationals, whom he had met at the NTC in San Diego and at the Concord Naval Weapons Station.  He urged his wife, a Certified Public Accountant with the Philippine National Bank, to apply for immigration to the U.S., and two years, later, she gave birth to a baby girl. 

I was two years old when Margarita Moran won the title of Miss Universe in Athens, Greece, besting the first runner-up Miss USA.  

It was the second–and ultimately, the last time–that Miss Philippines became Miss Universe.

The following year, on July 21, 1974, Manila hosted the annual Miss Universe pageant, which was held in Asia for the first time in its history.  After Margie Moran won the crown, First Lady Imelda Marcos set her intentions in holding the prestigious event in our home country.  To secure the pageant, she commissioned the construction of the 10,000-seat Manila Folk Arts Theater, to be built on reclaimed land along Manila Bay, where the Cultural Center of the Philippines opened just eight years earlier.  With the largest free-span in the Philippines, the building was built in only seventy-seven days, just in time for the Miss Universe pageant. 

Two years into the proclamation of Martial Law, President Marcos, who had assumed dictatorial powers, tried to restore an atmosphere of normalcy to our troubled country.  And in some respects, he was succeeding.  Gas rationing had been lifted and the curfew cut to three hours.  Tourists were returning to Manila for its uninhibited nightlife, as well as its excellent shopping bargains.  American businesses, who had invested in $1 billion in the Philippines since World War II, had signed up for new projects.  Yet behind the façade of a return to order, Marcos faced a host of problems.  Hundreds of political dissidents remained in detention, including Senator Benigno Aquino, the leader of the opposition Liberal Party.   Marcos had come under fire from the Roman Catholic Church, as church schools were being taxed, foreign-born priests arrested, and convents ransacked. 

So when his wife put up a venue to host a beauty pageant, the Philippines welcomed the world’s most beautiful women to Asia’s greatest democracy. 

Or so it seemed. 

In 1979, my father, two brothers, and I immigrated to the United States, settling in Northern California, where my mother had been living for the past two years.  That was the year that Melanie Marquez, who won the title of Miss International, became the last Miss Philippines to win an international beauty pageant for the next 26 years. 

Soon after that, I started rooting for Miss USA. 

Miss USA won the Miss Universe pageant in 1980, and two more times, after that, until I stopped watching beauty pageants altogether.