Size: Small

I am short. I didn't always think so. Back in grade school, I was one of the tallest guys in class, one of those kids who stood in the back in class photos. But when my classmates and I hit puberty, most of the other boys started outgrowing their pants while I, along with a handful of not-so-lucky kids, remained two sizes too small for my first-year-high-school pants, my legs seemingly unwilling to make the transition from boy to man.

There are some advantages to being short, mind you. Even at fourteen, I could easily squeeze into that dark, cramped space between the cabinet and study table during a game of hide-and-seek and squat there for a quarter of an hour without losing the feeling in my legs. Of course, by that time, it wasn't other kids but my mom I was hiding from, and if you were ever fourteen, you'd know why and what I was hiding. Also, being short helped ease the pressure of having to be stronger or faster or more masculine off me a bit. I was like a poodle; people expect a bull terrier to be fierce, but a poodle only needs to be cute.

Despite these advantages, I do wish I were tall. Part of the reason for this is that I'm just so sick of people giving me one look and thinking, okay, he's no threat at all. I want to be a threat. I want people to see me and feel a quiver of fear and envy go down their spine. I want to look like someone who just strayed off the set of 300 and makes everyone else look like a pansy. Spartans, what's your profession? Haah!

This longing to be a threat, to be over rather than underestimated, crystallized in me when I started playing volleyball in high school. Being short, I was always benched. And in those rare moments when I got some playing time, the tosser never sent the ball my way, which made me the athletic equivalent of a wallflower. That's not something you want to happen especially if the girl you're courting (that time it was an exquisite and, yes, taller, girl named Hershey) is watching.

I have learned to live with being short however. Or rather, I've learned to work with what I have. I avoid wearing shirts with horizontal stripes, for example, and go to the gym every now and then to make sure my legs are strong if stubby. And as a volleyball player, I have managed to focus on and develop certain skills that don't require mile-long calves, like setting and digging, and assured myself an integral spot on my team. Of course, treating the team out every once in a while helps as well.

I know I'll never be a runway model. I know unless the FIVB lowers the height of the net, I'll never make it to the Olympics (but then, neither would any six-foot tall Filipino). But when I'm all warmed up and adrenaline-pumped, I do manage to hit over much taller blockers, and if I time my jump just right, I can sometimes even roof giant spikers. On those sweet if rare occasions, I just turn away from the net, raise my fist in the air, and grunt "haah!"

If that's not enough, I just quote Carlos Romulo who said, with what I imagine to be a sly grin, that "big things come in small packages." That from a man who delivered a speech at the United Nations standing on two telephone books.