The Crazy, Beautiful World of Filipino Basketball and a Teenager Named Kobe

The century-long union between the Philippines and basketball is a marvelous one, marked by deep passion, odd capitalism, and sheer madness. And in the coming months, years, and possibly beyond, it's about to get a whole lot crazier—and it's all because of Kobe.

Just not that Kobe. Like his twitter handle (@Im_Not_Kobe) plainly states, 17-year-old Kobe Paras lives in the shadow of the Black Mamba, for whom he was named.

But the 6'7" UCLA commit, a full-time junior student-athlete at Cathedral High in Los Angeles and part-time online phenomenon (say his 100,000 Instagram followers), is creating a mighty large shadow himself. Given the hoops-hungry culture from which he was born—his father Benjie, currently a renowned Filipino actor-celebrity, is considered one of the 25 best players in Philippine Basketball Association history—Baby Paras looks poised to become the poster child for Filipino exceptionalism, a fresh-faced amalgam of LeBron James, Manny Pacquiao, and Jaden Smith.

Paras's apparent specialty: dunking on, and over, stuff. He has, in fact, dunked on LeBron (in warmups, but still); three of his teammates (mind you the average Filipino's height is 5'4", but still); and his brother, Andre (who, not to be outdone, is a budding collegiate hoopster, MTV Pinoy VJ, actor, and kind of a big deal himself).

And for good measure, Kobe's also thrown-down all over a motorcycle in Jakarta (0:35 second mark).

Naturally, Paras's ability to turn people into human dunk-prop casualties is having a seismic impact in the Filipino media, not surprising in a country where basketball is nearly as popular as rice, and, lest anyone who's traveled to the Philippines forget, "Rice is life."

The Philippine Star, with a print circulation of over 400,000 and an online readership of well over 5 million visitors every month, thoroughly chronicles Kobe's adventures. A quick glance into his exhaustive media following ranges from pertinent (his "Staples Center debut") to trivial (Rip Hamilton likes him, says every Filipino media outlet ever) to obsessive (he's ready to cook his speciality for his Cathedral teammates, but it's NOT his grandma's famous beef salpicao). He even cares about world peace.

To his credit, Paras appears to be more than a young Filipino Harold Miner, his sizzle reel showing off court awareness and real polish, so much so that Bruins head coach Steve Alford offered him a scholarship after watching just one practice.

With that, Paras punched his ticket to Pauley Pavilion, a faraway opportunity to finish Bryce Alford lobs and perhaps become the world's best-known Filipino sportsman this side of Pacman. That is, unless Kobe opts to go all 'Mudiay-to-China' in the years ahead and, dare I say, return home to a hero's welcome, and the wonder that is domestic Philippines basketball.

After all, Filipino roundball reverence is well documented, "owing" a complicated assist to those American colonial powers who ushered in the game in the early 1900s. For whatever reason, it stuck. Today, some 81% of urban Filipinos consider themselves basketball fans, half of them avid. More recently, Kobe 1.0, Kevin Durant, Gilbert Arenas, and of course, newly minted citizen and employee Andray Blatche, have exalted the culture's deeply entrenched attachment to hoops, and its stars like Paras.

Less well documented is the absurdity within the Philippine Basketball Association, the second oldest basketball league in the world behind the NBA, and the only one with a 6'5'' height limit for non-Filipino players. The PBA showcases 12 squads, all owned by and named after corporations, none belonging to a specific city, each vying for the Philippine Cup. The San Miguel Beermen own kingpin status with 19 titles; Purefoods Star Hotshots and Alaska Aces (the biggest dairy company in the Philippines) each sport 13.

Think American sports corporate sponsorships are over the top? Meet Kia Sorento, the name of the team currently employing Manny Pacquiao as player-coach. And team captain. They are 1-11. (Pacquiao's October debut, by the way, is an absolute marvel to watch. "A pick-up legend, in his home province of Los Angeles," declared the enthusiastic color guy.)

Nothing—repeat, nothing—is more over the top, though, than the league's apparently accepted practice of championship game "walk-outs." It is a tradition truly unlike any other, and exactly as it sounds: overly unimpressed with the officiating, the coach rallies his troops, and heads for the locker room. Which is exactly what happened at this year's final, after a (completely defensible) second quarter block-charge call drove the Rain or Shrine coach (that's a team name) to commence Operation Shutdown, commentator disbelief be damned. Of course, it was not that unbelievable: by rule, teams have a legal 15-minute window to return within. Rain or Shine emerged from the "dugout" after five grumpy minutes, and returned to the "playing court." The San Miguel Super Coffee Mixers prevailed, 93-87.

In 1990, a riot was apparently averted because of the league's first title game walk-out, with Anejo Rum 65 trailing the Shell Zoom Masters 62-47, with 2:52 left in the second quarter. Player-coach and PBA legend Robert Jaworski, "with debris, ice, coins and other objects" raining from the sky, elected safety over victory, and handed the Cup to the Zoom Masters in the process, declaring codedly after the mayhem, "Everything is a well-staged play."

On the floor that day for Shell: none other than two-time PBA MVP center Benjie Paras. Well-staged, indeed.

Which brings us full circle back to the present, the Paras family tree and the Coors Hot Seat (sadly, not the name of a PBA club, at least not yet) question: Will Kobe ever get that same chance, to ascend the summit of the Filipino sports mountain, and taste the indescribably sweet nectar of victory-via-forfeit?

Certainly not if the hooping hopes and NBA dreams of an entire nation count for anything.