I was professor and dean of the University of the Philippines Diliman College of Business Administration and a partner of SyCip Gorres Velayo & Co. (SGV) when I learned that Ayala was forming a proprietary club. I decided it was a good investment and being near SGV, it would be a good place to meet clients and to hang out, to take my kids (then three of them, ages one to six), and to finally ease my conscience.

I cheated in college freshman PE, telling Prof. Cailao that I swam 16 of the required 20 laps when I did only four, all the while hanging on to the gutter. A photo of the swimming pool in the club brochure clinched it and thus I became a golden anniversary member.

I did learn to swim at the club, tutored by Bert Lozada and Bana Seilani. Bert was a coach of the old school, a strict disciplinarian with a commanding voice. My son Jamesy didn’t respond well to Bert’s method and had to be dragged screaming to the club, where he and Bert began lessons with a lengthy hide-and-seek warmup. Bana, previously a Philippine Olympic athlete, was more relaxed, a man with a ready smile. He hailed from Tawi-Tawi and described how he used to swim side-stroke one kilometer to school from his island home, paddling with one arm while holding his books above water with the other. Anyway, both Jamesy and I learned to swim well enough to go scuba diving, from Anilao to (no kidding) Zanzibar.

I spent many a morning in the 1980s and 1990s at breakfast with a dozen friends, mostly from the insurance industry. Mar Lao, Ting Ayllon, Bert Bravo, and Charlie Decena still come to the club now and then, but others have gone, including Dandoy Almanzor, a retired BIR officer who helped me with my taxes and who gave me Spanish lessons over coffee.

I miss the artwork that used to hang in the attic’s club offices. George Salvador, for many years the dedicated club manager, liked all kinds of stuff, and I used to trek up and persuade him to sell me something. I had some nice finds there, including ink drawings by Francisco V. Coching and Larry Alcala, both National Artists. That was when my knees were in better shape.

The club looks about the same as it did in 1975, though it, too, has changed. The Log Cabin, now roofed with fake tile, was precisely that—it had logs not only inside but also outside. Its roof was really logs. The main building’s roof was originally of real clay tiles. A member bought them and now they roof his Alabang home. There was a big fire that destroyed the ballroom wing, including the well-stocked club library, which has not been replaced. The poolside Le Patisserie is an afterthought, built on part of the formerly wide and airy corridor. Then there was a bush-screened pool where the Club Café now is, where rumor had it was a much frequented lovers’ nook.

The club was the brainstorm of Jovy Cinco, who persuaded Enrique Zobel, then Ayala Corporation head, to earmark Salcedo Village property for the club. His wife, the late Alice Cinco, took a continuing interest in the club’s welfare and, for many years, was a respected adviser on club matters.

The club has restaurants and function rooms for business and social events. For recreation, there are two pools, a gym, tennis and squash courts, and one of Metro Manila’s remaining bowling alleys. An active social committee organizes concerts, lectures, and events. Sunday mass is regularly celebrated for members and neighbors alike. There are native trees all around. A narra sapling planted at the club’s inauguration is now a two-foot-diameter giant. A pair of catmon trees seems ready to bloom. Two kapok trees cast shadows on a blank wall. Bees and butterflies occasionally visit. In May, ripe Indian mangoes drop by the children’s pool, and this month, bats (yes, they like Makati too) nibble on the green fruits of the talisay trees behind the Log Cabin. And each morning, a flock of mayas gather for a birdseed breakfast, eyes out for a couple of cats hiding in the shrubbery.

Makati Sports Club is a cozy and unpretentious home in the heart of bustling Makati.

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