The 36-hour countdown had felt like an eternity and an instant. The Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team had spent every waking moment in a cycle of film study, walkthroughs, and restless, dream-haunted sleep. The "piranha" offense of Calapan High, with its five-out spacing and relentless shooting, had looped in their minds until it became a kind of waking nightmare.
Now, the time for theory was over.
The bus ride to the gymnasium—a satellite venue, not the main stadium, but a massive, 8,000-seat university arena—was silent. The usual, nervous pre-game chatter was absent, replaced by the grim, focused quiet of a team heading into a battle they knew, for the first time, they might not be prepared for.
Tristan Herrera stared out the window, his reflection a pale, ghostly mask over the passing scenery of Davao. He wasn't thinking about the plays. He knew the plays. He was thinking about Aiden. He was thinking about his promise. The single-elimination format felt like a physical weight, a heavy hand pressing on his chest. One bad game. One off-night. One mistake. And it was all over.
They were the first to arrive. The locker room was spacious, professional, and cold. In the center of the room, on a lone stool, Coach Gutierrez had already draped Aiden's #7 jersey, the white fabric a stark, poignant centerpiece. It was a shrine, a reminder, and a silent, screaming accusation.
"He got his cast on yesterday," the coach said, his voice echoing in the quiet room as the players suited up. "The hard cast. He's in physical therapy, learning to walk on crutches, while you're here with a chance to play. He gave up his season for a loose ball in a practice game."
He looked at each of them.
"Do not... let that be for nothing. Play for the man who can't."
He didn't need to say anything else.
They walked out onto the main floor for warm-ups, and the scale of the Palarong Pambansa hit them. The arena was already two-thirds full, a buzzing, partisan sea of spectators. The CALABARZON contingent was a small, brave patch of green, but the rest of the crowd was a mix of every region, all here to see the first-round games.
Calapan High was already on the other side of the court, a sea of bright yellow and blue.
They were running their drills with a sharp, synchronized precision. And just as the coach had warned, all five players on the floor were shooting threes, even their center.
Ian Veneracion watched them, his face a mask of stone.
"It's just... unnatural," he muttered to Cedrick, as the Calapan center, a big-bodied kid, drained his third consecutive three-pointer.
"It's just a new way of playing, man," Cedrick replied, his voice tight. "We have to adjust. We can't let it get in our heads."
"It's already in my head," Ian grumbled. "My feet are itching. I want to be in the paint."
"You go to the paint, they score three. You stay out, they drive," Tristan said, joining them, his eyes also locked on the Calapan players. "It's a trap, just like Coach said. The only way to beat it is to be perfect on our rotations. Talk. We have to be loud."
The warm-ups ended. The lights in the arena dimmed, and a single, brilliant spotlight hit center court. A man with a deep, booming, professional voice began to speak over the massive PA system.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Welcome to the first day of the 2015 Palarong Pambansa Secondary Men's Basketball Tournament! This is Round One. This is single elimination. The losers go home, and the winners' dreams stay alive!"
A roar went up from the crowd.
"Let's meet our teams! First, from the MIMAROPA Region, Region 4B! The champions of their Region! Calapan High!"
A high-energy pop song blasted as the Calapan starters were announced, running out into the spotlight to cheers from their section.
"At forward, a six-foot-four, #15, Migs Borja!"
"At center, the three-point threat, a six-foot-five, #30, Anton Reyes!"
"At forward, a six-foot-three slasher, #8, Riel Mercado!"
"And the deadliest backcourt in the game! First, at guard, a six-foot, the floor general, #3, Tom Ledesma!"
"And his twin brother! At guard, a six-foot-two senior, the pure shooter, #22, Gerry Ledesma!"
The five of them met at center court, a tight, confident-looking unit. They looked like they had been playing together since they were born.
"And now," the announcer boomed, "their opponents! From the mighty CALABARZON Region, Region 4A! Your regional champions! The Dasmariñas National High!"
A different, rock-heavy track kicked in. The Dasmariñas bench stood, clapping, as their starters were called.
"First, the new man in the lineup, a defensive specialist! A six-foot-two forward, jersey number 10, Daewoo Kim!"
Daewoo ran out, his face pale and terrified, but he slapped his teammates' hands with forced, frantic energy.
"Next, their tower of power in the paint! A six-foot-six, at center, jersey number 34, Ian Veneracion!"
Ian ran out, his face a grim, emotionless mask.
"His partner in the post! A six-foot-four, at power forward, jersey number 21, Cedrick Estrella!"
Cedrick pounded his chest twice and joined the line.
"The flamethrower from the outside! A six-foot, at guard, jersey number 23, Marco Gumaba!"
Marco, for once, didn't play to the crowd. He sprinted out, his eyes locked forward, and slapped Daewoo hard on the back.
"And their captain! The regional finals hero! At point guard, a five-foot-ten senior, jersey number 20, Tristan Herrera!"
Tristan ran out last, the roar of their small section washing over him. He high-fived his teammates, his face a picture of cold, absolute focus.
The announcer then rattled off the rest of the Dasmariñas roster, the bench players standing and waving as their names were called.
"Number 11, Mark Herras! Number 24, John Manalo! Number 5, Gab Lagman! Number 17, Joseph Rubio! Number 4, Joshua Velasquez! And number 33, Felix Tan!"
The team came together in a tight huddle around Tristan.
"This is it," Tristan said, his voice low and intense. "Everything we worked for. It all comes down to this. Forty minutes. For us. For Aiden. No regrets. Play smart. Play hard. Play together. DASMA on three! One, two, three!"
"DASMA!" they roared, their voices a single, unified bark.
The referee, a tall, imposing man in a crisp official's uniform, stood at center court. He motioned the two centers in. Ian Veneracion, a tower of muscle, stared across at Anton Reyes, a player who was just as tall but built more like a tight end, his movements quick and wiry.
The whistle blew. The ball went up.
Ian's vertical was explosive. He got to the apex first, his fingers cleanly tipping the ball backward to Tristan. Dasmariñas had the first possession.
Tristan brought the ball up, his senses on high alert. The Calapan defense spread out, matching their "five-out" offense. Every player was guarded, man-to-man, from beyond the three-point line.
"Ian! Cedrick! Get out!" Coach G's voice echoed from the sideline.
His two big men, their instincts screaming at them to dive to the basket, looked confused for a split second before remembering the game plan. They reluctantly drifted to the high post.
Tristan initiated, running a pick-and-roll with Cedrick. Calapan's defense switched, a seamless, lightning-fast exchange. Now Tristan was being guarded by the 6'4" Migs Borja, and Cedrick had the smaller Tom Ledesma on his back.
This is the mismatch, Tristan thought.
He immediately lobbed the ball into the post. Cedrick caught it, turned... and was instantly double-teamed. Riel Mercado, the small forward, had abandoned Daewoo in the corner and swiped at the ball. Cedrick, surprised, fumbled it. He recovered but was forced to throw a desperate pass back out.
The possession was scrambled. It ended with Marco having to force a long, contested two-pointer as the shot clock expired. It clanged off the rim.
"Okay, defense! Talk! Talk!" Tristan yelled, clapping his hands.
Tom Ledesma brought the ball up, his movements unhurried. And the Calapan machine began to move. It was beautiful, and it was terrifying. All five players were in constant, fluid motion, a series of cuts, screens, and flares.
Anton Reyes, the center, didn't go to the post. He sprinted to the deep corner. Ian, his coach's voice ringing in his ears, swallowed his pride and followed him, his 6'6" frame now standing 25 feet from the basket he was supposed to protect.
The entire paint was now a gaping, undefended red carpet.
Gerry Ledesma, the shooter, came off a screen from Borja. Marco fought through it. But it was a decoy. Tom Ledesma drove hard into the empty lane. Cedrick, as the help-side defender, had to rotate, leaving his man. The moment Cedrick took one step, Tom fired a one-handed whip pass to the now-open Migs Borja at the top of the key.
Borja caught it and, with no one within ten feet, drained the three-pointer.
It was a surgical, effortless, and demoralizing play.
Ian looked at the empty paint, then at his coach, his face a mask of frustration. Coach G just motioned him back out. Stay the course.
Tristan was more patient this time. He slowed the game down. He saw the over-aggressive, switching defense. He called for an isolation. He faced Tom Ledesma. He used his superior speed, a quick crossover that got Ledesma on his heels. He drove the lane. As expected, Riel Mercado helped off Daewoo. Tristan, who had been studying film for two days, was ready. He didn't look at Daewoo. He threw a no-look pass to the corner.
Daewoo caught it. The entire arena held its breath. This was the shot. The one he had pump-faked. The one he had been terrified of.
"SHOOT IT, DAEWOO!" Marco screamed.
Daewoo didn't hesitate. It was a testament to Coach G's brutal practice. He rose up and took the shot.
It was a perfect airball.
It missed the rim, the backboard, everything.
A gasp, followed by a titter of laughter from the Calapan section, echoed through the gym.
Daewoo's face crumpled in shame.
Calapan, smelling blood, pushed the ball. They ran the exact same play as their first possession. Reyes pulled Ian to the corner. This time, Gerry Ledesma cut backdoor. Tom Ledesma hit him with a perfect bounce pass. Easy layup.
"What are we doing?!" Marco yelled at no one in particular.
Now, the team was rattled. Tristan brought the ball up, but his teammates were hesitant. Their cuts were slow. Tristan tried to force an entry pass to Cedrick, but it was tipped and stolen by Migs Borja.
A 3-on-2 fast break for Calapan. Borja to Tom Ledesma, back to Borja, who finished with a layup.
A 7-0 run to start the Palarong Pambansa. Tristan looked at the scoreboard. This was a nightmare.
"TIMEOUT, DASMARIÑAS!" Coach Gutierrez roared, his voice laced with pure, unadulterated fury.
The starters trudged to the bench, their heads hanging. They didn't even sit. Coach G met them on the sideline, his face purple.
"Seven to nothing!" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "They have not even broken a sweat! Why? Because you are playing scared, and you are playing stupid!"
He grabbed Daewoo by the jersey, pulling him close. "You missed. Who cares! You are a man. You're allowed to miss! But you did not crash the boards. You did not run back on defense. You let your miss beat you twice! You will not do that again. Do you hear me?!"
"Yes, Coach!" Daewoo gasped, his eyes wide with fear and adrenaline.
"And you two!" he wheeled on Ian and Cedrick. "You are playing like zombies! You're so worried about their shooters that you've forgotten how to play basketball! Be athletes! You are not statues! If they drive, you stop the ball! This is not complicated! And Marco! Stop sulking! Your man has five points. You have zero. Fix it."
He looked at Tristan. "And you. You are the captain. Control your team. Stop letting them dictate the pace. This is our game. This is our tempo. Now, get back out there and fight."
The huddle broke. The team that returned to the court was a different one. The shock was gone, replaced by a raw, angry embarrassment.
"Okay," Tristan said, clapping his hands as they walked back. "That's the wake-up call. No more. We get one stop. Just one."
Tom Ledesma brought the ball up, a confident smirk on his face. He signaled for another play. This time, it was for the other twin. Gerry Ledesma, guarded by Marco, sprinted off a double screen from Reyes and Borja.
"Switch!" Cedrick yelled.
"No!" Marco screamed back, remembering the new rule. "I'm through! I'm through!"
Marco lowered his shoulder and powered through the screen, staying attached to Gerry. Tom Ledesma threw the pass, but Marco, in a desperate, lunging effort, got a fingertip on it. The pass was deflected! It rolled towards center court.
Tristan scooped up the loose ball. He was on a full-out sprint. The Calapan team, for all their offensive precision, were not built for transition defense. Tristan was in the open court. He saw Gerry Ledesma, the only man back. He could have taken the layup. But he saw something better.
He saw Ian Veneracion, who had been sprinting from the defensive end, his 6'6" frame eating up the court like a freight train.
Tristan took one more dribble, drawing Ledesma to him, and then, at the last second, dropped a perfect, no-look bounce pass behind him.
Ian caught it in full stride. He didn't even dribble. He took one, massive, ground-shaking step and rose.
Anton Reyes, the stretch five, had sprinted back and made a fatal, business-like decision to try and take the charge.
It was a mistake.
Ian elevated, his knees rising to his chest, and with a roar of pure, primal frustration, he dunked the ball over the Calapan center, a monstrous, posterizing slam that sent Reyes crashing to the floor.
And-one.
The gym, which had been a quiet library of Calapan fans, exploded. The small Dasmariñas section was a riot.
Ian stood over the fallen center, not in a taunt, but in a pure, unadulterated release of every ounce of frustration he had felt. He let out a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.
"LET'S GO!" he screamed, pounding his chest. "LET'S GO!"
He had just been given a technical foul for taunting.
And he did not care.
And Coach Gutierrez, on the sideline, did not care. He was screaming, "That's what I'm talking about, Ian! That's the fight!"
Ian stepped to the line, his hands still shaking with adrenaline, and drained the free throw.
(Calapan shoots the technical free throw. Gerry Ledesma sinks it.)
It didn't matter. The game had changed. The spell was broken. The piranhas were no longer just surgeons; they had been reminded that this was a physical fight.
"Okay," Tristan said, as Calapan took the ball out. "We're here now. Let's play."
The rest of the quarter was a war.
Daewoo, who had airballed his first shot, was now a demon. He wasn't guarding his man; he was possessing him, denying him the ball, his hands and feet a constant, frantic blur. He got a steal, which led to a transition layup for Tristan.
Cedrick, no longer a passive defender, was now actively hedging on screens and recovering, his communication with Ian a constant, barking dialogue.
And Marco, energized by the new, aggressive tone, finally found his shot. He came off a screen from Gab (who had subbed in for Cedrick), caught the pass from Tristan, and drained a three in Gerry Ledesma's face.
"And one for you, too," Marco sneered as he ran past him.
Calapan kept scoring. They were too good not to. The Ledesma twins were as good as advertised, hitting tough, contested shots. But the easy baskets were gone. Every point was now paid for in blood, sweat, and hard contact.
The quarter ended with Tristan driving the lane, the defense collapsing, and him kicking it out to a wide-open Gab, who had subbed in and was standing at the elbow. Gab caught it and hit the 15-foot jumper, a shot he practiced a hundred times a day.
The buzzer sounded.
End of First Quarter: Dasmariñas 18 — Calapan 19
They walked to the bench, not as a defeated, confused group, but as a team that had just walked through fire and come out the other side, scarred but hardened. They were down by one, but they had taken Calapan's best punch, a 7-0 run, and had punched right back.
Tristan grabbed a towel, his chest heaving, his Stamina: 85 the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He looked at his team. Their faces were grim, sweaty, and focused.
The first round was not going to be a blowout. It was going to be a war. And the first, bloody battle was over. Now, they just had to win the next three.