The world had shrunk.
My universe, which for the last year had been a sprawling, chaotic map of basketball courts, weight rooms, and cross-country bus rides, had compressed to the four walls of my living room. My new opponent wasn't a 6'5" forward; it was a throbbing, relentless itch deep inside the plaster tomb that encased my right leg from toe to knee.
My new conditioning was the agonizing, crutch-powered trek from the sofa to the bathroom.
This was my Palarong Pambansa.
I was propped up on the couch, my leg elevated on a mountain of pillows, a laptop perched on a rolling tray table. The laptop was my one, pixelated window to the world I had been ripped from. The screen was black, save for the small, buffering logo of the "Davao Sports Network," a local high school streaming service.
The house was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the tick-tick-tick of the wall clock. 8:46 AM. My team was in Davao. They were in the locker room, the air thick with the scent of rubbing alcohol and nervous sweat. I could feel it. I could smell it. I closed my eyes and pictured Tristan's face, his jaw set, his eyes burning with that quiet, intense fire he always got. I saw Marco, vibrating, trying to joke his way through the crushing pressure. I saw Daewoo, pale, probably looking at "his" new #10 jersey like it was a bomb.
I was supposed to be there.
My phone buzzed.
Christine: On my way. 2 mins. Got the snacks.
A small, involuntary smile touched my lips. I'd tried to tell her not to come. "It's a school day, Christine. You don't have to skip."
Her reply had been a single, blistering text: Shut up, Aiden. I'm not letting you watch this alone. What are we, partners or not?
The doorbell rang. My mom, who was working from home in the dining room, let her in. A moment later, she appeared, and the whole, gloomy room suddenly felt brighter. She was in her school uniform, but she'd thrown a green Dasma basketball hoodie over it—my hoodie. She was carrying a bag loaded with junk food.
"Game day fuel," she announced, pulling out a bag of chips and a bottle of Gatorade, placing them on the tray next to my laptop.
She sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and took my hand, her fingers lacing with mine. "What's the feed look like?"
"Still buffering," I grumbled, refreshing the page for the tenth time. "It's a high school production, so I'm expecting a lot of shaky camera work and a guy breathing into the microphone."
"It's perfect, then," she said, squeezing my hand.
At 8:55 AM, the screen flickered to life. The camera was, as predicted, slightly off-center, but the view was clear. The arena in Davao. It was huge. Way bigger than anything we'd played in. I could hear the high-pitched squeak of sneakers and the roar of a decent-sized crowd.
Then, the introductions. I watched, my heart a heavy stone in my chest, as our boys were announced. I saw Daewoo run out, his face tight with terror.
"Breathe, Woo," I whispered at the screen.
"Just breathe."
The game started. The tip. Tristan got the ball. My world narrowed to the 15-inch screen. I was no longer in my living room. I was on the bench.
"Okay, good, first possession," I said, my voice analytical, coaching the empty room.
"Tris has it. They're in a man-to-man, but it's... wait... why are Ian and Cedrick...?"
My words trailed off as I watched our two big men drift to the high post, their movements awkward. I saw Tristan try to run the pick-and-roll, and the Calapan defense switched. A clean, effortless, beautiful switch.
"It's a five-out offense," I breathed, my eyes widening. "And they're running a five-out defense. They're all the same size. Switching everything."
Cedrick got the mismatch, but the double-team was instant. "Don't force it, Ced... dammit."
The pass was stolen, but Marco scrambled to get it back. The possession was a mess. Marco's forced shot at the end of the clock was a prayer he hadn't earned.
"That's a bad shot," I said, already frustrated.
"They're rattled," Christine said, her voice a low murmur, her eyes as focused as mine.
"Their press broke our rhythm."
"Okay, defense. Here we go. Get a stop."
I watched Calapan bring the ball up. And then I saw it. The 'piranha' set.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no..."
I saw their center, Reyes, sprint to the deep corner.
"Don't follow him, Ian!" I yelled at the screen. "It's a trap! It's a trap!"
But Ian, bless his disciplined heart, followed his man, just like he'd be coached to do. The paint, our house, was suddenly a vacant, gaping wound.
"Backdoor!" I screamed, a split-second before the Calapan guard cut. The pass was perfect.
The layup was easy.
I slammed a fist down on the cast on my leg, a dull, stupid thud. The pain was sharp, but the anger was sharper. "It's a trap! They're pulling our bigs out! They're making us guard the perimeter with our centers and the paint with our guards! It's an inversion!"
"That's... genius," Christine breathed, her strategic mind appreciating the play.
"It's dirty," I grumbled.
The nightmare unfolded. 5-0. Then Tristan's turnover. 7-0.
"Timeout, Coach! Call the damn timeout!" I was yelling now, my mom poking her head out of the dining room with a worried look. I just waved her off.
Coach G finally called it. I leaned back, my heart hammering. I was drenched in sweat.
"They're getting systematically dismantled," I said, my voice shaking with a rage I couldn't control. "They're playing slow. They're playing scared."
"It's the first two minutes, Aiden," Christine said, her hand finding mine again. "They'll adjust."
"They have to."
Then came Ian's dunk. The steal. The two-on-one. I saw Ian running the floor, and I knew what Tristan was going to do.
"Drop it to him, Tris... drop it... YES!"
When Ian rose up and posterized the Calapan center, I roared. I threw my hands in the air, a primal yell of triumph that scared my mom's dog in the other room.
"THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE FIGHT! WAKE 'EM UP, BIG FELLA!"
Then, the technical.
"Oh, you idiot, Ian!" I groaned, sinking back into the cushions, my euphoria instantly punctured. "You can't do that! You can't give them a free point in a single-elimination game! That's... ugh, that's just a dumb, emotional play."
"But..." Christine said, a small smile on her face. "It was a hell of a statement."
"Yeah," I had to admit, a grin creeping onto my own face. "It was a hell of a statement."
The rest of the quarter was a battle. A chaotic, ugly, beautiful dogfight. I watched my team claw their way back, one stop, one basket at a time.
And then… the moment I was dreading.
Tristan, out of a scrambled play, found Daewoo in the corner. The corner I would have been in.
"Okay, Woo," I whispered. "Knock it down. Show 'em."
He rose up. The shot was… a disaster. An airball.
I winced. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. I saw Daewoo's shoulders slump as he ran back.
"He's in his head," I said, my voice low. "He's thinking about me. He's thinking he's the replacement. He's not playing his game."
"What is his game?" Christine asked.
"Hustle," I said, my eyes fixed on the screen.
"He's a dog. He's not a shooter. He's a... "
The quarter ended, 19-18.
"Okay," I said, letting out a breath I'd been holding for ten minutes. "We're alive. We took their best punch, and we're only down by one. Now, Coach G gets to talk to them."
"Okay, let's see the adjustment," I said, leaning forward. My leg was starting to throb from the tension.
I saw it immediately. The on-ball pressure. Marco was in Gerry Ledesma's shorts. Daewoo was denying his man the ball 30 feet from the basket.
"Yes," I hissed. "That's it. Make them uncomfortable. Don't let them run their pretty little plays."
The first Calapan possession was a 22-second mess that ended in a deflected pass. I clapped my hands, a sharp, single clap. "Good D. Now get a bucket."
The next play... Marco's mid-range jumper. 20-19. We had the lead.
"Okay, okay. Good, smart shot. Settle it down."
Then, it happened. The play that, for me, defined the game.
Calapan was trying to get an easy pass. Daewoo was guarding Riel Mercado. Tom Ledesma tried to force a bounce pass.
"That's a bad pass," I analyzed. "Too lazy..."
Daewoo didn't just step into the lane. He dove.
"YES! DAEWOO!" I screamed.
He was on the floor, he was up, he was on a fast break. He was charging at the lone center.
"Don't get blocked!" Christine yelled, grabbing my arm.
"He's not gonna..."
Daewoo hit him with the crossover. A dirty, street-ball, ankle-breaking crossover. He laid it in.
"OHHHHHH!" I yelled, throwing my bag of chips in the air, popcorn kernels scattering across the floor. "THE KOREAN KOBE! LET'S GO, WOO! THAT'S THE HUSTLE! THAT'S THE HEART!"
I was laughing, a wild, giddy laugh. "He's back! His head is back in the game!"
Calapan's coach called a timeout. I was breathing as hard as if I'd run the break myself.
"Okay," I said to Christine, my voice shaking with adrenaline. "Okay, we've got them. They're on their heels. They don't know what to do. Their whole game plan was 'Daewoo can't play.' And he just proved them wrong."
The next few minutes were a tactical dream. I watched Tristan and Coach G exploit the new reality.
"They're going to keep leaving him open," I predicted, "and now they're terrified of his drive. It opens up the entire..."
The play unfolded. Calapan did leave Daewoo. The pass came.
"Don't think, Woo," I whispered, my hands clasped together so tightly my knuckles were white. "Just shoot."
The shot went up. It was from the exact same spot as the airball.
I held my breath. The world seemed to stop. The ball traced its high, perfect arc.
Swish.
I didn't yell. I didn't scream. I just let out a long, slow breath and sank back into the couch, a massive, satisfied grin spreading across my face.
"He did it," I said, almost to myself. "He shot it. He made it."
Christine was laughing, her head resting on my shoulder. "He's amazing. He's got so much heart."
"He's a dog," I said, the term one of absolute, pure respect. "He's a stone-cold dog."
From there, the game was ours to control. I watched as Calapan's defense, now forced to respect all five players, was stretched thin.
I saw Tristan call the "Pinch" play for Ian.
"Good call, Cap," I murmured. "They're spread too thin to defend the high post."
Ian caught it, kicked it to Cedrick. Easy bucket.
"This is beautiful," I said. "This is just... smart basketball."
Calapan made their run, as I knew they would. The Ledesma twins were too good to go quiet. They hit two quick, tough shots. 29-28.
"Don't panic," I said to the screen. "Don't panic. Get a good shot."
Tristan ran the offense. He found Daewoo on the wing. Daewoo, now playing with a new, beautiful IQ, pump-faked (I held my breath) and then made the perfect pass to a cutting Cedrick.
"YES!" I shouted. "The extra pass! He's not just a dog, he's a smart dog! He's a damn Border Collie!"
The final minute of the half was just execution. The charge Daewoo took. The clutch three from Marco. And then, the final play.
I watched Tristan hold the ball, the clock ticking down.
"Last shot, Tris. Make it a good one."
He drove. The defense collapsed. I saw Marco in the corner. I knew the pass was coming.
Wrap it around, wrap it...
He did it. The behind-the-head pass.
"Oh, that's just... that's just disrespectful," I said, laughing in pure disbelief. "That is a filthy pass."
Marco caught it. The shot was up. The buzzer sounded.
Swish.
Halftime: Dasmariñas 36 — Calapan 29.
The livestream cut to a "Halftime Report - Please Stand By" screen. The roaring, squeaking, chaotic world of the game was replaced, once again, by the silence of my living room.
My heart was hammering. My hands were shaking. I was drenched in sweat, my t-shirt sticking to my back. My leg throbbed where I'd been pounding it.
I had played the entire half.
Christine looked at me, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and concern. "You okay? You look like you just ran a marathon."
"I feel like it," I breathed. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes. "They did it. They took the punch. They adjusted. And they took the lead. They're... they're really good."
"Of course they are," she said softly. "They're your team."
I opened my eyes and looked at her. "Yeah. They are."
My phone buzzed on the tray table. It was a text from my dad, who I knew was watching the same jerky feed from his office.
Dad: That's a different team. They're playing tough. Your boy Kim has a lot of heart. And that pass by Herrera... that was a pro-level read.
A surge of pride, so fierce it almost hurt, swelled in my chest.
Me: They're just getting started.
I looked at the blank screen, my mind already churning, thinking about the second half. Calapan would adjust again. They'd try to get their shooters more looks. They'd try to foul out our bigs.
But I wasn't worried. Not anymore.
I picked up my phone again and opened the team group chat. I knew they wouldn't see it until after the game, but I had to say it. I had to put the feeling, the pride, the fury of it all, into the world.
Aiden #7: You absolute dogs. Every last one of you. That was the best half of basketball I've ever seen. You're tougher, you're smarter, and you're hungrier. Don't let them breathe. Choke them out in the third. I'm right here with you. Now go finish the damn job.
I hit send.
"Okay," I said to Christine, a new, hard smile on my face. "I'm starving. Hand me the rest of those chips. The second half is about to start."