The eight-point lead felt like a mile and an inch. As the Dasmariñas National High walked back onto the court for the final ten minutes, the air in the Davao City Arena was a heavy, buzzing blanket of noise. The Calapan fans were on their feet, a sea of yellow, stomping and chanting, trying to will their team back to life. The small, defiant patch of Dasmariñas green huddled near their bench, a tiny island in a hostile ocean.
In the huddle, Coach Gutierrez's face was a mask of cold intensity. He wasn't celebrating the 49-41 lead. He was dissecting it.
"Forget the last ten minutes," he said, his voice a low growl that cut through the arena's din. "It doesn't exist. The score is zero-zero. This is a new game. This is the only game. They are going to come at you with everything they have. They are a team of piranhas, and they are wounded, which makes them desperate. They will press. They will gamble. They will foul. Do not... get... rattled."
He locked eyes with his captain. "Tristan. This is your quarter. You are the head of the snake. They come for you, you cut them. You control this, from the first second to the last. Your decisions will win or lose this game. I want composure. I want ice."
He then turned to the rest of them. "We didn't come here to just 'survive.' We came here to advance. Ten minutes. Leave nothing. For yourselves. For your school. For Aiden."
Across the court, Coach Riego of Calapan was delivering a much different speech. It was a furious, desperate plea. "This is it! Single elimination! You want to fly home tomorrow? Or do you want to fight? Press them! Trap them! We do not let them breathe! And if you are open from three... you let it fly! Leave it all out here!"
The buzzer sounded. The teams took their positions. The final, ten-minute war began.
Score: Dasmariñas 49 — Calapan 41
Calapan had possession, and their desperation was immediate and palpable.
They didn't even try to run a set. Tom Ledesma (#3) brought the ball up, took one look at Tristan, and passed to his twin brother. Gerry Ledesma (#22) was twenty-six feet from the basket, hounded by Marco. He didn't care. He caught the ball, took one hard jab step to create a centimeter of space, and launched a high-arcing, defiant three-pointer. It was a terrible, forced shot.
And it went in.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 49 — Calapan 44
The Calapan crowd exploded. The lead, which felt so solid, was suddenly just five points. Gerry Ledesma ran back on defense, screaming at his team, "We're not done! Let's go!"
Calapan, energized, came out in a suffocating, full-court press. They were trapping Tristan, two defenders flying at him the moment he touched the inbound pass.
"Trap! Trap!" Tristan yelled, pivoting, protecting the ball.
He was in trouble. He was pinned near the baseline. But he heard a voice. "Tris! Middle!"
It was Gab Lagman, who had subbed in for Cedrick, his fresh legs and high basketball IQ a stabilizing force. He had flashed to the center of the court, the weak point of the press.
Tristan threw a sharp, over-the-head pass. Gab caught it at the free-throw line. The press was broken. It was now a 4-on-3 advantage for Dasma. Gab took one dribble and saw Ian Veneracion sprinting to the rim, his hand raised. Gab delivered a perfect bounce pass.
Ian caught it and went up, but Anton Reyes (#30), the Calapan center, fouled him hard to prevent the easy dunk.
The game stopped. The ball would go to Ian at the free-throw line. But the message was sent: Dasmariñas would not be rattled.
"Good look, Gab! Good pass!" Tristan yelled, clapping as he helped Ian up.
Ian, a 60% free-throw shooter, stepped to the line, the crowd roaring, trying to get in his head.
He bounced the ball.
Breathed.
Blocked it all out.
First shot... swish.
Second shot... swish.
He had made them both.
Score: Dasmariñas 51 — Calapan 44
The lead was back to seven. They had absorbed the punch and answered.
Calapan came down, their 'five-out' offense looking frantic now, not precise. Tom Ledesma tried to drive, but Tristan cut him off. He kicked it to Borja (#15), who tried to drive on Daewoo.
Daewoo, his confidence now sky-high, was a wall. He moved his feet perfectly, staying in front of the bigger forward. Borja, with nowhere to go, threw up a wild, contested hook shot as the shot clock was winding down.
It missed badly. Ian ripped down the rebound.
"Slow it down! Slow it down!" Tristan commanded, walking the ball up the court. He was milking the clock, forcing the desperate Calapan team to expend precious energy on defense.
He dribbled... 20 seconds... 19...
He initiated the 'Pick-and-Pop' with Ian again. The defense, remembering the play, overcommitted. The Calapan guard, Tom Ledesma, switched hard onto Ian, and Reyes, the center, stayed in the paint to stop Tristan's drive.
It was a mistake. They had left one man open.
Tristan saw it in a flash. He faked the pass to Ian and instead whipped the ball to the opposite wing. To Marco.
Gerry Ledesma was sprinting out, but it was too late. Marco, with a clean look, rose up.
Swish. A three-pointer.
Score: Dasmariñas 54 — Calapan 44
The lead was ten. It was the first double-digit lead of the game. Marco turned to the Calapan bench and gave a small, disrespectful shrug.
"Timeout, Calapan!" Coach Riego was apoplectic, throwing his clipboard onto his stool.
In the huddle, the Dasmariñas National High were breathing hard, but their eyes were bright.
"That's it!" Tristan said, high-fiving Marco. "That's the poise. They're gambling. We just have to make the smart, simple play."
"They're gassed," Gab rumbled, taking a sip of water. "I can see it in their legs. Their closeouts are slow."
"Good," Coach G said, his voice a low, cold hum. "Now, we step on their throats. No mercy. We're going to our 'Cobra' set. We're going to get a layup for Daewoo. They're still disrespecting his cut. Let's make them pay."
They came out of the timeout. The crowd was quiet, nervous.
Tristan dribbled at the top. He signaled 'Cobra.' It was a complex play with multiple decoys. Marco cut one way. Ian set a screen the other. The Calapan defense shifted.
In the chaos, Daewoo, who was on the weak side, made a lightning-fast, perfectly-timed backdoor cut to the basket.
Tristan had been waiting for it. He threw a single, pinpoint bounce pass that split two defenders and hit Daewoo in stride.
Daewoo caught it. He was all alone. He laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 56 — Calapan 44
The lead was twelve. The Calapan team looked defeated. Their shoulders slumped. Their heads dropped.
They came down the court, their movements sluggish. Tom Ledesma tried to force an entry pass to Quinahan, but his heart wasn't in it. The pass was lazy.
Daewoo, who was a full twenty feet away, read the pass. His 'dog' engine kicked in. He abandoned his own man and sprinted, launching his body through the air, intercepting the pass at its apex.
Another steal for Daewoo Kim.
Tristan got the outlet pass. He was pushing. 4-on-2.
He drove, drew the last defender, and dropped it off to Gab, who was thundering down the lane. Easy layup.
Score: Dasmariñas 58 — Calapan 44
A 7-0 run. The game, for all intents and purposes, was over. The 'piranhas' had been defanged.
The next three minutes were a painful, slow execution. Calapan, to their credit, didn't stop fouling. But their offense was gone.
They were a one-dimensional team, and Dasmariñas had solved their one dimension.
Gerry Ledesma, in a final act of defiance, hit another impossible, falling-out-of-bounds three-pointer. But it was a meaningless, beautiful bucket.
Score: Dasmariñas 60 — Calapan 47
This was the moment. The turning point. The play that would define the victory.
Tristan brought the ball up, the clock their greatest ally. He initiated a simple weave.
The Calapan defense was in a full-on scramble, just trying to trap the ball. Tristan was doubled. He got the pass to Marco. Marco was doubled. He swung it to Gab.
Gab caught it at the free-throw line. The defense rotated. Riel Mercado, Daewoo's man, had left him completely, collapsing into the paint to stop Gab.
Daewoo was standing all alone in the corner. The same corner as the airball. The same corner as the first, redeeming three.
Gab saw him. "Woo!" he yelled.
He fired the pass.
Daewoo caught it. The whole arena knew he was going to shoot. Gerry Ledesma, the star, was flying at him, a desperate, lunging closeout.
This is it. Daewoo thought. This is the test.
The memory of the airball was a cold flicker. The memory of the swish was a warm glow.
But he wasn't the same player he was in the first quarter. He was a veteran now. He was a winner.
He didn't rush. He didn't panic. As Gerry Ledesma launched himself into the air, Daewoo Kim calmly, coolly, pump-faked.
Gerry, all momentum and desperation, flew right by him, his body sailing harmlessly out of bounds.
The arena gasped.
Daewoo landed. He took one calm, rhythmic dribble to his left, clearing the space. He set his feet. There was no one within fifteen feet of him. It was just him and the basket.
He rose up, his form now confident, practiced. He released the 18-foot shot.
The gym was dead silent. The ball spun, a perfect, beautiful rotation.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 62 — Calapan 47
If Ian's dunk had been the emotional turning point, this was the dagger. This was the intellectual and spiritual end of the game.
Daewoo Kim, the defensive specialist, the kid who wasn't supposed to be here, had just hit the biggest shot of the game, not with luck, but with pure, veteran savvy.
Marco was the first to reach him, screaming so loud his voice cracked. He grabbed Daewoo's head in his hands. "YOU ARE A COLD-BLOODED KILLER! A KOREAN ASSASSIN!"
Tristan just clapped, a wide, proud smile on his face.
On the Calapan side, Coach Riego finally, officially, gave up. He motioned to his bench. He was subbing out his starters. He was conceding.
Coach Gutierrez saw it and did the same.
"Herrera. Gumaba. Veneracion. Lagman. Kim. Out."
The five starters jogged to the bench, the small CALABARZON section giving them a thunderous, tearful standing ovation.
Tristan walked the line, high-fiving the bench players—John, Mark, Felix, Joseph, Joshua—who were going in to finish the game.
He sat down at the end of the bench, next to where Aiden's jersey was still draped over the chair. He looked at it, then at the scoreboard.
He, Ian, Cedrick, and Marco pulled Daewoo into a massive, sweaty, five-man group hug.
"You're not a dog, man," Marco said, his voice thick with emotion. "You're a damn wolf."
"You won this for us, Woo," Tristan said simply.
Daewoo, overwhelmed, just buried his face in a towel, his shoulders shaking.
The last four minutes were a formality. The bench players ran the clock out, playing with a disciplined respect for their defeated opponents. The final buzzer sounded.
Final Score: Dasmariñas 65 — Calapan 50
The Dasmariñas National High had done it. They had survived and advanced.
They lined up, shaking hands with the Calapan players, who were gracious in defeat. The Ledesma twins, their eyes red, shook Tristan's hand.
"You guys are tough," Tom Ledesma said, his voice hoarse. "Herrera... you're a true leader. And your #10... he's got heart. Go win it all."
"Hell of a game, man," Tristan replied, the respect mutual. "You guys are a nightmare to play."
The team walked back to the locker room, the sounds of their small cheering section echoing in their ears. They were exhausted. They were bruised. They were emotionally drained. But they were alive.
They collapsed onto the benches in the locker room, the silence a shared, profound relief.
Coach Gutierrez walked in, a single stat sheet in his hand. He looked at them.
"You held a team that averages 85 points a game to 50," he said, his voice quiet. "You took their best punch, you took their best strategy, and you broke them. That... was the best defensive game of basketball I have ever coached."
He looked at Daewoo, who was still trying to hide his emotions.
"Kim. You had seven points, six rebounds, five steals, and two assists. But the stats don't matter. You were the heart of this game. You were the X-factor. You did your job. You made Aiden proud."
And at that, the team, as one, erupted. The cheers, the yells, the celebration they had held back, it all came pouring out in the small, confined space of the locker room.
Tristan leaned his head back against the cool cinderblock wall, closing his eyes. He let the sound of his victorious, laughing, crying team wash over him. He pulled out his phone.
Tristan: One down. Three to go.
He sent the text to the two people who mattered most. One in Dasmariñas, and one in a hospital room, waiting.
The promise was still alive.