The two days of mandated rest had been a necessary balm for their battered bodies and frayed nerves. But by Tuesday afternoon, a restless energy had begun to hum through the veins of the Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team. The sweet afterglow of their victory was beginning to fade, replaced by the familiar, primal itch to get back on the court. To work. To improve.
When they gathered in the gym for their first practice since the championship, the atmosphere was loose and buoyant. The air, usually thick with the tension of preparation, was now filled with the easy confidence of champions. Laughter echoed off the rafters as players stretched, their movements relaxed and fluid. They wore their victory like a new, perfectly-fitted suit.
Marco, naturally, was the master of ceremonies for this celebration lap. He was in the middle of the court, a basketball spinning on his finger, regaling the reserve players with yet another embellished version of the final minutes.
"So there we were, down by one, the weight of the entire region on our shoulders," he narrated, his voice dripping with drama. "I looked at Tristan, he looked at me. A silent understanding passed between us, a bond forged in the fires of a thousand practices. I knew he was going to me. The defense knew he was going to me. The vendors outside the arena knew he was going to me…"
"And then he didn't pass you the ball because they had three guys guarding you," Gab interjected dryly from the sidelines, methodically taping his ankles. "And he won the game by himself. End of story."
"Details, Gab, mere details!" Marco retorted, not missing a beat. "It was the threat of the pass to me that created the opening. I was the decoy. The noble sacrifice. A crucial, if unsung, part of the victory."
The team chuckled. Even Gab cracked a smile. The mood was infectious. They had climbed their mountain. They had planted their flag. Now, standing at the summit, the view was spectacular, and they felt like they could stay there forever.
The loud, sharp clap of Coach Gutierrez's hands cut through the lighthearted atmosphere like a knife. He walked to the center of the court, a portable whiteboard tucked under his arm. His face was not celebratory. The proud, paternal smile from the victory dinner was gone, replaced by the grim, focused mask of a general on the eve of a new war. The laughter died down instantly. The players instinctively drew closer, their posture straightening, their easy smiles dissolving into expressions of serious attention. The holiday was officially over.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the coach began, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He scanned their faces, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment. "I trust you all enjoyed your well-deserved rest. Savor the memory of that victory. Hold onto the feeling of that medal around your neck. Because as of right now, it means nothing."
A few players shifted uncomfortably. The statement was a bucket of ice water.
"That trophy, that title… it wasn't the destination," Coach Gutierrez continued, his voice hardening. "It was a key. It unlocked a door. And today, I'm going to show you what's on the other side of that door."
He set up the whiteboard, uncapping a black marker. On the top, he wrote in large, block letters: PALARONG PAMBANSA 2015 – SECONDARY BOYS BASKETBALL.
The national stage. The final destination. A palpable tension filled the gym.
"The national committee released the official bracketing this morning," the coach said. "Sixteen teams, sixteen regional champions, all converging in one place. They've been divided into two groups of eight for the initial draw."
He began to write on the board, his marker squeaking against the surface.
GROUP B
Quezon City High (NCR)
Baguio City High (CAR)
Vigan High (Region 1)
Bacolod High (Region 6)
Tacloban High (Region 8)
Pagadian High (Region 9)
Davao City High (Region 11)
General Santos City High (Region 12)
A low murmur went through the team. These were names they knew from basketball forums and news articles. NCR, the perennial powerhouse, the team everyone expected to be in the finals. Davao, a factory for producing powerful, athletic forwards. Bacolod, known for their suffocating defense.
"That's the other side of the bracket," Coach Gutierrez said, effectively dismissing them. "We won't have to worry about any of them until the championship game, if we're good enough, and lucky enough, to make it that far."
Then, he moved to the other side of the board and began to write again. This time, every player leaned in, their eyes glued to his hand.
GROUP A
Dasmariñas National High (Region 4A - CALABARZON)
Their name was at the top. Seeing it there, among the other champions, was a thrill. Then came the rest of the list. The names of the monsters waiting for them in the dark.
Cagayan de Oro High (Region 10 - Northern Mindanao)
Jolo High (BARMM)
Naga City High (Region 5 - Bicol)
Butuan City High (Region 14 - CARAGA)
Calapan High (Region 4B - MIMAROPA)
San Fernando High (Region 3 - Central Luzon)
Cebu City High (Region 7 - Central Visayas)
The gym was silent now. The names hung in the air, each one representing a new, unknown threat. Cebu. The name alone carried immense weight. They were spoken of in the same breath as the NCR teams, considered the undisputed kings of the Visayas, known for a disciplined, almost professional style of play.
Marco leaned over to Tristan. "Cebu… damn. I heard their starting center is six-foot-six and built like a concrete wall."
Ian and Cedrick, standing nearby, overheard. Their confident expressions tightened into masks of grim concentration. The fun was gone. This was real.
"It's a tough bracket," Aiden whispered, his eyes wide. "CDO is supposed to be insanely fast. All they do is run."
"Jolo… I don't know anything about Jolo," John added, a note of unease in his voice. And the unknown, in basketball, was often the most dangerous thing of all.
Coach Gutierrez capped his marker and turned to face them, his expression severe. "You see these names. You see the challenge. It's the sixteen best high school teams in the entire country. There are no easy games. There are no nights off. But there's one more thing you need to know about this tournament."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment build until it was almost unbearable.
"The Palarong Pambansa is single elimination."
The four words landed with the force of a physical blow. The air was sucked out of the gym. Marco's jaw literally dropped. Gab's eyes widened, his usual stoicism shattered for a brief, telling moment. Tristan felt a cold dread pool in the pit of his stomach.
Single elimination.
One loss, and you go home.
One bad shooting night, one unfortunate injury, one unlucky bounce of the ball, and the entire season—the five AM practices, the film sessions, the impossible victories, the dream of a national title—would all turn to smoke.
The comfortable summit they had been standing on moments ago had just crumbled away, revealing that it was not a summit at all, but merely a foothold on the base of a truly colossal mountain range. The Regionals had been one peak. The Nationals were an entire unforgiving wilderness of them.
"There are no second chances," Coach Gutierrez said, his voice low and intense, driving the point home like a nail. "There is no loser's bracket. You do not get the luxury of an off night. You win, or your season is over. Sixteen teams will enter the tournament. Fifteen of them will end their year with a loss. Only one gets to be the last team standing."
He let them stew in that terrifying reality for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice rising with a new fire.
"The tournament starts on the first of November. That gives us exactly one month. Four weeks. Thirty days to prepare for the fight of our lives. Thirty days to transform ourselves from regional champions into a team that can compete with the absolute best this country has to offer."
He began to pace in front of them, his movements sharp, his energy radiating outwards.
"That team from Cebu? They run a system so precise you could set a watch to it. We are going to become so disruptive, so chaotic on defense, that we shatter their composure. The team from CDO? They want to turn the game into a track meet. We are going to get in such phenomenal shape that we will not only run with them, we will relish it, and we will break them in the fourth quarter. The unknown teams like Jolo? We will prepare for every possible style—zone, press, slow-down, run-and-gun—so that nothing they throw at us will be a surprise."
"This next month will be the hardest you have ever worked in your lives. Harder than anything you endured to win the Regionals. Our practices will be longer. Our conditioning will be more brutal. Our film sessions will be more demanding. I will push you past your limits every single day, because I promise you, our opponents are doing the same."
He stopped pacing and stood before them, his eyes burning with a fierce, unwavering belief.
"The celebration is over. The satisfaction of being a regional champion is a memory. From this moment forward, we are no longer champions. We are contenders. We are hunters. We have one goal, and one goal only: to be the last team standing. Now get on the baseline. The work starts now."
There was no cheering. There was no boasting. There was only the thunderous sound of fifteen pairs of sneakers moving as one, sprinting to the baseline, their faces set in grim, unified determination.
The practice that followed was the most intense session of their lives. Every drill was run at full speed. Every mistake was corrected with a sharp critique. Every conditioning sprint was pushed to the point of exhaustion. The light, easy atmosphere from an hour ago was a distant memory, replaced by a sharp, focused silence broken only by the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, and the hoarse shouts of encouragement and instruction.
After two grueling hours, as they cooled down and stretched, the weight of the new reality finally settled in, and they began to talk.
"Single elimination…" Marco said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued as he stretched his hamstring. "That's just… brutal. One bad game. That's all it takes."
"It's the same for every team," Gab countered, his voice flat, though Tristan could see the tension in his shoulders. "There's no safety net. It's what makes a national championship mean something."
"Cebu is in our bracket," Tristan said, his mind already working through the strategic implications. "That's a potential second or third-round matchup. We can't look past our first opponent, but we have to be ready for them. From what I've read, they don't make mistakes. They just slowly, methodically squeeze the life out of you."
"So we become the team that thrives in chaos," Marco said, a flicker of his old fire returning. "We have to be their worst nightmare. Unpredictable."
Nearby, the team's big men were having a similar, sobering conversation.
"Six-foot-six…" Ian muttered, shaking his head. "And that's just the guy we know about. What about the giants from NCR or Davao? Cedrick, we have to get stronger. And faster."
"And smarter," Cedrick added. "We can't just rely on overpowering guys anymore. Our footwork, our positioning… it has to be perfect. One false step against a guy like that and it's an easy two points."
Felix, who had been listening silently, nodded. "We have to be ready." The simple statement carried the weight of a solemn vow.
As the team finally packed their bags to leave, the mood was a stark contrast to the triumphant exit from their last game. The joy of victory had been replaced by the heavy, sobering weight of a new, far greater challenge.
Tristan walked out into the cool evening air, his gym bag feeling heavier than usual on his shoulder. He open his System. He looked at his newly upgraded stats, the numbers glowing in the fading light.
Speed: 70, Stamina: 85, Mid-Range Shot: 70, Three-Point Shot: 70.
He was better than he had ever been. He was stronger, faster, a more complete player. But as he thought about the unforgiving, single-elimination format and the monstrous teams that awaited them, he knew it might not be enough. The System could give him the tools, but it couldn't play the game for him. It couldn't account for an unlucky bounce or a teammate's bad night.
The Regional title felt like a lifetime ago. The mountain they had just climbed was now just a hill in the shadow of a colossal mountain range. They had one month to prepare for the climb of their lives, where one misstep would mean a fall from which there was no recovery. The road to the Palarong Pambansa had begun.