The one-minute break between quarters was a whirlwind of sharp, tactical instruction.
While Trece Martires High rehydrated, their coach trying to build on their narrow lead, the Dasmariñas bench was a hub of calculated change.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Gutierrez's voice cut through their heavy breathing. Marco, Aiden, Ian, and Cedrick, expecting to go back in, froze as he pointed to the second unit.
"John, you're in for Marco. Daewoo, for Aiden. Gab, you're on for Cedrick. Felix, you're taking Ian's spot. Tristan, you're staying in."
A ripple of surprise went through the starters. They had just begun to figure out how to attack TMH's dominant interior. Why change now?
"Coach, we were just starting to get the pick-and-roll going," Ian said, a hint of confusion in his voice.
"I know," the coach replied, his eyes intense. He turned to the four players about to enter the game. "Your mission is different. The first quarter was about diagnostics—seeing what their primary attack is, seeing how they defend our primary scorers. Now, we change the entire equation."
He looked at John and Daewoo. "Their two best perimeter players are Yap and Simon. They are shooters and cutters. I don't want them to catch the ball cleanly for the next ten minutes. I want you to deny them, body them, chase them through every screen. Make their lives a living hell. I want them to be more tired from getting open than they are from playing defense."
Then, he turned to Gab and Felix, his expression hardening. "Ocampo and Matumba. They are bigger and stronger than you. That is a fact. You will not out-muscle them. So, you will out-work them. You will out-smart them. Felix, your job is to use your speed to front Matumba in the post. Do not let him get a deep seal. Gab, you are on Ocampo, but you are also the designated help-side disruptor. Your job is to make the paint as crowded and ugly as possible. No easy entry passes. Every rebound is a five-man gang rebound. We will not let them be comfortable."
Finally, his gaze landed on Tristan. "You are the only primary playmaker on the floor. Don't force anything. Your first, second, and third priority is to manage the game. Be patient. If the offense stagnates, you are authorized to create for yourself, but I want you to run the clock, control the tempo, and value every single possession. We are not trying to win a shootout with this lineup. We are trying to win a brawl. Now get out there."
As the five players walked onto the court, the shift in personnel was immediately apparent. The sleek, high-powered offensive unit was gone. In its place stood a gritty, muscular, defensive-minded squad.
The Trece Martires players exchanged confused looks. Their coach yelled from the sideline, "Don't let up! They're putting in their bench!"
Marco, sitting down between Aiden and Ian, shook his head. "Bench? He calls us the bench? They have no idea what's coming."
"This is the lineup from the Regional Finals," Aiden observed, leaning forward, his eyes glued to the court. "The one that broke Nasugbu's will."
"It's a different test now," Ian said, his gaze fixed on the low block. "Nasugbu didn't have a monster like Ibeke. Let's see what our brawlers can do."
Start of the Second Quarter: Dasmariñas 15 — Trece Martires 16
JP Simon inbounded the ball for Trece Martires. The difference was immediate. The game, which had been a fast-paced, free-flowing affair, slammed on the brakes and descended into a muddy, physical grind.
Tracy Romeo brought the ball up, and Tristan met him with the same disciplined pressure as before. But this time, the passing lanes Tracy had previously exploited were gone. John was attached to Jace Yap's hip like a second skin, his hand constantly in Yap's face, denying the pass. Daewoo was doing the same to JP Simon, mirroring his every cut, every V-cut, every attempt to get open.
Tracy dribbled, probing, his eyes scanning the court. The fluid motion of the TMH offense had seized up. He called for a screen from Ocampo, but Gab fought over it aggressively, staying with him. Tracy was forced to dribble back out, the shot clock already ticking down to ten.
"Move! Someone get open!" Tracy yelled, a note of frustration in his voice.
He tried to force an entry pass to Ibeke, who was being fronted by Felix. The pass was high. Felix, using his explosive vertical, leaped and got a fingertip on it, deflecting it.
The ball bounced loose. Gab dove onto the floor, tying up the ball with Rain Ocampo. The possession arrow favored Dasmariñas.
The Dasmariñas bench leaped to its feet.
"THAT'S THE DEFENSE I'M TALKING ABOUT!" Coach Gutierrez roared, clapping his hands.
It was an ugly, chaotic, beautiful defensive possession. They hadn't scored a point, but they had made a powerful statement. The easy buckets were gone.
"Did you see that?" Cedrick said on the bench, a look of awe on his face. "Felix isn't trying to body him. He's just denying him the ball completely. That's smart."
Offensively, however, the new lineup was clunky. Tristan, as instructed, was patient. He dribbled, letting the shot clock wind down, trying to find a crack in the defense.
But with no other primary shot creators on the floor, the TMH defense sagged off John and Daewoo, packing the paint and making it impossible for Tristan to drive. A pass to Gab in the mid-post was nearly stolen. A kick-out to John resulted in a hesitant, contested shot that clanged off the rim. Ibeke Matumba vacuumed up the rebound.
For the first three minutes of the quarter, neither team scored. It was a brutal, defensive slugfest. Every possession was a 24-second war. Jace Yap, accustomed to getting several clean looks a quarter, was becoming visibly agitated. He shoved John to get open, drawing an offensive foul.
"You can't hold me all day!" Jace snapped at John as he helped him up.
"I don't have to," John replied calmly, his breathing steady. "Just for this quarter."
Inside, the battle was even more ferocious. Felix was giving up at least forty pounds to Ibeke, but he was relentless. He used his lower center of gravity and quicker feet to constantly fight for position, getting under Ibeke, forcing him to catch the ball further from the basket than he wanted.
On one possession, Ibeke did get the ball. He backed Felix down, the sheer force of his size pushing Felix back towards the rim. He went up for his signature hook shot. But as he rose, Gab, who had been guarding Ocampo, flashed over from the weak side, a perfectly timed double-team. His hand swiped down and cleanly stripped the ball from Ibeke as he was going up. Daewoo scooped up the loose ball.
"Good help, Gab!" Tristan yelled, taking the outlet pass.
They had held one of the most dominant high school centers in the country scoreless for four straight minutes. The cost, however, was a sputtering offense that couldn't buy a basket. The score was still locked at 15-16.
Marco was practically vibrating on the bench. "This is painful to watch. Someone needs to score! Tris is out there all alone!"
"That's the point, Marco," Aiden said calmly. "We're not trying to score. We're trying to stop them from scoring. We're dragging them into deep water."
Finally, TMH broke the drought. Tracy Romeo, realizing his shooters were locked down, took matters into his own hands. He used a screen and, seeing Tristan go under it, pulled up from just inside the three-point line for a tough, contested jumper that found the bottom of the net.
Score: Dasmariñas 15 — Trece Martires 18
On the next Dasmariñas possession, Tristan knew he had to answer. He dribbled at the top, the shot clock once again winding down. He called for a screen from Felix. Ibeke, wary of Felix rolling to the rim, hung back in a deep drop coverage, effectively giving Tristan a sliver of space.
Tristan came off the screen and saw the lane open up. He accelerated into the paint. Rain Ocampo rotated over to help, cutting off the path to the rim. Ibeke was recovering behind him. He was trapped between two defenders.
No fadeaway this time, he thought. He remembered the feel of the Acrobat badge, the way it allowed him to change his shot in mid-air.
He leaped into the air, seemingly going for a standard layup. As Ocampo and Ibeke rose to meet him, he adjusted on the fly. He shifted the ball from his right hand to his left in mid-air, ducked under Ocampo's outstretched arm, and spun the ball off the backboard with his left hand. It was an audacious, circus-like shot, a display of incredible body control. The ball kissed the glass and dropped through.
[Acrobat] flashed in his mind. The crowd, sparse as it was for a practice game, let out a collective gasp.
Score: Dasmariñas 17 — Trece Martires 18
Tracy Romeo, bringing the ball back up, just shook his head and gave Tristan a wry smile. "Seriously? You practice that?"
"Every day," Tristan lied, a grin tugging at his lips.
The basket seemed to energize the gritty Dasmariñas lineup. Their defense found another gear. Daewoo, anticipating a pass to JP Simon, jumped the lane, deflected the ball, and dove on the floor to secure it. He called a timeout before TMH could tie him up.
In the huddle, Coach Gutierrez was all business. "Excellent work. You've frustrated them. They're out of their rhythm. Now let's get a good offensive possession. Gab, I want you to set a flare screen for John in the corner. Tristan, you're going to draw the defense your way and hit him. John, be ready to shoot. No hesitation."
John, who had been focused solely on defense, nodded, a look of steely resolve on his face.
They executed the play to perfection. Tristan drove hard to the left, pulling the entire TMH defense with him. Gab set a crushing screen on Jace Yap, freeing John in the opposite corner. Tristan threw a laser of a cross-court pass. John caught it, his feet set. He didn't hesitate. He rose and fired.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 20 — Trece Martires 18
The Dasmariñas bench exploded. Marco was the loudest, jumping up and down. "THAT'S MY REPLACEMENT! LET'S GO, JOHNNY!"
The final two minutes of the quarter were a testament to the sheer will of the Dasmariñas defensive unit. TMH, desperate to regain the lead, tried to force-feed the ball to Ibeke. He managed to score one more tough basket over a double-team, drawing a foul on Felix in the process. He missed the free throw, and Gab fought like a demon to rip the rebound away from Rain Ocampo.
The last possession of the half belonged to Dasmariñas. Tristan held the ball at half-court, letting the clock bleed down. Ten seconds… eight… He began his drive. The TMH defense, expecting another heroic drive-and-score, collapsed on him. Three red jerseys surrounded him.
But Tristan wasn't looking at the basket. His head was up. He saw Daewoo, who had been standing patiently on the weak-side wing, make a sharp cut towards the hoop as his defender had left him to help on Tristan.
[Dimer] activated.
With three seconds left, Tristan leaped into the air and fired a perfect, two-handed chest pass through a forest of arms, hitting Daewoo in stride. Daewoo caught it and laid it in just as the halftime buzzer sounded.
The gym fell silent for a moment before the Dasmariñas players erupted. The second unit, the supposed "bench," had not just held their own; they had won the quarter, 10-2, against the full-strength starters of an elite team.
End of Second Quarter: Dasmariñas 25 — Trece Martires 18
As the players walked off the court for halftime, a new level of understanding and respect had been forged. John and Daewoo were drenched in sweat, their chests heaving, but their eyes were bright with triumph. Gab and Felix were covered in floor burns and what looked like the beginnings of several bruises, but they walked with a swagger.
Marco met John at the sideline, throwing a towel over his shoulders. "Okay, okay, I see you. Hitting the big shot. Don't get used to it, that's my job," he said, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable.
Ian clapped Felix on the back, a huge grin on his face. "Man, the way you fought him down there… you gave up fifty pounds and you didn't give him an inch. That was inspiring."
Tristan sat on the bench, taking a long drink of water. He felt it again—that deep well of stamina. He had played twenty straight, high-intensity minutes, and while he was tired, he wasn't exhausted. He felt like he could play another half. He looked at his two distinct groups of teammates—the high-flying scorers and the gritty, blue-collar brawlers.
He realized Coach Gutierrez wasn't just building a team. He was forging a weapon with two distinct, razor-sharp edges. And depending on the battle, he could wield whichever one he chose. The road to the Nationals suddenly seemed a little less daunting.