The world outside sounded like a war zone, but in the specific, chaotic, joyful way that only the Philippines could muster. Even two hours before midnight, the air in Dasmariñas was already thick with the sulfurous smell of watusi and piccolo firecrackers, mixed with the mouth-watering aroma of charcoal-grilled pork.
Inside the Herrera household, the atmosphere was frantic but contained. It was the final stretch of 2015.
Tristan Herrera stood in front of the mirror in the living room, looking ridiculous.
"Ma," he complained, tugging at his shirt. "Do I really have to wear this?"
He was wearing a bright red t-shirt covered in large white polka dots.
"Yes," Linda Herrera shouted from the kitchen, where she was arranging twelve round fruits into a pyramid. "Polka dots for money! Round shapes attract wealth! Do you want to be a broke basketball player in 2016?"
"I will have an endorsement deal, Ma," Tristan argued weakly.
"Endorsements are temporary. Superstition is eternal," Linda countered, walking in with a bowl of grapes. "Now, check your pockets. Do you have coins?"
Tristan patted his pockets. They jingled. "Yes. Twenty pesos in one-peso coins."
"Good. When the clock strikes twelve, shake them. Make noise. Scare away the bad spirits of poverty."
Armando Herrera entered the room carrying a Torotot (a cardboard horn) and a pot of Arroz Caldo (chicken rice porridge). He was also wearing polka dots—a polo shirt that looked like a Twister mat.
"Listen to your mother, son," Armando grinned. "We wore polka dots the year you were born, and look at you now. A champion. Clearly, the fashion works."
Tristan sighed, but he smiled. He sat on the sofa, listening to the explosions outside.
2015.
He closed his eyes for a second. What a year.
He had started it as a benchwarmer. An afterthought. A player with no talent and with zero confidence.
He was ending it as the Palarong Pambansa Champion, the Finals MVP and a member of the mythical five.
He touched his chest. The "System" lay dormant there, the silent partner in his rise.
But looking at his parents—wearing silly shirts and preparing food with love—he knew the System wasn't the only reason he was here.
They moved to the front porch to watch the sky. The neighbors were already launching unauthorized fireworks. Streaks of red and green painted the smoke-filled sky.
"Ten minutes!" Linda announced, holding a tray of Media Noche ham and cheese.
Tristan checked his phone.
Claire 🐰: Happy New Year, Tristan! 🎆 My Lola is forcing me to jump at midnight so I grow taller. I told her it's too late for me, but she insists.
Tristan laughed and typed back.
Tristan: Do it. I'll jump with you. Happy New Year.
He checked the group chat.
Marco the pogi: NEW YEAR NEW ME! JUST KIDDING I AM PERFECT. HAPPY NEW YEAR MAGGOTS! 2016 IS THE YEAR OF THE DAGGER!
Gab: Happy New Year. Please don't blow off your fingers with firecrackers, Marco. We need your shooting hand.
"Ready!" Armando shouted, checking his wristwatch. "One minute!"
The noise outside reached a crescendo. It was a deafening roar of horns, explosions, and shouting.
"Tristan, get ready to jump!" Linda commanded.
"Ma, I'm 6'0". If I get any taller, I can't play Point Guard anymore."
"Jump anyway! For vertical leap!"
"TEN... NINE... EIGHT..."
Tristan looked at his parents. They were holding hands.
"THREE... TWO... ONE..."
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Tristan jumped. He jumped high, his head nearly touching the porch ceiling.
Armando blew the Torotot aggressively. Linda shook a container of coins like a maraca.
Tristan reached into his pocket and shook his coins. Ching-ching-ching.
They huddled together in a tight embrace. The smell of gunpowder was strong, but the warmth of the family was stronger.
"Happy New Year, Pa. Happy New Year, Ma," Tristan said, his voice loud over the noise.
"Happy New Year, anak," Armando shouted, slapping his back. "Welcome to 2016! The World Cup Year!"
As the fireworks illuminated his face, a familiar blue screen materialized in Tristan's vision.
DING.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[YEAR END REVIEW: 2015]
[Achievements Unlocked: 14]
[MVP Trophies: 2]
[Relationship Status: STABLE]
[Overall Rating Improvement: +24]
[WELCOME TO SEASON 2016]
[New Main Quest Loaded: THE GLOBAL STAGE]
[Objective: Survive the Asian Cup]
Tristan swiped the screen away.
He didn't need the System right now. He needed the Arroz Caldo.
The morning of January 1st was eerily quiet compared to the night before. The streets were littered with red paper residue from the firecrackers. The air was hazy.
Tristan woke up late. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his legs from... well, from doing nothing but eating for the last 24 hours.
He walked out of his room.
The house had transformed.
The intimate, quiet vibe of the previous night was gone.
The furniture had been rearranged. Extra monobloc chairs were stacked in the corner. The long folding table was set up in the garage.
Linda was pacing around the living room, phone to her ear.
"Yes, Tita Baby (aunt Baby). Yes, bring the Lechon Paksiw. No, don't bring the fruit salad, I already made three tubs. Okay. See you."
She hung up and looked at Tristan. Her eyes were wide with the panic of a hostess.
"Go shower," she ordered. "Wear something nice. Not a jersey. A polo shirt. The battalion is coming."
"Who's coming?" Tristan asked, grabbing a piece of ham from the table.
"Everyone," Linda said ominously. "The Herreras. The Cruzes. Your Ninongs. Your Ninangs. The cousins you haven't seen since you were three feet tall. Go!"
It started with a trickle, then became a flood.
First came Uncle Boyet, Armando's older brother. He was a loud, jovial man with a belly that commanded respect.
"TRISTAN!" Uncle Boyet roared, entering the gate. He grabbed Tristan in a headlock. "The Champion! The Pride of Cavite! Look at this boy! He used to run around naked in the rain, now he's on TV!"
"Hi, Tito," Tristan gasped, tapping out of the headlock.
"I saw your step-back three against Davao," Tito Boyet declared to the room. "You learned that from me, right? Remember when we played in the driveway in 2008? I taught you that footwork."
Tristan smiled politely. "Yes, Tito. It was all you." (In reality, Tito Boyet traveled every time he touched a basketball).
Then came Tita Baby and her brood of children.
Tita Baby was the family critic. She hugged Tristan and immediately pinched his arm.
"You're too thin," she diagnosed instantly. "Are they feeding you in that training camp? You need more rice. You look like a bamboo stick."
"I'm lean, Tita. Athlete build," Tristan explained.
"Thin," she insisted. "Eat my Lechon Paksiw later. I put extra fat."
Then the cousins arrived.
There was "Kuya" Paolo, who was in college and trying to be cool.
There was teenage Jessica, who was on her phone filming a Vines in the living room.
And then there was the swarm of little cousins—Jun-Jun, Boknoy, and Mik-Mik—who were running around screaming, fueled by sugar and holiday spirit.
"Kuya Tristan!" Jun-Jun yelled, tugging Tristan's pants. "Do you have 2K? Can we play 2K on your PS4? Can I play as you?"
"Later, Jun," Tristan laughed, patting the kid's head. "Let me greet everyone first."
The garage was packed. The long table was covered in banana leaves (Boodle Fight style had been vetoed by Tita Baby, so they used plates, but the vibe was similar).
The food was a compilation of everyone's Media Noche leftovers, plus fresh additions.
There was Kaldereta, Kare-Kare, Lumpiang Shanghai (a new batch), Lechon Paksiw, Morcon, and three different types of spaghetti.
Tristan sat at the "Kids' Table"—which, in Filipino culture, included anyone unmarried up to the age of 30. He was squeezed between his cousin Paolo and his shy cousin, Nina.
"So," Paolo said, scooping rice. "I heard the rumors. Ateneo offers a condo? La Salle offers a car?"
The table went quiet. Everyone looked at Tristan. Even the little kids stopped chewing.
Tristan swallowed his food. "Just rumors, Kuya Pao. Recruitment hasn't officially started. I'm focusing on high school graduation first."
"Come on," Paolo nudged him. "Tell us. How much is the allowance? Six figures?"
"Paolo," Nina whispered, looking embarrassed. "Stop asking."
"I'm just asking!" Paolo defended. "We have a celebrity in the family. I need to know if I can borrow money next year." He laughed, but there was a hint of seriousness in his eyes.
Tristan felt the weight of it.
A year ago, he was just "Tristan." Now, he was a potential ATM. He was a ticket out.
"I don't play for the money," Tristan said quietly but firmly. "I play to win. Whatever happens with college... my parents handle that."
He glanced at the "Adult Table." Armando was watching him. Armando gave a subtle nod. Good answer.
After lunch, the inevitable happened. The older relatives cornered him on the sofa.
Ninong (Godfather) Manny, who Tristan hadn't seen in four years, had his arm around Tristan's shoulder.
"Tristan, my boy," Manny said, smelling of Red Horse beer. "I have a friend. He owns a car dealership in Alabang. He wants you to do a grand opening. Just sign some balls, take some pictures. He'll pay you... five thousand pesos."
Tristan stiffened. Five thousand was low, but that wasn't the point. It was the commercialization of his presence.
"I can't, Ninong," Tristan said politely. "Coach Gutierrez has strict rules. No unauthorized appearances. I could lose my eligibility."
"Eligibility shmeligibility," Manny waved his hand. "Just wear a mask! Or don't tell the coach! It's easy money!"
"Manny," a voice cut in.
It was Armando. He stood behind the sofa, holding a plate of desserts. He wasn't smiling.
"Tristan is resting today," Armando said, his voice level but heavy. "He is not a mascot. And he follows his coach's rules. If you want to book him, you talk to me. And the answer is no."
Manny blinked, surprised by Armando's firmness. Usually, Armando was the passive, easy-going brother.
"Okay, okay," Manny raised his hands in surrender. "Just trying to help the boy earn."
"He earns respect," Armando said. "That's enough."
Tristan looked at his dad. He felt a surge of gratitude. His dad wasn't just his father; he was his front office, his shield.
No Filipino reunion is complete without the Magic Sing.
Tita Baby had just finished butchering Total Eclipse of the Heart.
"Tristan!" she yelled into the mic. "Your turn! The Champion must sing!"
"Tita, no," Tristan pleaded. "I don't want to sing."
"Nonsense! You have lungs of steel! Pick a song!"
The cousins started chanting. "SAMPLE! SAMPLE! SAMPLE!"
Tristan looked around. There was no escape. Even Linda was clapping.
"Fine," Tristan sighed, standing up. "But I'm picking the song."
He scrolled through the remote. He needed something easy. Something with more talking than singing.
He selected Bagsakan by Parokya ni Edgar. The rap part.
The intro played.
Tristan took the mic. He channeled his inner Gloc-9.
When the fast verse hit, Tristan didn't sing—he flowed. His rhythm on the court translated to rhythm on the mic. He rapped the lyrics with the same precision he used to run a fast break.
"Nandito na si Chito... si Chito Miranda..."
The cousins went wild.
"YOOOOO!" Paolo yelled. "BARS! HE HAS BARS!"
Tristan finished the song breathless, scoring a 95.
He dropped the mic (onto the sofa, gently).
"I'm retired," he announced, sitting back down amidst cheers.
The sun was setting. The "Battalion" began to retreat.
Plastic containers were filled with leftovers for everyone to take home (sharon).
"Bye Tristan! Sign my shoe next time!" Jun-Jun yelled.
"Eat more!" Tita Baby reminded him.
"Don't forget us when you're in the NBA!" Tito Boyet shouted from his van.
Finally, the gate closed.
Silence returned to the Herrera household.
The garage was a mess of plates and empty soda bottles, but the house felt peaceful.
Tristan sat on the front steps, watching the orange sky turn to purple.
He felt drained. Socializing was harder than running suicides.
The door opened, and Linda came out with two mugs of hot chocolate.
She sat beside him.
"Tired?" she asked.
"Exhausted," Tristan admitted. "They're... a lot."
"They love you," Linda said softly. "But they also see themselves in you. You're the one who made it. That carries a weight."
"I know," Tristan said. "Sometimes I just want to be Tristan. Not 'The Champion'."
"You are just Tristan," Linda said, smoothing his hair. "To me and your Papa, you're just the boy who wouldn't eat vegetables. The world can have the Champion. We keep the son."
Tristan leaned his head on her shoulder.
"Thanks, Ma."
He pulled out his phone.
One unread message.
Claire 🐰: Survived the reunion? My Tita asked me if you're my boyfriend. I told her you're just my personal lumpia supplier.
Tristan laughed aloud. The tension in his shoulders evaporated.
Tristan: Ouch. Just a supplier? And here I was about to tell my Tito Boyet that you're the reason I play good defense.
Claire 🐰: Smooth, Herrera. Very smooth. Happy New Year, really. I hope 2016 is good to us.
Tristan: It will be. We'll make it good.
He stood up.
"Ma," he said. "I'm going to do some ball handling in the driveway. Just light drills."
Linda looked at him like he was crazy. "It's New Year's Day. Rest."
"I did rest," Tristan grinned, spinning an imaginary ball. "I rested all morning. Now, the work starts."
He walked to the garage, amidst the stacked chairs and the smell of stale fireworks.
He picked up his basketball. It felt cool and rough in his hands. The familiar texture grounded him.
The relatives were gone. The noise had faded.
It was just him, the ball, and the hoop.
He took a deep breath of the 2016 air.
"System," he whispered. "Show me the schedule."
Tristan dribbled the ball once. Thud.
The sound echoed in the quiet street.
He dribbled again. Thud. Thud.
Rhythm returned.
The year had officially begun.