The final buzzer of the first half shrieked through the historic Rizal Memorial Stadium, a sound that momentarily overpowered the roaring sea of Antipolo blue. The scoreboard glowed, a testament to a hard-fought battle: Dasmariñas National High 24, Antipolo High 21. A quarter of relentless fire had been won, but the war was far from over.
The team stormed off the court, leaving the cacophony behind as they entered the cool, echoing concrete of the tunnel. The contrast was jarring—from the blazing lights and deafening crowd to the shaded quiet of the locker room. The only sounds were the squeak of rubber soles on tile, the ragged gasps for air, and the clatter of gear being dropped onto benches. Sweat dripped from every player, each drop a symbol of the effort left on the hardwood.
Coach Gutierrez stood poised at the front, a whiteboard marker in his hand. He didn't speak immediately. Instead, his sharp, thoughtful eyes traced each face, gauging their exhaustion, their focus, their unyielding will to fight.
"Alright, take a knee. Get some water," he said, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the haze of fatigue. "First half is in the books. Let's talk strategy."
The players settled down promptly, their eyes locking onto their coach, their breathing slowly steadying.
"We've seen good things out there," Coach Gutierrez began, his tone analytical. "Tristan, your leadership at the point is controlling the tempo beautifully. When they send a double team, you're not panicking; you're finding the open man. That no-look pass to Marco for the easy bucket? That's high-IQ basketball. Keep reading the floor like that."
He pointed the marker at Marco and Aiden. "You two have stepped up in isolation plays with those sharp midrange shots. They can't just focus on Tristan, and that's stretching their defense thin. That's exactly what we need."
His gaze shifted to his big men. "Cedrick, Ian, you've anchored the paint well. You're forcing them into tough, contested shots. And Tristan," he added with an appreciative nod, "that post-fade phenom move showed them you're a threat from anywhere on the floor. Versatility is our weapon."
His tone grew more serious, the praise ending as he transitioned to the crucial adjustments.
"But," he said, his voice dropping, commanding their full attention, "we also gave Antipolo too much room to breathe. Their twin towers, Robert and Allan Dela Cruz, are killing us on the offensive glass. Cedrick, Robert has three offensive rebounds. Three. That's unacceptable. He's not out-jumping you; he's out-working you for position. Second half, you put a body on him before the shot goes up. Box out is not a suggestion; it's an order. I don't want to see them get a single second-chance point."
He fixed his gaze firmly on the entire team. "And the turnovers... two sloppy passes in the last three minutes. We can't afford those possessions. We are not a team that beats itself. Patience and smart decisions are what win championships. We hold the line now, or they will breach it and turn the tide completely."
The room absorbed each word, the mix of specific praise and sharp challenge igniting a fresh wave of determination. Coach Gutierrez capped his marker and stepped aside. "Hydrate. Catch your breath. I'll be back in five."
As the coach left, the locker room fell into a reverent quiet. Breathing slowed, faces reflected a mix of emotions—pride from their performance, pressure from the razor-thin lead, and an unmistakable hunger for victory.
Cedrick slammed a fist into his palm. "He's right. I let Dela Cruz get inside my head. My bad, Ian. It won't happen again."
Ian Veneracion, toweling the sweat from his neck, shook his head. "It's on both of us, man. We'll double-team the box out if we have to. That paint is ours."
Amid the quiet swap of water bottles and towels, Tristan found a corner, leaning his tired body against the cool metal of a locker. His heart was still hammering, but his mind was clear. He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving eagerly to message Claire.
Tristan: Halfway there. This game is a dogfight—every second counts.
The reply came almost instantly, a beacon of light in the tense atmosphere.
Claire: I'm watching from home with my dad! We're screaming at the TV! You're playing amazing, Tristan. Keep that fire. We all believe in you.
A soft smile graced Tristan's face. He could almost hear her voice, feel her energy.
Tristan: I can feel the support all the way here. It's helping more than you know.
Claire: I'm always with you. Now go win this thing! <3
He pocketed the phone, a renewed sense of purpose washing over him. The simplest messages were often the strongest support. It wasn't just a game for him, or for the team; it was for everyone who believed in them.
Coach Gutierrez re-entered the locker room, his presence immediately commanding the room. His gaze swept over the team, which was now buzzing with a quiet, coiled energy waiting to be unleashed.
"Get up! On your feet!" he barked. The team scrambled up, forming a tight circle around him.
"This is our moment! This is our half!" he declared, his voice rising with passion. "They walked onto that court expecting to intimidate us. They saw our green jerseys in their sea of blue and thought we'd fold. Are we going to fold?!"
"NO, COACH!" the team roared in unison.
"Every player out there embodies the spirit of Dasmariñas—grit, heart, and fire! We are not the favored team! We are not the champions! We are the challengers, and we are hungrier! We don't back down! We don't give up!"
His voice crescendoed, raw and powerful, and the players echoed his energy, their fists clenched.
"When you get tired, you think of this moment! You think of your teammates beside you! You fight for them! On my count, we roar our spirit so loud they can hear it through these walls! ONE! TWO! THREE!"
Coach and Players: "DASMA!"
The shout was a primal explosion of sound, shaking the lockers.
Coach and Players: "DASMA!"
It was louder this time, a unified declaration of identity and strength.
Coach and Players: "DASMA!"
The third and final roar was deafening, a promise of the storm they were about to bring. The players gathered their gear, their fatigue replaced by pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
Tristan turned to Marco, his eyes blazing. "Let's take this fight back to them. No mercy."
Marco nodded, his expression grim and determined. "Tighten the defense until they can't breathe. Sharpen the offense until they break. For the team."
As the team stood shoulder to shoulder at the door, the fire that had sparked inside them now burned hotter than ever. With steady strides, Coach Gutierrez led them back toward the tunnel's entrance.
"Now, we go out there and we make every second count," he said, his voice low and intense. "Every point, every stop, every single heartbeat is ours for the taking."
The distant roar of the crowd grew louder as they approached the court, the light at the end of the tunnel beckoning them back to battle. They emerged as one unit—a band of green warriors in a hostile sea of blue, fierce, focused, and unshaken.
As the referee prepared to start the third quarter, the team was tempered in both skill and spirit—ready to carve their legacy one play, one moment at a time.
Tristan took his position on the court, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his gaze sweeping over the opposition.
The game is ours to battle for… and ours to win. Third quarter. This is where we break them.