The gymnasium on Saturday afternoon was a different kind of pressure cooker. The raw, internal intensity of their intra-squad scrimmages was gone, replaced by the focused, almost clinical atmosphere of a final exam. There was no animosity in the air, no lingering rivalry. The arrival of the Imus High was all business. They were here to work, to sharpen their own blades against a worthy stone before their own battles began.
Their warm-up was a study in quiet efficiency. They moved through their drills with a practiced, seamless rhythm that spoke of a veteran team, comfortable in their own skin. As the Dasmariñas High began their own warm-ups, the contrast in styles was immediately apparent.
Dasmariñas was a team of explosive, dynamic athletes. Imus was a team of calm, methodical basketball surgeons.
Tristan's eyes, as always, were breaking down the opponent. The names were familiar from scouting reports, but seeing them in person was a different matter.
At the point was Jamie Alapag, a player whose name carried weight in Cavite basketball circles. He wasn't flashy or exceptionally quick, but he moved with an unshakable poise, his head always up, his eyes constantly scanning. He was the team's brain.
At the shooting guard spot was Jeffrey Chan, a pure, lethal sharpshooter. Every shot he took in warm-ups looked identical—the same high release point, the same perfect backspin, the same clean swish of the net. He was their dagger.
The wings were comprised of Joey Joson, a tough, no-nonsense slasher, and Robin Villanueva, a physical, hard-nosed power forward who seemed to relish contact. They were the muscle.
And then there was the puzzle. The tactical nightmare. At center stood Andrew Quinahan. He was big, at least six-foot-four, with a wide, powerful frame. But unlike Ibeke Matumba, whose gravity pulled everyone into the paint, Quinahan's game was designed to do the exact opposite. He was warming up not with dunks, but with three-pointers, draining them with the casual ease of a shooting guard. He was a stretch five, a modern basketball anomaly that could single-handedly break a traditional defense.
Ian and Cedrick stood watching him, a look of profound confusion on their faces. Their entire basketball education had been about one thing: protecting the paint. Their instincts, their training, their very identities as players were built around dominating the area under the basket.
"What am I even looking at?" Ian muttered, watching Quinahan sink his fifth consecutive three-pointer. "A center? He shoots better than half the guards in our league."
"This changes everything," Cedrick said, his analytical mind already racing. "If I go out there to guard him on the three-point line, the entire paint is wide open for their slashers. If I stay back to protect the rim, he gets a wide-open shot every single time. It's a trap."
Marco, meanwhile, had found his counterpart. He jogged over to the other side of the court where Jeffrey Chan was shooting.
"Chan," Marco said with a confident grin. "Heard you guys needed one last look at a championship-level offense before your season starts."
Chan caught a pass, fired, and swished it without ever looking at Marco. "And we heard you guys needed to know what it feels like to guard a real shooter," he replied, a ghost of a smile on his face. The respect between the two gunners was immediate and unspoken.
Tristan found himself near Jamie Alapag. The two point guards acknowledged each other with a nod.
"Herrera," Alapag said, his voice calm and mature. "Ready for the big dance?"
"Getting there," Tristan replied. "You guys look sharp."
"We try to be," Alapag said. "Heard you guys play at a hundred miles an hour. It'll be a good test for our defense."
"And you guys are the opposite," Tristan noted. "Methodical. It'll be a good test for our discipline." It was a conversation between two generals, acknowledging the impending clash of philosophies.
Before the game began, Coach Gutierrez gathered his starters.
"Forget everything you learned from the Trece Martires game," he commanded, his eyes burning with intensity. "That was a physical battle. This is a strategic one. Their center, Quinahan, is the key to their entire offense. Ian, Cedrick," he said, locking eyes with his two big men. "This is going to feel wrong. It's going to go against every instinct you have. But you must close out on him. You cannot give him open threes. I repeat, you cannot let him shoot."
"But Coach," Ian started, "if we go out there, the paint…"
"The paint is everyone's responsibility today!" the coach cut him off. "Aiden, Marco, you have to be ready to stunt and recover. You have to clog the driving lanes and then sprint back to your man. Tristan, you are the quarterback of this defense. You have to call out every rotation. Communication is everything today. If we are silent, they will pick us apart. This is a Palaro-level test of your basketball IQ. Now get out there."
The five starters took the court, the weight of the new challenge settling upon them. This wasn't about being tougher or faster. This was about being smarter.
The tip went up. Ian, using his superior vertical, got a hand to it, tapping it towards Tristan. The final exam had begun.
Tristan, as instructed, immediately pushed the pace. He wanted to force the older, more methodical Imus team into an uncomfortable, high-speed game. He flew up the court, his upgraded speed a clear advantage. He saw an opening and attacked the lane, but the Imus defense was disciplined, collapsing in perfect sync to cut off his path. Instead of forcing a bad shot, he made the smart play, kicking it out to Aiden on the wing. Aiden took one dribble and pulled up for his signature fifteen-footer.
It dropped cleanly.
Score: Dasmariñas 2 — Imus 0
It was a good, solid start. But as they jogged back on defense, they knew the real test was coming.
Jamie Alapag brought the ball up slowly, his movements deliberate. He held up four fingers, signaling a play. Immediately, the Imus players began to move, their cuts sharp and purposeful. Andrew Quinahan, instead of running to the low block, flared out to the top of the key, twenty-three feet from the basket.
Ian, following his coach's orders, felt a profound sense of wrongness as he left the familiar, comforting confines of the paint and followed him out to the three-point line.
He felt exposed, a fish pulled from the water.
Alapag initiated the play. He passed to Joey Joson on the wing and made a V-cut to get the ball back. As this was happening, Robin Villanueva set a hard back-screen on Aiden.
With Ian pulled out of the paint, there was no rim protector. There was no help. Joey Joson saw the opening and made a lightning-fast backdoor cut. Alapag, without even looking, delivered a perfect bounce pass that hit him in stride for the easiest layup of the game.
Score: Dasmariñas 2 — Imus 2
Ian turned and looked at the empty paint where he was supposed to be, a look of pure frustration on his face.
"That's the trap, Ian!" Tristan called out. "We have to talk! Someone has to call out that cut!"
Dasmariñas came back with a play of their own. Tristan ran a high pick-and-roll with Cedrick. Alapag and Villanueva switched. Cedrick now had the smaller point guard on him in the post. He sealed him, Tristan lobbed the entry pass, and Cedrick scored easily over the mismatch.
Score: Dasmariñas 4 — Imus 2
But Imus went right back to their bread and butter. This time, Quinahan popped out to the corner three-point line. Cedrick, gritting his teeth, followed him out. The play was a decoy. As the defense's attention was drawn to that side of the court, Jeffrey Chan came flying off a double screen on the weak side.
Jamie Alapag delivered another on-time, on-target pass. Chan caught it, his feet already set. Marco was a step late fighting through the screens. The shot was up and in before Marco could even get a hand up. A three-pointer.
Score: Dasmariñas 4 — Imus 5
"Can't be late on that switch, Marco!" Coach Gutierrez yelled from the sideline.
"My bad!" Marco yelled back, glaring at Chan.
Chan just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, That's all the space I need.
The first five minutes of the quarter were a masterclass in offensive execution by Imus High. They were systematically dissecting the Dasmariñas defense. Every time Ian or Cedrick followed Quinahan out to the perimeter, a slasher would cut backdoor for a layup. When the Dasmariñas wings tried to sag in to help, Alapag would find Chan for a wide-open three. It was a tactical nightmare, a puzzle with no easy answer.
"We look lost out there," Marco panted to Tristan during a dead ball. "They're getting whatever they want."
"We're reacting, not anticipating," Tristan replied, his mind racing, processing the data. Floor General. He saw the patterns. He saw the solution. "We have to stop switching on their off-ball screens. Fight through everything. And the low man has to be in help position. We're giving them a two-way go on every cut."
On the next Imus possession, Tristan put his theory into practice. He saw the play developing—another back-screen for a cutter.
"Watch the cut, Aiden! Stay home!" Tristan yelled.
Aiden, hearing him, didn't get caught on the screen. He stayed between his man and the basket. The easy layup was gone. Alapag, seeing his first option taken away, swung the ball to Quinahan at the top of the key. Ian closed out hard, his hands high, just as he was coached.
Quinahan, instead of shooting, put the ball on the floor. He wasn't just a shooter; he could drive. He took one hard dribble and blew past the bigger, slower Ian. Now the defense was in full scramble mode. Cedrick had to leave his man to stop the drive.
Quinahan, a gifted passer for a big man, immediately dumped the ball off to a wide-open Robin Villanueva. Villanueva scored.
Score: Dasmariñas 8 — Imus 13
It was a brilliant, unstoppable sequence. They had solved one problem, only to be presented with a new, more complicated one. Ian looked at the ceiling in pure exasperation. There were no right answers.
The frustration began to mount.
Dasmariñas's offense, usually so fluid and explosive, became rushed and sloppy.
Marco, desperate to match Jeffrey Chan's output, forced a bad, contested three-pointer early in the shot clock that bricked off the side of the backboard. Aiden, trying to make something happen, drove into the lane and was called for a charge as he collided with the immovable Villanueva.
With two minutes left in the quarter, Imus had extended their lead.
Score: Dasmariñas 10 — Imus 19
Coach Gutierrez called a timeout. The players trudged to the bench, their heads down, their confident swagger completely gone. They were being out-played and, more embarrassingly, out-smarted.
"They are playing chess, and we are playing checkers!" the coach snapped, his voice a low, angry hiss. "What did I tell you about communication? You are five silent players on the court! Ian, Cedrick, you are being taken out of the game because you are letting them dictate where you play. We are changing the coverage."
He grabbed his whiteboard. "We are going to 'zone up' the paint. We are not switching everything anymore. When Quinahan is on the perimeter, the closest man will stunt at him and recover. Ian, Cedrick, you will take one step out of the paint to show a presence, but you will not go past the free-throw line unless he has the ball. Your job is to protect the rim first. This means our guards and wings," he said, his eyes drilling into Tristan, Marco, and Aiden, "have to fight like hell to get through every single screen. There is no more helping off your man. You are on an island. Do you understand? Stay with your man, and trust that your bigs will protect the paint. It's a gamble. It puts immense pressure on our perimeter defense, but it's the only way."
They broke the huddle, a new, desperate strategy in hand.
They returned to the court, and the change was immediately visible. On the next Imus possession, Quinahan again popped out to the three-point line. This time, Ian took two steps out of the paint and stopped, his hands up, inviting the shot but protecting the drive. Marco, guarding Jeffrey Chan, fought tooth and nail over a screen, staying attached to his hip.
Jamie Alapag, seeing the new coverage, tried to force a pass into the cutting Joey Joson. But with Ian now patrolling the paint, the passing lane was much tighter. Tristan, reading the play, left his own man for a split second, shot the gap, and stole the pass.
He was off to the races. He pushed the ball with everything he had. The whole Imus team was backpedaling. Tristan drove the length of the floor, and as the defense converged, he threw a perfect, behind-the-back bounce pass to a trailing Marco, who caught it in stride and drained the transition three-pointer.
Score: Dasmariñas 13 — Imus 19
It was their first stop and score in over three minutes. A spark of hope.
The final minute of the quarter was a furious battle of wills. Imus, seeing their primary strategy blunted, went to their second option: the pure shooting of Jeffrey Chan.
He came off another screen and, despite Marco's hand in his face, hit another impossibly tough, contested shot.
Dasmariñas came right back. Tristan, for the first time in the quarter, decided to take over. He called for an isolation. He faced up on Jamie Alapag. He used a hesitation dribble, then a crossover, creating just enough space to rise up for a pull-up jumper from the elbow. It swished through the net. It was a captain's basket, a refusal to let his team be broken.
The buzzer sounded to end the quarter. The players walked to the bench, not defeated, but deeply humbled.
End of First Quarter: Dasmariñas 15 — Imus 21
They were down by six, but it felt like twenty. They had been completely out of sorts, forced to play a style of basketball that was alien to them.
"That…" Marco panted, collapsing onto the bench, "was the most frustrating ten minutes of basketball I have ever played. It's like they know what we're going to do before we do it."
"Their point guard is a genius," Aiden said, his respect for Alapag clear. "He never makes a mistake."
Ian and Cedrick sat together, silent and brooding. They had been rendered almost completely ineffective, pawns in Imus's grand strategic game.
Tristan took a towel and wiped his face. He wasn't angry. He wasn't dejected. He was processing. He was learning. This was the Palaro. This was the level of tactical sophistication they had to be ready for.
This wasn't just about being athletic or skilled anymore. This was a war of minds. And in the first quarter, they had been thoroughly out-generaled. But the game was far from over, and Tristan Herrera was a very, very fast learner.