The silence that followed their departure was a presence of its own, heavier and more suffocating than the sterile white cast that entombed my leg. I listened to the fading sound of my teammates' footsteps echoing down the long, linoleum hallway, each step a painful reminder that they were moving forward, on to the practices, the preparations, the war we were supposed to fight together. I was being left behind.
My parents murmured quiet, comforting words, but their voices felt distant, like sounds coming from the other side of a thick, glass wall. My mom gently brushed a stray strand of hair from my forehead. My dad squeezed my shoulder, his large hand, the same hand that had taught me how to palm a basketball, feeling impossibly heavy.
I offered them a weak, watery smile, a silent plea for them to leave me be. They understood. After a few more minutes of hushed tones and worried glances, they slipped out of the room to talk to the doctor, granting me the solitude I both craved and dreaded.
I was alone.
Alone with the rhythmic, mocking beep of the heart monitor. Alone with the faint, antiseptic smell of the hospital. And alone with the crushing, unbearable weight of the cast on my leg.
I stared up at the blank, acoustic-tiled ceiling, a sterile, featureless canvas that seemed to stretch into an infinite, unforgiving emptiness. This couldn't be real. Any minute now, I would wake up in my own bed, my legs aching from a tough practice, the familiar anxiety of the upcoming Palarong Pambansa a knot in my stomach.
Any minute now.
But the dull, throbbing pain in my ankle was a stubborn, undeniable anchor to this new, nightmarish reality. The doctor's words echoed in my mind, a clinical, detached death sentence: "Severe high-ankle sprain… hairline fracture… six to eight weeks, son."
Six to eight weeks. An eternity. An entire basketball season for some. For me, it was the precise, cruel measure of a dream dissolving into dust. The Palarong Pambansa, the national stage I had bled and sweat for over a year to reach, was gone.
Just like that.
A single, hot tear escaped the corner of my eye and traced a slow, burning path down my temple, getting lost in my hair. It was a tear of pain, yes, but more than that, it was a tear of pure, unadulterated rage. Rage at the universe, at the cruel, indifferent physics of the collision. Rage at Robin Villanueva, even though I knew, logically, it wasn't his fault. And most of all, a bitter, corrosive rage at myself.
Why did I have to go for that ball? The question screamed in my mind. Why couldn't I just let it go out of bounds? It was a practice game! It meant nothing!
But I knew the answer. It's not who I am. It's not who my father raised me to be. You don't let the ball go out. You don't quit on a play. You leave everything on the floor, every single time. It was the first lesson he ever taught me.
My father, David Robinson, was a ghost in the Philippine basketball scene. A myth. A six-foot-five American import who had arrived in the PBA in the late 90s with a silky-smooth jumper and a dream that burned brighter than any stadium lights. He was a star, a minor celebrity in a country that worships the game. Old, grainy videos on the internet were the only proof I had. There he was, younger, leaner, flying through the air for a dunk, his face a mask of fierce determination. That was the man who was my hero.
Our home was a shrine to his past life. Trophies lined the mantelpiece, their gold finish dulled by time. Framed newspaper clippings with headlines like "Robinson's Raiders Conquer Commissioner's Cup!" hung on the walls. And in the center of it all was the photo. My father, in his crisp blue and white jersey, holding a championship trophy, my mother beside him, young and radiant, her arms wrapped around his waist. Me, a baby, held in his other arm, my tiny hand clutching a miniature basketball.
He had it all. The fame, the championship, the love of a nation. But it wasn't the dream. It was just a stop along the way. His dream, the one that had fueled his entire existence, was America. The NBA. The big show. He had been a star at a small Division II college, good enough to get looks overseas, but never quite good enough to crack the code back home. The Philippines had been a stepping stone, a place to make a name for himself, to build a resume he could take back to the States for another shot.
But then he met my mother, Elena, a beautiful, fiery woman from Cavite. He fell in love not just with her, but with her family, with the chaotic, joyous warmth of Filipino culture. The stepping stone started to feel like home. The one-year contract became two, then five. Then I was born. And the dream began to fade.
I grew up on stories of that dream. I didn't have bedtime stories about dragons and castles; I had stories about Larry Bird's work ethic, about Michael Jordan's "flu game," about the legendary battles between the Celtics and the Lakers.
My father would sit on the edge of my bed, his voice filled with a wistful, passionate reverence, and he would tell me about what it took to be great.
"It's not just about talent, Aiden," he would say, his voice a low rumble. "Talent is cheap. It's about the work you do when no one is watching. It's about the thousandth jumper you take in an empty gym when your arms feel like they're going to fall off. That's where champions are made."
He never pushed me into basketball. He didn't have to. It was in my blood, in the very air I breathed. My first steps were on a basketball court. My first words were probably "ball" and "shoot." He was my first coach, my toughest critic, and my biggest fan. He taught me the fundamentals, the footwork, the perfect form on my fadeaway jumper, a move he had mastered and passed down to me like a family heirloom.
But as I grew older, I started to understand the quiet melancholy that sometimes settled in his eyes when he watched an NBA game on television. I saw the ghost of his own deferred dream. He had found happiness, a wonderful life he wouldn't trade for anything. But the "what if" always lingered.
And so, his dream became mine. It wasn't a conscious decision, not at first. It was an inheritance. A legacy. I wasn't just playing for myself. I was playing for him. I was going to finish the journey he had started. I was going to get to America. I was going to play college ball, Division I, and I was going to prove that a kid from Dasmariñas, a half-Filipino, half-American kid, could make it.
That dream was the fuel for my entire existence. It's why I was the first one in the gym and the last one to leave. It's why I ran the extra sprint when Coach wasn't looking. It's why I dove for that loose ball. Every drop of sweat, every aching muscle was a down payment on that dream.
The Palarong Pambansa was supposed to be my showcase. My stage. It was where the scouts would be, where the college coaches from Manila would be watching. A dominant performance there could open the door to a top-tier UAAP or NCAA school in the Philippines. And a top-tier school here was the springboard to getting noticed by schools in the States. It was all connected. It was all part of the plan. A plan that was now shattered, lying in pieces around me in this sterile, silent hospital room.
The rage subsided, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness. I closed my eyes, and all I could see were the faces of my teammates.
Tristan. The quiet, steady captain. He had been the first one by my side. I remembered the look in his eyes—not pity, but a fierce, protective anger. His promise echoed in my ears: "We're not doing this without you… We're going to win the whole damn thing." I knew he meant it. He was the kind of leader who carried the weight of a promise like it was a sacred duty.
Marco. The loud, flamboyant heart of our team. For all his jokes and his ego, I saw the genuine, unfiltered pain in his face. He was the brother who would make you laugh until you cried, and who would stand beside you when you had no more laughter left.
Gab. The stoic, silent rock. He rarely showed emotion, but as he stood by my bed, I saw a crack in his armor. I saw the frustration of a warrior who couldn't fight this battle for me.
And Daewoo. The man who would take my spot. There was no joy in his eyes, no sense of opportunity. Only a grim, solemn acceptance of a duty he never wanted. He would hold my spot. He would play his heart out, not for himself, but for me.
They were my brothers. We had been through too much together—the grueling practices, the heartbreaking losses, the triumphant, impossible victories. We had forged a bond in the crucible of a shared dream.
And I had let them down.
That was the thought that hurt more than the searing pain in my ankle. I was supposed to be there with them. I was supposed to be their versatile weapon, the guy who could score, rebound, and defend. I was supposed to be a part of the final push. Now, I was just… dead weight. A tragic backstory. A reason for them to have a motivational speech before the game.
"Win it for Aiden."
The thought made me sick to my stomach. I didn't want to be a memory. I didn't want to be a ghost haunting their championship run. I wanted to be on the court, sweating and fighting beside them.
A fresh wave of despair washed over me. What now? My plan was in ruins. My timeline was shattered. Six to eight weeks of healing, then months of rehab just to get back to where I was. The national stage would come and go without me. The scouts would be looking at other players. The opportunity, that one shining, perfect opportunity, was gone.
My father's face flashed in my mind. The quiet pride in his eyes after every good game. The way he would sit with me for hours, breaking down game film, pointing out the little things, the details that separate the good from the great. I had always felt like I was carrying his dream on my shoulders. Now, I felt like I had dropped it, shattering it into a million irreparable pieces.
But then, I thought of his other lessons. The ones that weren't about basketball. The ones about resilience. About character.
"Life is going to knock you down, son," he had told me once after a particularly devastating loss. "It's going to hit you with shots you never see coming. It's not about whether you get knocked down. Everyone gets knocked down. It's about whether you get back up."
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling again. The emptiness was still there, but it was different now. It was no longer a void. It was a blank canvas.
My path had changed. The road I had so meticulously planned was now blocked, a landslide of bad luck and broken bones in my way. But a detour is not a dead end.
My season on the court was over. That was a fact. But my role on the team wasn't. Tristan was the captain. Marco was the heart. Gab was the rock. Ian and Cedrick were the power. But a team needs more than that. It needs a memory. It needs a purpose. It needs a fire.
Maybe my role had just changed. I couldn't be their weapon on the court anymore. So I would be their fire on the sideline. I would be their extra set of eyes, their biggest, loudest, most obnoxious cheerleader. I would watch every second of game film. I would help Coach with the scouting reports. I would talk to Daewoo, tell him everything I knew about our opponents. I would be there, at every practice I could get to, at every game, cast and all.
My dream hadn't died. It had just been injured. And like any injury, it would heal. It would leave a scar, a permanent reminder of the pain and the cost. But it would heal. The path would be longer now, harder, filled with the tedious, unglamorous work of rehabilitation. But it was still there.
The rage was gone. The despair was fading. In its place, a new, quiet, and infinitely tougher resolve began to form. I looked at the cast on my leg. It was no longer a symbol of my failure. It was a symbol of my sacrifice. A sacrifice made for my team. And now, it was their turn to carry the dream for me.
I reached for the remote and turned on the small hospital television. I found a sports channel. A college basketball game from the US was on. I watched the players, their movements so fluid, so explosive. I watched them fight, and I felt not envy, but a deep, burning hunger.
I would be back. I didn't know when, and I didn't know how. But I would be back. Stronger. Smarter. Hungrier than ever before. My father had taught me how to play the game. Now, he had given me the chance to learn the most important lesson of all: how to get back up after you've been knocked down. And as I lay there, in the quiet of that hospital room, I made a new promise. A promise to myself. The comeback would be greater than the setback.