The sun had not yet begun to fight its way over the horizon. The streets of Dasmariñas were draped in a pre-dawn stillness, a cool, quiet gray that felt both peaceful and profoundly heavy. In the massive, empty parking lot of the Dasmariñas National High School gymnasium, a single chartered bus hummed, its headlights cutting two bright, lonely cones into the darkness.
This was it. The day of departure.
One by one, they arrived, emerging from the darkness like ghosts. They weren't the loud, boisterous high school kids who had celebrated a prom just days ago. They were a small, disciplined army, clad in their identical black team travel suits with the green-and-white CALABARZON-Dasmariñas patch on the chest. They moved with a quiet, somber efficiency, dragging rolling luggage with one hand and their team-issued duffel bags with the other.
Tristan was the first to arrive, followed by Coach Gutierrez, who was carrying a metal briefcase and a thick binder that looked like it contained military secrets. Gab and Cedrick arrived together, their massive frames moving in silent lockstep. Then came the others: Ian, Felix, the defensive stoppers John and Daewoo, the third-stringers Mark, Joseph, and Joshua.
Finally, Marco pulled up, his father dropping him off. Even he was subdued, his usual chaotic energy compressed into a tight, nervous ball. He simply nodded at Tristan, hauled his bags, and joined the group.
The only sound was the thud of bags being tossed into the cargo hold of the bus. The void left by Aiden was a physical presence.
This was the spot where he would have been, probably complaining with Marco about the early hour or debating music.
Now, there was just an empty space where their small forward was supposed to be.
When the last bag was loaded, Coach Gutierrez gathered them under the faint glow of a parking lot lamppost.
"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the morning quiet. "This is the last time we stand on this ground as a team for a while. Everything from this point forward is business. This is not a vacation. This is not a school field trip. This is a mission."
He looked at each of them, his gaze lingering, sharp and analytical.
"When you are in Davao, you are not just representing your school. You are representing this city. You are representing our entire region. You will act like professionals. You will eat as a team, you will travel as a team, you will be on time for every meeting, or you will not play. Curfew is at nine PM. No exceptions. Phones will be turned in to me by nine-thirty. No exceptions. Your only focus is basketball, rest, and recovery."
He took a deep breath, the cold morning air misting around his face.
"We are not the favorites. We are not the team from NCR with the five-star recruits. We are not the Cebu team with the flawless system. We are the underdogs. We are the grinders. We are the team of dogs that nobody wants to play. We earned this trip through grit, and we will only advance through more of it."
He looked at the empty space where Aiden should have been.
"We are going into this tournament with a man down. That does not make us weaker. It makes us more focused. It gives us a reason beyond a trophy. We are carrying the dream of our brother with us. Do not let that weight crush you. Let it focus you. Let it make you harder. Let it make you meaner on the court. Do not, and I mean do not, let his sacrifice be for nothing."
He clapped his hands, the sound sharp and final in the quiet lot. "Get on the bus."
There was no cheer. Just a series of grim nods and the quiet shuffle of feet. They boarded, one by one, leaving their home, their school, and their old identities behind.
The bus ride to NAIA in Manila was a bubble of shared anxiety. The world outside the tinted windows was still asleep, a blurry landscape of familiar streets that soon gave way to the gray, industrial expanse of the highway. Most of the team tried to get a little more sleep. Ian and Cedrick, "The Towers," were already in their zone, their massive frames folded uncomfortably into the seats, noise-canceling headphones on, eyes closed.
Marco, predictably, was the first to break the silence. He was sitting next to Gab, who was already pretending to be asleep, his own headphones a clear "Do Not Disturb" sign.
"You know," Marco whispered, his voice loud enough for the whole front of the bus to hear. "I was doing some research on Davao. It's the durian capital of the world. I'm telling you, Gab, we have to try it. They say it smells like a high school locker room but tastes like… like an angel's whisper."
Gab didn't move.
"And they have eagles," Marco continued, undeterred. "The Philippine Eagle. Huge. They can, like, carry off a small monkey. Or maybe even a very small point guard. Mark, you should probably be careful."
Mark, sitting in the seat in front of them, just gave a nervous laugh.
Tristan was sitting next to Daewoo. The new starting small forward wasn't sleeping. He was staring at his phone, his thumb scrolling endlessly.
"You good?" Tristan asked quietly.
Daewoo jumped, startled. "Oh, yeah, Captain. Good. Just… you know." He held up his phone. It was an article from a sports blog, headlined: "Palarong Pambansa 2015 Preview: The Monsters of NCR and the Cebu Machine."
"Just reading up on the competition," Daewoo said, though his voice was tight.
"Don't," Tristan said, his voice firm but kind. "That's just noise. It's poison. You're just psyching yourself out."
"I know, it's just… they're talking about the NCR guard, Joco Palencia. They're calling him the next Jayson Castro. How am I supposed to… you know…?"
"You're supposed to do what you do," Tristan said. "You're supposed to get in his jersey and make his life miserable for forty minutes. You're not playing against his hype. You're playing against him. And he's just a kid, like us. He bleeds, we bleed."
Daewoo looked at Tristan, then back at his phone. He took a deep breath and locked the screen, slipping it into his pocket. "Right. Make his life miserable. I can do that."
"I know you can," Tristan said.
The bus pulled up to the departures terminal at NAIA just as the sun was beginning to stain the eastern sky a pale, hazy orange.
The airport was already a hive of activity. They were no longer the Dasmariñas High Basketball Team, a big fish in a small pond.
Here, they were anonymous, just another group hauling oversized bags through the terminal.
The check-in process was a logistical challenge.
"Yes, sir, twelve players, two coaches," Coach Gutierrez said patiently to the airline agent.
"And all of these bags?" the agent asked, eyeing the mountain of duffels and luggage.
"We have a lot of tall players, ma'am," Marco offered with a charming smile. "They require a lot of… fabric."
The agent just gave him a flat look and continued typing.
After checking their luggage, they were left with their carry-ons and an hour to wait at the gate. The nervous energy was palpable.
The younger players—Felix, Joseph, Joshua—were wide-eyed, clearly overwhelmed by the scale of the trip. The veterans—Tristan, Marco, Gab, Ian, and Cedrick—had formed a tight, quiet circle, mentally preparing for what was to come.
Tristan's phone buzzed in his pocket. He saw the name and stepped away from the group.
Aiden: You guys at the airport?
Tristan: Yeah. At the gate. Boarding in an hour. How are you?
Aiden: Bored. And my leg itches in places I can't scratch. It's driving me crazy. But I just watched the final game tape from the Cebu regionals. Their big man, that #50, he's a beast. But he's slow on his defensive rotation when the first pass is skipped to the weak side. Tell Ian and Cedrick.
Tristan: (Smiling) You got it, Coach. You still good for Wednesday?
Aiden: Flight is booked. My mom is coming with me. She's already packing like we're moving there. I'll be on the bench for the second round, clipboard and all. You just… you HAVE to win the first one. It's single elimination. Don't you dare go home before I even get there.
Tristan: That's not an option. We'll see you Wednesday. Rest up.
Aiden: Rest is all I have. Go make us proud, Cap.
Tristan put the phone away, a renewed sense of purpose settling over him. He wasn't just carrying his team's hopes; he was carrying his friend's.
His phone buzzed again. This time, his heart skipped a beat.
Claire: Are you there??
Tristan: Just waiting to board. It's... a lot.
Claire: I know. I'm so nervous for you I couldn't sleep. I'm tracking your flight.
Tristan: That's... slightly creepy. But also sweet.
Claire: Hey, I'm a supportive girlfriend! It's my job. Did you... did you see what I put in your bag?
Tristan: I haven't looked yet. Was afraid Marco would see it and make a scene.
Claire: Don't look now. Just... when you get to the hotel. A little piece of home. Just remember, you're not just playing for a trophy. You're playing for Aiden, for your team, for your school... and you're playing for you. You're the best leader I know, Tristan. Now go show them.
Tristan: I will. I'll text you the second we land.
Claire: I'll be waiting. I love you.
Tristan: I love you too.
He pocketed his phone, the warmth of her message a shield against the cold anxiety in his stomach. He felt a presence beside him. It was Gab.
"She seems good," Gab said, not a question, just a statement. He was looking at the planes on the tarmac.
"Yeah," Tristan said. "She is. She… she gets it."
"Good," Gab said. "It's good to have an anchor. Something to fight for, outside of… this." He motioned to the team, the bags, the general pressure of their mission.
"What about you?" Tristan asked. "You good?"
Gab watched a plane take off, its engines roaring. "I will be," he said. "Once the ball is in the air. This part. The waiting. It's the part I hate. I just want it to start."
"Now boarding, Flight 5J 971, non-stop service to Davao."
The electronic voice cut through the terminal. This was it.
"Alright!" Coach Gutierrez called out, his voice sharp. "That's us! Phones away. Heads up. We board as a team."
The Dasmariñas High Basketball Team stood as one. They grabbed their carry-ons.
Tristan, as the captain, took the lead. He walked to the gate, his face a mask of calm, focused resolve. He could feel his team falling into a single-file line behind him. Ian, Cedrick, Marco, Gab, Daewoo, and the rest. A green-and-white snake of nervous, focused, dangerous athletes.
They walked down the jet bridge, the enclosed space feeling like the tunnel of an arena. The plane was a new threshold. When they stepped onto it, they were leaving their old lives as regional champs behind. When they stepped off, they would be in Davao.
They would be in the warzone.
Tristan found his seat, stowed his bag, and buckled in. He looked out the small, circular window at the organized chaos of the airport. He felt the plane shudder as the engines started.
There was no turning back. The road to the Palarong Pambansa had officially begun.