Halftime Score: Dasmariñas 49 — QC 47
The roar of the crowd was a physical entity that followed the Dasmariñas National High into the tunnel. It was a sound of absolute, joyous pandemonium, fueled by the impossible buzzer-beating three-pointer Tristan Herrera had sunk from the logo to give the underdogs the lead.
When the team burst into the locker room, the atmosphere was chaotic, a stark contrast to the grim tension of the first quarter.
Marco was screaming, grabbing players and shaking them. "Did you see that?! Did you see him fall?! Palencia fell! He looked like Bambi on ice! We are doing this! We are actually doing this!"
Gab Lagman, usually stoic, was grinning widely, his face sweaty and flushed with adrenaline. "Two points! We have two points! But we need thirty more minutes of that."
Coach Gutierrez, however, was stone-faced. He waited until the noise settled, then walked to the whiteboard and drew a line through the entire first half's notes.
"Settle down!" his voice cut through the residual chaos. "The score is tied. We played ten minutes of perfect, divine basketball, and we are only up by two! You know what that means? It means they are better than us!"
The team quieted down instantly. Coach G had a way of cutting through the hype.
"Tristan," the coach said, turning to his captain, who was sitting down, breathing deeply, still radiating the cold, alien calm of the Zone. "You were magnificent. You gave us the lead. But you also showed them everything. You showed them the speed. You showed them the range. You showed them the killer instinct."
Tristan looked at his coach, his voice low and raspy. "I had to, Coach. He was laughing at us."
"I know," Gutierrez said, nodding. "And you shut him up. But listen to me, team. Joco Palencia is not Emon Jacob. Jacob was a machine; you could break his wires. Palencia... Palencia is a champion. He doesn't break. He adapts. He adjusts."
He looked at the statistics sheet. "Palencia scored 16 in the first quarter, then 9 in the second. He was shaken, but he still scored 25 points on you, Tristan. And he had four assists. We played the best basketball of our lives, and he is still dominating."
"We need a new plan for the second half," Gab said, wiping his face with a towel.
"No," Tristan interrupted, pulling on a fresh jersey. "We need to do the same thing, but harder. We need to push the pace. He's tired. I saw him breathing heavy on the last possession. We have to make him pay for his individual brilliance. We have to keep him working on defense."
Coach G smiled, a small, proud smile. "That's the General. You see the advantage. Now, I have five minutes to give you the tactical adjustments. But before that, I need to tell you what we're fighting."
He looked toward the QC locker room, a wall separating the two teams. "You need to know who Joco Palencia is. Because the boy you see out there—the arrogant one, the one laughing at us—that is not the whole story."
Meanwhile, in the crimson-colored locker room of the Quezon City High, the atmosphere was one of silent, simmering rage.
Joco Palencia was sitting on a folding chair, a towel draped over his head, ignoring his coach's furious yelling. The coach was screaming about the humiliation of the last five minutes—about Palencia falling, about letting an underdog point guard hit a logo shot.
"You let that small boy make you look like a fool, Joco! You let him steal the game! You are the MVP!"
Joco wasn't listening. His body was hot, his lungs screaming for air, but his mind was crystal clear. I fell, he thought, his jaw clenched. I actually fell.
He felt the shame, but beneath the shame, a familiar, cold fire began to burn.
Joco Palencia wasn't born into the privileged dynasty of Quezon City High basketball. He wasn't the child of alumni or wealthy Manila parents.
Joco grew up in Barangay Central, Quezon City, in a cramped but loving house where the smell of cooking oil and damp concrete was constant. His parents were both hardworking average Filipinos: his mother was a seamstress who took tailoring jobs at home, and his father drove a tricycle, often working 16 hours a day just to pay for the rent and the electricity. Money was always tight.
The only way Joco could escape the heat and the reality of the small house was through the TV in their tiny living room. He didn't watch local shows; he watched basketball. Specifically, he watched Coby Bryant.
He was maybe eight years old, skinny, and slightly clumsy, but the Mamba Mentality translated across the Pacific Ocean and into the crowded alleys of Barangay Central. Joco didn't just watch the highlights; he watched the footwork, the intensity, the way Kobe sought out the toughest challenge and then annihilated it.
"You have to be a killer," Joco would whisper to his reflection in the cheap, cracked mirror. "You have to demand greatness."
When he was ten, his father used half of their meager savings to buy him a used, cracked leather basketball. Joco loved that ball more than anything. He took it everywhere.
The local courts—the cement, cracked, floodlit courts near the palengke (market)—became his cathedral. He would spend hours there, often alone, trying to replicate the footwork he saw on the fuzzy TV screen. He didn't just practice; he drilled until his fingers were bleeding and his legs were shaking.
He joined the barangay leagues, competing against teenagers and men twice his size. These weren't organized games; they were rough, street-ball contests where the rules were fluid and a hard foul meant a fight.
Joco thrived on the chaos. He was always the smallest, but he was the most relentless. He couldn't rely on size, so he honed his skill to the peak of perfection. He learned the step-back because the older guys were too big to jump over. He learned the floater because he couldn't get a clean look at the rim. He learned to pass because if he didn't feed the older, bigger players, they wouldn't back him up when the opposing team got too physical.
He won his first barangay tournament at age twelve. The prize was ₱1,000 and a cheap trophy. He gave the money to his mother.
That was the moment he realized basketball was his way out. It wasn't just a passion; it was a destiny.
By the time he was fourteen, he was too good for the barangay leagues. Word traveled fast. A scout from the most prestigious and successful basketball program in Manila, Quezon City High, found him on that cracked court.
They offered him a full scholarship. His parents cried that day—tears of relief and pride.
Joco never forgot where he came from. That chip on his shoulder wasn't just about winning games; it was about honoring the sacrifices of his tricycle-driving father and his seamstress mother. Every championship, every MVP award, was a repayment of a debt.
He didn't just want to win this Palarong Pambansa. He needed to. Losing was not an option. Losing meant the sacrifice was incomplete.
He ripped the towel off his head. He looked at his reflection in the locker door. The arrogance was gone, replaced by the Mamba fire.
He's faster now, Joco thought of Tristan. He's a legitimate threat. He's worthy.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"Coach," Joco said, cutting through his coach's screaming. His voice was low and commanding.
"Yes, Joco?"
"Draw up a zone defense. I'm going to guard Herrera full-court. I want to see his eyes when he finally breaks."
He stood up. "The fun is over. Time to remind them who the King is."
Coach Gutierrez finished recounting the story of Joco Palencia. The Dasmariñas team was silent, absorbing the weight of the moment.
"He's not a spoiled rich kid," Gutierrez concluded. "He's a survivor. He's fighting for something real. He's fighting for his family. And that makes him ten times more dangerous."
"So," Daewoo said softly, "it's not just a game for him. It's his life."
"It is," Coach G confirmed. "And that's why we have to hit him with everything we have. We have to show him that our sacrifice is just as real as his."
"We need to attack him on the block," Gab insisted. "He's tired of guarding Tristan on the perimeter. Let's force him inside. Marco, run the high-post split, and when they switch, give me the ball."
"They won't switch if Palencia is guarding Tristan," Marco argued. "He won't trust anyone else after that ankle-breaker."
"Exactly," Tristan cut in. He was calm, analytical. "He's committed to me. He's committed to his pride. That's our advantage. We make him work defensively, which drains his offensive tank."
"Tristan," Coach G said, "you did not miss that shot from the logo. You missed one shot in the entire quarter. Your shooting percentage is unsustainable. What is the plan to keep the offense flowing when they adjust?"
Tristan looked at his teammates. "They're going to try to double-team me now. Palencia will try to funnel me into the paint, and their bigs will close the gap."
He walked to the whiteboard, picked up the marker, and drew a simple diagram.
"Gab, Ian—high post. Marco, deep corner. Daewoo, baseline run. When Palencia traps me, I'm kicking it out, not to the wing, but straight to the corner to Marco."
He drew an X on the deep corner. "Marco, you don't shoot. You immediately hit Gab or Ian cutting hard to the basket. We use Palencia's attention to create a 4-on-3 situation inside. We run our offense through the paint, not the perimeter."
Marco nodded, his eyes wide with understanding. "Use the gravity. Make the King pay for his pride."
"Precisely," Tristan said, putting the marker down. "We don't need threes to win. We need two-point efficiency and free throws."
The team huddled together, their heads bowed.
"Thirty minutes," Coach G whispered. "Thirty minutes until glory. Thirty minutes until we change the landscape of Philippine high school basketball forever. Play smart. Play hard. Play together."
"DASMA!" Tristan yelled.
"DASMA!" the team roared back, the sound swallowed by the impending storm of the arena.
Facing the Fire
As the team stood up, ready to head back to the court, Aiden grabbed Tristan's arm.
"Tris," Aiden said, his face pale with emotion. "That second quarter... that was the best basketball I have ever seen. You looked... you looked like a movie."
"It was the Plan," Tristan said, managing a small, genuine smile. "And the System."
"I know," Aiden whispered. "But that three... you didn't even hesitate. You looked like you were daring him to let you shoot."
Aiden's eyes were shining with tears. "Promise me, Captain. Finish the story."
Tristan looked at his friend, his motivation, the reason for the cold fire in his heart.
"I already promised you the championship, Aiden," Tristan said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "But I promise you this: Joco Palencia is going to remember my name until the day he dies. That's a guarantee."
Tristan turned and led his team out of the locker room.
The third quarter was coming. The championship was hanging in the balance.
Tristan Herrera had faced the god, evolved, and tied the score.
Now, the god was angry.
As Tristan stepped back onto the court, the noise hit him again, no longer a friendly cheer, but a cacophony of nervous expectation.
He looked across the court. Joco Palencia was stretching, his movements sharp and aggressive. The King was no longer laughing. He was focused. He was ready to fight.
The true battle for the Palarong Pambansa was about to begin.