The Saturday morning sun sliced through the gaps in Tristan's curtains, painting stripes of gold across his floor. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning, a stark contrast to the turbulent storm of nerves brewing in his stomach. Today was the day. Their second match against the White Sharks. The thought of facing Cedrick Estrella again—a formidable two-way player who patrolled the paint like a beast guarding its territory—was enough to make his palms sweat. A new challenge always ignited a fire in him, but it also woke the familiar, cold whisper of dread. He had a mission, a team to lead, but the first battle was always internal, against the ghost of his own self-doubt.
With a grim sense of purpose, he swung his legs out of bed. He bypassed his other clothes and went straight for his armor: the black jersey. He pulled it over his head, the smooth fabric cool against his skin. On the back, the name 'HERRERA' and the number '20' felt heavier today, a mantle of responsibility. Bag packed, new shoes in hand, he stepped out the front door into the humid embrace of the Dasmariñas morning.
His teammates were already there, a small assembly of nervous energy gathered under the shade of a mango tree. Marco was practically vibrating, shadowboxing with an invisible opponent. Gab leaned against the tree, looking deceptively calm, while John methodically stretched his hamstrings, his expression a mask of concentration.
"Mornin', Captain," Marco said, his usual wide grin a little tighter than normal. "Ready to dance with the Sharks again?"
Tristan managed a small nod, the knot in his stomach making it hard to speak. "Hey, guys. You all look ready."
Gab pushed himself off the tree, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Nervous is good. Means we care," he said, his voice a calm anchor. "Cedrick's a problem, but he's one problem. We're a five-man solution."
"He's right," John added, not looking up from his stretch. "We just stick to the plan. Run our plays. They can't stop all of us."
Their confidence was a balm on his anxiety. A genuine, if small, smile finally touched Tristan's lips. This was his team. His family. "Alright," he said, his voice finding its firmness. "Let's go win a basketball game."
They began their walk to the Barangay Burol II court, falling into a comfortable formation. The streets were alive with a fiesta-like energy. The scent of garlic rice and frying longganisa drifted from open doorways. A nearby house was already blasting a karaoke ballad, the singer's voice passionately off-key. Kids playing tumbang preso scattered as they passed, shouting greetings. Everyone, from the lolas fanning themselves on their porches to the tricycle drivers waiting for fares, knew what day it was. The Intercolor league was more than a competition; it was the barangay's weekend heartbeat.
As they rounded the final corner, the sounds of the court hit them like a wave: the percussive thud of a basketball, the squeal of sneakers, the roar of the crowd, and the thumping bass of a pop-punk song blasting from two massive speakers. Their second home was packed, a kaleidoscope of color and noise. All the teams were there, a vibrant sea of jerseys. For the Black Mambas, however, the chaos felt like a sanctuary. This was their element.
The first match of the day, Blue Whales versus Red Foxes, was deep in the third quarter. They found an empty section of the concrete bleachers, their black jerseys making them a stark island in the colorful crowd. Tristan's focus narrowed instantly, his analytical mind taking over as he became an observer.
He watched the Blue Whales' point guard orchestrate the offense with practiced ease. The players moved in a synchronized dance of screens and cuts, a display of disciplined chaos. In contrast, the Red Foxes looked panicked, their movements frantic and disjointed as they struggled to keep up. The scoreboard told the story:
Blue Whales 54, Red Foxes 38.
At the center of it all, the maestro of this lopsided symphony was Diego Paterno. The former Mythical Five member played with an effortless brilliance that was both inspiring and terrifying to watch. He wasn't just a player; he was an artist and the court was his canvas. He'd glide to the rim, absorbing contact and finishing with an impossible reverse layup. The next possession, he'd pull up from beyond the arc, his jumper a picture of perfect form. He was a virtuoso, commanding the complete and utter respect of everyone on the floor.
Tristan's mind raced, breaking down every play. He saw the fire in Diego's eyes, the supreme confidence that bordered on arrogance but was backed by undeniable skill. It was a masterclass in basketball, a living testament to the heights a player could reach.
The fourth quarter was a formality. The Blue Whales continued their relentless assault, while the Red Foxes' fire dwindled to embers of frustration. Diego was simply unstoppable. The final buzzer sounded with the score at 70-52. The announcer read off Diego's stats, each number a hammer blow to Tristan's own confidence: 36 points, 15 rebounds, 8 assists. A near triple-double. Utter domination.
For a moment, that familiar, cold wave of self-doubt washed over Tristan. How can I call myself a point guard when players like that exist? He was a decent player, a good strategist, but Diego was on another plane of existence. The victory they were about to fight for suddenly felt smaller, the challenge of Cedrick more insurmountable.
But then, as the Blue Whales celebrated on the court, another thought pushed through the doubt. He wasn't Diego Paterno. And he didn't need to be. He had his own weapon, a tool forged in discipline and dedication: the system. It was his path, his equalizer. The fire returned, burning away the insecurity and leaving pure determination in its wake.
The announcer's voice crackled over the speakers. "What a game from the Blue Whales! Okay, folks, give them a hand as they clear the court. Up next, we have the White Sharks taking on… the BLACK MAMBAS!"
A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd. This was their cue. Tristan locked eyes with Marco, then Gab, then John. No more words were needed. A silent understanding passed between them. They stood up as one, a single, unified entity. The nervous energy hadn't vanished; it had transformed, sharpening into a razor-edged focus.
The calm was over. Their storm was about to begin.