The first rays of the Monday morning sun filtered pale and gentle through the dusty, barred windows of the Barangay Burol II basketball court. The air inside was still cool, carrying the scent of old wood, worn leather, and the faint, ever-present aroma of floor wax. Outside, the familiar symphony of Dasmariñas waking up—the sputtering of tricycle engines and the distant calls of vendors—blended with the sharp, rhythmic clapping of sneakers on hardwood.
Inside, the Black Mambas were already in motion, their bodies a blur of black and white practice jerseys.
Tristan stood among his teammates, his lungs already burning, sweat dampening his brow and the back of his neck despite the early hour. The phantom aches from Saturday's battle against the Yellow Submariners echoed in their limbs, a dull but constant reminder of the price of victory. But the fire hadn't dimmed. If anything, it now flamed with a focused intensity as Coach Gutierrez paced the sideline, his presence alone commanding attention.
"Alright, Mambas, listen up!" Coach began, his voice cutting cleanly through the cacophony of bouncing balls. The dribbling stopped, and all eyes snapped to him. "Saturday showed us our heart. It showed us what happens when you trust each other. But heart alone doesn't win championships. Today, we start forging the mind and the body to match."
He gestured to the court. "This week is about growth—getting sharper, faster, smarter. I don't want you just going through the motions. I want every drill done with intention. I want results."
Tristan nodded along with the others, his muscles tensing in anticipatory focus. This wasn't just practice anymore; it was a deliberate sharpening of the spear before the next hunt.
Coach started them off with his signature high-intensity "Pressure Cooker" drill: a rapid series of ball-handling maneuvers through a tight cone weave, immediately followed by fending off two live defenders simulating a full-court press, and finishing with a contested layup at the other end. No breaks between reps.
Julia, the team's sharp and observant assistant coach, stood at mid-court, her whistle a piercing shriek that signaled every rotation.
"Ball control on point! Chin up, eyes up! See the floor, don't just feel it! Anticipate the trap, don't react to it!" she barked, her voice a counterpoint to the coach's deeper timbre.
Tristan took his turn. The ball felt like an extension of his hand, a result of his newly enhanced Ball Handle stat. He dipped low, his enhanced Agility allowing him to pivot on a dime. When the two defenders converged, he didn't panic. He saw the sliver of space between them, executed a tight crossover that was lower and faster than he could have managed a week ago, and burst through the gap. He finished with a soft finger-roll off the glass, absorbing the contact from the recovering defender.
Coach's voice rang out, a rare note of unadulterated praise in it. "Excellent, Tristan! That's the poise I want to see! Keep that pace! This is how we break their spirit before we break their defense!"
Next, Marco vaulted beautifully off a screen set by Ian, catching a crisp pass from Joseph. Instead of forcing a shot over the converging defenders, he launched a perfect, high-arcing floater that kissed the net. Moments later, an errant pass was swatted away. Felix, moving with explosive energy, dove for the loose ball, tipping it ahead to Gab who was already sprinting. It was a chaotic but beautiful sequence that ended in an emphatic dunk. The players on the sideline clapped in rhythm, a hungry and relentless beat.
Panting, Joseph caught his breath alongside Gab during a brief water break.
"Man, the Bears are going to be tough," Joseph said, wiping his face with the collar of his jersey. "I heard their center is built like a carabao."
Gab nodded grimly, his expression set like stone. "Let him be. A carabao is strong, but it's slow. They can't match our fire. We'll run them into the ground."
After an hour of the grueling drill, the team gathered in the shaded corner near the bench, chugging water and stretching aching muscles. Their bodies were humming with adrenaline and fatigue.
Coach Gutierrez cleared his throat, and the weary chatter died down.
"Listen carefully. Next Saturday, we face a team that's a different kind of beast. They're physical, they're disciplined, and they're hungry. The Brown Bears from Barangay Sampaloc."
Eyes sharpened instantly. The name carried weight in the league—a reputation for grinding teams down. Coach unfurled a printout, a scouting report summarizing the Bears' last few games.
"They're not flashy," Coach continued, his tone serious. "You won't see them on any highlight reels for their fancy dribbling. But they are brutally effective. Their game is simple: pound the ball inside to their two big men, batter opponents into submission, and clean up every single miss on the offensive glass. Speed isn't their weapon—it's their grit and their size."
Mark, a quick-leaning winger, frowned. "Sounds like a bigger, meaner version of Reyes from the Submariners."
"In a way," Coach agreed, nodding. "But where Reyes had some finesse, some footwork, the Bears are just bulldozers. They want to punish you in the paint."
Tristan absorbed the information, his mind already racing. "So how do we counter that? We can't win a straight-up brawl in the post. Physicality is their best attribute."
Coach's eyes sparkled with a tactical light. "Exactly. So we don't play their game. We exploit everything they lack. They have size, but they lack foot speed. They have strength, but they lack stamina. Their shooters are streaky at best. You are faster, you are more agile, and after the conditioning I've put you through, you can run all day. We turn the game into a track meet. We use pick-and-rolls to pull their bigs away from the basket, we use sharp ball movement to make them chase, and we force them to defend the perimeter where they are weakest."
Post-lunch, the Black Mambas regrouped in the small, cramped video room. The space was filled with the dim glow of a projector and its low, whirring hum.
Coach Gutierrez took command, remote in hand, as the screen burst to life with grainy footage of the Brown Bears' recent matches. The players leaned in, their earlier exhaustion replaced by a student's intent.
"Watch closely," Coach said, his voice low. "Don't just watch the ball. See their rhythms, their habits, their vulnerabilities."
The first clip showed the Brown Bears' hulking center catching the ball on the low block. He took three powerful dribbles, backing his opponent down under the rim before scoring an easy layup. The defender looked helpless.
"See that? Brute force," Coach said. But then he immediately skipped to the next play. The same center was the last one down the court, jogging with heavy feet as the opposing team scored on a fast break. Coach paused the video, a bright red circle appearing around the lumbering player.
"Look here. He's a liability in transition. Their defense is slow to set up. We don't walk the ball up the court. Ever. The moment we get a rebound or a steal, we strike fast."
Tristan leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen. "That means quick outlet passes from the rebounder. Gab, Ian—the moment you grab the board, your first look should be downcourt."
Marco added, his shooter's instincts kicking in, "And look at their perimeter defense. It's lazy. Their guards are so focused on preventing drives that they give up open looks."
The next clip confirmed his observation. It showed a Brown Bears guard giving his man two full feet of space on the three-point line. The shooter hesitated, seemingly surprised by the opening, and bricked the shot.
Gab pointed at the screen. "He didn't want to shoot it. If we pressure their ball-handlers and force their non-shooters to make decisions, their offense will crumble."
Coach smiled, a thin, satisfied expression. "Good. That's what I want you to see. We press their guards high. We switch aggressively on screens. We make them uncomfortable for 40 minutes."
Felix, who had been quiet until now, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But Coach, how do we stop that big guy from scoring when they do get set up in the half-court? He looks unstoppable one-on-one."
"We don't stop him one-on-one," Coach responded immediately, turning to the chalkboard. "We don't let it get to that. We deny the entry pass. If he does catch it, we swarm him. It's a team effort. The closest guard digs down to disrupt his dribble, forcing him to pick it up. We rotate, we communicate, and above all, we box out. Ian, Gab… you are our wall. You don't have to block his shot; you just have to make it difficult. Contest everything."
Ian, ever the man of few words, gave a single, firm nod. "We'll hold the paint."
Coach began sketching plays, his chalk strokes quick and decisive. "Our offense will be constant motion. Pick-and-rolls with Tristan and Ian to pull their center out. Marco running off staggered screens. Felix making hard cuts to the basket. We exploit their lack of speed and their lack of stamina."
He put the chalk down and turned to face them, his gaze intense. "This is a 40-minute war of attrition. Stay focused, stay disciplined, and play as one."
As the review session wrapped up, Coach held up a hand. "One last thing. Don't forget that enrollment for the new school year starts next week. You're all incoming 10th graders now. The first day of school is right around the corner."
The intense atmosphere in the room immediately shifted. A few quiet groans rippled through the players. The reality of books, assignments, and early morning classes settled in. Tristan, Marco, and Gab exchanged brief, knowing looks. The triple burden of school, training, and games was about to begin again.
"We should probably head to enrollment together," Tristan said, turning to his friends. "Might as well get it over with. Could be a good break from all this."
Marco nodded. "Yeah, better to stick together. Navigate the crowds and paperwork. We need to get through that without losing our momentum for the game."
"Plus," Gab added with a wry grin, "it'll be easier to face the terror of new class schedules if we do it as a group."
Coach overheard them and smiled, a look of approval on his face. "Good plan. Remember what I've always told you. You are student-athletes. Student comes first. Balance your studies and your game. A sharp mind makes a sharp player."
Tristan sat back for a moment, the weight of the weeks ahead settling onto his shoulders. "Enrollment and the Brown Bears game," he thought. "Two important beginnings. We have to rise for both."
Marco nudged him softly with his elbow. "You good, man? You're staring a hole through that wall."
"Yeah," Tristan replied, snapping out of his reverie. "Just thinking. We've come a long way. But it feels like the hardest parts are still ahead."
Gab clapped him firmly on the shoulder, his grin confident and reassuring. "And we'll face them together. That's the only thing that counts."
The training room cleared out slowly as players packed their bags, the air filled with tired but determined chatter. Coach's voice followed them out the door.
"Rest well tonight! This week of practice defines what happens on Saturday!"
Tristan took one last breath of the court's warm, familiar air, his eyes flickering with resolve as he looked toward the exit, toward the challenges that lay beyond.
"We're ready."