The halftime break was a tale of two philosophies. In the Trece Martires visitor's locker room, the air was thick with frustration and recriminations. They had been outplayed, out-hustled, and out-thought by a lineup missing its two primary scorers. Their coach's voice could be heard through the closed door, a sharp, staccato series of barks. They were a proud team, and their pride had been wounded.
In the Dasmariñas huddle, the mood was entirely different. Coach Gutierrez offered praise for the second unit's tenacity but immediately shifted focus, his expression a mask of calculated intensity. The starters, expecting to retake the floor and extend the lead, began to stand.
"Sit down," the coach said calmly. The five of them froze, exchanging confused glances.
Coach Gutierrez looked past them, his gaze falling upon the end of the bench, on the players who spent most of their time in practice mimicking opponents, the unsung heroes of the scout team.
"Mark. Joseph. Joshua. You're in."
The three players looked up, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and nervous excitement. Mark, a lanky, thoughtful point guard, swallowed hard. Joseph, a wiry and energetic wing, bounced on the balls of his feet. Joshua, a tough-as-nails undersized forward, simply nodded, his jaw set.
"Coach?" Tristan began, his voice laced with concern. "They're going to come out angry. Their starters are still in. Don't we need…"
"We need to know what we have," Coach Gutierrez cut him off, his voice firm but not unkind. He turned his attention to the new unit. "John, Felix, you're staying in. You are the veterans on the floor. You will be the anchors. Your job is to lead them."
He then addressed the three substitutes directly, his voice lowering so only they could hear. "Listen to me. Trece Martires is going to come out of that locker room breathing fire. They were just embarrassed by our second unit, and they're going to look at you three and see an easy target. They will try to run you off the court in the first two minutes." He let that sink in, the stark, brutal honesty of it.
"They will fail," he stated, not as a hope, but as a command. "Your job is not to be spectacular. Your job is not to extend the lead. Your job is to absorb their best punch and stand your ground. Mark," he said, locking eyes with the nervous point guard, "you are not Tristan Herrera. Do not try to be. You are Mark Herras. You are a smart, steady playmaker. Do not try to break ankles. Do not try for the highlight reel. Your job is to get us into our sets, value the basketball, and be the calmest person on the court. Can you do that?"
Mark, feeling the weight of the entire team's trust settle on his shoulders, took a deep breath and gave a firm nod. "Yes, Coach."
"Joseph, Joshua," he continued, "you are our energy. Their starters have played twenty minutes. You are fresh. I want you to make them feel it. Run the floor. Fight for every loose ball. Set hard screens. Box out even if you don't get the rebound. Be a constant, relentless nuisance. Make them hate playing against you."
The two players nodded, a fire igniting in their eyes.
"You have a seven-point lead," the coach concluded. "Your only goal for this quarter is to make them fight tooth and nail for every single one of those points. Hold the line. Now get out there."
As the makeshift third unit walked onto the court, a palpable sense of confusion rippled through the gym. The TMH players, emerging from their locker room with grim, determined expressions, stopped and stared. Their coach had just given them a blistering speech about re-establishing their dominance, and they came out to see Dasmariñas's captain, their two best scorers, and their starting big men all sitting on the bench.
Tracy Romeo looked at the new point guard, Mark, a player he barely recognized. He smirked. "Are you serious? They're forfeiting?"
Ibeke Matumba, who had been contained and frustrated in the second quarter, looked at the undersized duo of Joshua and Felix and saw fresh meat.
On the Dasmariñas bench, Marco was beside himself. "What is Coach doing? This is a slaughter! Mark is a good player, but putting him out there against a rabid Tracy Romeo is like throwing a goldfish into a tank of piranhas!"
"Trust the process, Marco," Aiden said, though his own knuckles were white as he gripped his knees.
Tristan said nothing. He watched Mark walk to the center of the court, his shoulders squared, and felt a surge of empathy. He knew the crushing weight of that position, the feeling of every eye in the gym on you. You can do this, Mark, he thought. Just play your game.
Start of the Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 25 — Trece Martires 18
The quarter began, and it was exactly the onslaught Coach Gutierrez had predicted. Trece Martires came out with a suffocating, full-court press, specifically targeting Mark.
They scored before Dasmariñas could even touch the ball. Off the inbound, Tracy Romeo used a quick screen to get open. He received the pass and, seeing the less experienced Joseph guarding him, immediately attacked. He drove hard, forcing a rotation, and kicked the ball out to Jace Yap, who had used a hard shove to create a sliver of space from John. Jace's shot was quick and true. A three-pointer.
Score: Dasmariñas 25 — Trece Martires 21
Now it was Mark's turn to face the fire. Two red jerseys immediately trapped him in the backcourt. He pivoted, his eyes wide, looking for an escape.
"Middle! Middle!" John yelled, flashing to the center to give him an outlet.
Mark tried to throw the pass, but his nerves got the better of him. The pass was weak, a soft lob that Rain Ocampo easily picked off. Ocampo took two dribbles and laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 25 — Trece Martires 23
Just like that, in less than twenty seconds, the lead was down to two. The TMH bench was roaring.
"That's it! Pressure them! They can't handle it!" their coach screamed.
Mark walked back to take the next inbound pass, his head down. He could feel the weight of his mistake. He had let everyone down.
"Hey!" a voice cut through his self-pity. It was Felix. "Head up, Mark. Now. That play is over. We need you to run the team. Just get the ball over half-court. We'll take it from there."
John clapped him on the shoulder. "Breathe, man. Just a practice game. Let's get one good possession."
Their calm, steady leadership was an anchor in his storm of panic. Mark took the inbound, and this time, when the trap came, he was ready. He didn't try to pass through it. He used his dribble to retreat, creating a better angle, and fired a sharp, crisp pass to John.
They had broken the press. A small victory, but a crucial one.
However, once in the half-court, their offense was stagnant. Without Tristan to create, or Marco and Aiden to space the floor, the lane was hopelessly clogged. Mark passed to Joseph, who passed to Joshua, who passed back to Mark. They looked hesitant, unsure. The shot clock was a ticking time bomb. With three seconds left, Mark was forced to heave a long, desperate two-pointer that barely grazed the rim. Ibeke Matumba grabbed the rebound.
TMH was smelling blood. They went straight to their biggest advantage. Tracy Romeo lobbed an entry pass to Ibeke, who had sealed the much smaller Joshua deep in the paint. It was a complete mismatch. Ibeke turned and scored with an easy layup, absorbing the foul from Joshua as he did so.
Score: Dasmariñas 25 — Trece Martires 25.
And-one.
"They can't stop him! Keep feeding the big man!" Jace Yap yelled.
Ibeke stepped to the line, a confident smirk on his face. He calmly sank the free throw. For the first time since early in the first quarter, Trece Martires had the lead.
Score: Dasmariñas 25 — Trece Martires 26
The Dasmariñas third unit was being systematically dismantled. They looked outgunned, overwhelmed, and on the verge of breaking completely.
On the bench, Marco couldn't watch. "Coach, put us in! We can get the lead back!"
Coach Gutierrez didn't even look at him. His eyes were fixed on the five players on the court. "They're not done yet," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
He was right. Something shifted. It wasn't a grand, cinematic turning point. It was a subtle, gritty change in attitude. It started with Joshua. On the next TMH possession, Ibeke again tried to post him up. But this time, Joshua didn't try to play him straight up. He got low, using his lower center of gravity to get under Ibeke's legs, denying him the deep position with sheer, stubborn effort. Ibeke still got the ball, but he was a few feet further out, his advantage lessened.
He made his move, but as he did, Felix came from the weak side with a perfectly timed strip, knocking the ball loose.
The ball skittered towards the sideline.
Joseph, seeing it, launched his body through the air in a full-extension dive, batting the ball back into play and crashing hard into the scorer's table. Mark, benefiting from the hustle, scooped up the loose ball.
"Go, Mark, go!" Tristan yelled from the bench, leaping to his feet.
Mark pushed the ball up the court. It wasn't a lightning-fast break, but it was their first transition opportunity. He saw John running the right lane. He made the simple, correct pass. John caught it, took one dribble, and laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 27 — Trece Martires 26
They had retaken the lead. Joseph got up slowly, wincing, a fresh floor burn already forming on his elbow. His teammates swarmed him, patting him on the back. It was the ugliest, most hard-fought two points of the game, and it was the most important. They had absorbed the punch, and they were still standing.
The rest of the quarter became a brutal battle of attrition. The Dasmariñas third unit had found their identity. They weren't a scoring machine. They were a team of five grinders, and they were going to make the game as ugly as possible.
Joshua continued to wage war on Ibeke. He wasn't stopping him, but he was making him work for every inch, every touch. He picked up his third foul doing it, but it was a price he was willing to pay. Joseph was a blur of motion, his relentless energy on defense starting to visibly annoy JP Simon.
Mark, having weathered the initial storm, was now playing with a quiet confidence. He wasn't breaking down the defense, but he wasn't turning the ball over either. He was a steady hand on the tiller, guiding his team through choppy waters. On one possession, he found a cutting John for another layup. On another, after a broken play, the ball swung to him with the shot clock expiring.
He took a deep breath and drained a smooth, fifteen-foot jumper.
"Attaboy, Marky-Mark!" Marco screamed from the bench, cupping his hands around his mouth. "That's my protégé!"
The Trece Martires starters, who had expected to blow the game wide open, were now locked in a frustrating, street-fight style of basketball. Their fluid offense was gone, replaced by forced shots and isolation plays.
"Why are we playing their game?" Tracy Romeo snapped at his teammates during a dead ball. "They're slowing it down, making it ugly! Let's run!"
"It's hard to run when you're getting bodied on every cut!" Jace Yap shot back, glaring at John, who just stared back, unfazed.
With a minute left in the quarter, the score was tied.
Score: Dasmariñas 33 — Trece Martires 33
Ibeke Matumba, who had been relatively quiet for a few minutes, decided to take over. He demanded the ball on the low block, backing down Joshua with a furious intensity. He spun, elevated, and dunked the ball with two hands, letting out a roar of pure frustration and dominance.
Score: Dasmariñas 33 — Trece Martires 35
It felt like a dagger, a reminder of the immense talent gap between the two lineups. This was the moment the third unit was supposed to finally break.
But they didn't.
Mark brought the ball up for the final possession of the quarter. He was calm. He held the ball, letting the clock tick down. 10… 9… 8… He started his drive, drawing the attention of the defense. Just as he had seen Tristan do a hundred times in practice, he kept his head up. Joshua, after being dunked on, didn't hang his head. He immediately went to set a hard back-screen for Joseph. Joseph used it, cutting hard to the basket.
Mark saw it. He threw a perfect bounce pass into the lane. Joseph caught it in stride and went up for a layup. Rain Ocampo rotated over and fouled him hard to prevent the easy basket. The ball rolled off the rim, but the whistle had blown. Two shots. There were 1.2 seconds left on the clock.
The entire gym was silent as Joseph, a player who rarely saw meaningful minutes, walked to the free-throw line. The starters on the bench were on their feet, their hands clasped behind their heads.
"Come on, Joseph! You got this!" Tristan yelled.
Joseph took a deep breath. The first shot was perfect.
Swish.
He took another breath. The second one rattled around the rim and dropped in.
The buzzer sounded. The quarter was over.
End of Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 35 — Trece Martires 35
The five players from the Dasmariñas third unit walked off the court, utterly spent. They hadn't just held the line. They had fought the Trece Martires starters to a 10-17 standstill in the quarter, and had clawed back from the brink of collapse to a tie. They were met at the sideline by their teammates, who engulfed them in a wave of pats on the back and words of encouragement.
"You guys were warriors out there!" Marco said, grabbing Mark in a hug. "You didn't back down for a second!"
Ian and Cedrick gave knowing nods to Joshua and Felix. "That's how you fight a giant," Ian said with respect.
Tristan walked up to Mark. He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at his backup, seeing the exhaustion and the quiet pride in his eyes.
"You ran the team," Tristan said simply. "You did exactly what Coach asked. You were a leader out there."
For Mark, that quiet praise from his captain meant more than any basket he could have scored. He just nodded, unable to speak.
Coach Gutierrez gathered them all. He looked at the five players who had just come off the court.
"That," he said, his voice filled with a rare, undisguised pride, "is Dasmariñas basketball. It's not always pretty. But it is always tough. You held the line."
He then turned to his starters. "Now, get ready. You're going back in. Let's go finish what they started."