The wail of the halftime buzzer was a sound of reprieve for one team and a death knell for the other. The scoreboard was a monument to a brutal, 20-minute execution: Dasmariñas 39 — CDO 15.
The 24-point deficit was a chasm of humiliation. The CDO High, the pride of Mindanao, the team of the 6'9" "Janitor," had been systematically dismantled, out-thought, out-hustled, and, most painfully, out-worked by a team of smaller, scrappier, hungrier "dogs."
The door to the CDO locker room slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. For a full ten seconds, the only sound was the ragged, heavy breathing of the players, who had collapsed onto the benches, their heads in their hands. LA Morales sat apart from them, his 6'9" frame hunched over, his face a mask of thunderous, volcanic rage. He was replaying every moment Gab Lagman, a man eight inches shorter, had drawn a foul on him, had gotten under his skin, had made him look foolish.
Their coach, a veteran with a face like worn leather, didn't yell. Not at first. He just stood in the center of the room, vibrating with a rage so profound it was almost silent.
"Twenty-four points," he finally whispered, his voice a low, terrifying rasp.
The players flinched.
"You are the champions of Mindanao. You are the Kings. You have a 6'9" Mythical Five candidate," he said, his voice rising, "and you are being embarrassed. You are being humiliated, on a national stage, by a bunch of... of... nobodies from Cavite!"
He kicked a medical cart, sending tape and water bottles scattering across the floor. The crash made the players jump.
"They are laughing at you!" he roared, his face turning a deep, dangerous red. "Their guards are shooting fadeaways! Their reserves are stealing the ball! And you! You, Morales! You let a 6'1" fire hydrant take you out of the game! You got two fouls on charging calls! Stupid, emotional, weak fouls! You are not a monster! You are a child!"
LA Morales's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a fury that matched his coach's. "He was holding me! They were flopping all over the..."
"I DON'T CARE!" the coach screamed, getting in his star's face. "He got in your head! He won! He took you, the most dominant physical specimen in this tournament, and he turned you into a non-factor! And the rest of you... you just... watched."
He paced the room like a caged animal. "This game is over. We are not coming back from 24 points against a team this disciplined. We are not winning. Do you understand me? The win is gone."
The players stared at him, their last embers of hope extinguished.
"But," the coach said, his voice dropping to a low, guttural growl, "the fight is not over. Our pride is not gone. Yet."
He locked eyes with each of his starters.
"You have twenty minutes left in your season. You can go out there and roll over. You can let them bench their starters and let their third-stringers beat you. Or you can go out there and make them remember your name. You can make them pay in blood and sweat for every single point. You can remind them who you are. You have to fight. You have to fight, even if you die out there. You will not... you will not... go home in disgrace!"
He turned to Morales. "LA. You have two fouls. I don't care if you get five. You go out there and you dunk everything. You block everything. You play with a rage that they will talk about when they go home. You make them fear you. Leave nothing. Nothing! Am I clear?"
Morales stood up, his 6'9" frame eclipsing his coach. He didn't say a word. He just nodded once, a dark, violent promise in his eyes.
By contrast, the Dasmariñas locker room was a scene of controlled, weary satisfaction. The players were rehydrating, icing, their bodies aching from the brutal, high-effort first half.
"Gab, your chest," Tristan said, looking at the angry, red handprint and emerging bruise on his teammate's chest from where Morales had shoved him.
"It's fine," Gab grunted, wincing as he rotated his shoulder. "He's all power. But he's... sloppy when he's mad. He's all... right. He can't go left against pressure. At all."
"Daewoo," Marco said, "that pump-fake and drive for the charge? That was... that was like, high-IQ, veteran-level stuff, man! I'm genuinely impressed! You're learning!"
Daewoo just smiled, his confidence now a solid, tangible thing.
Coach Gutierrez walked in, a clipboard in hand, and the room quieted.
"Thirty-nine to fifteen," he said, his voice calm. "That was, without a doubt, the most perfectly executed half of defensive basketball I have ever seen. Gab, Daewoo, Ian... your effort was... textbook. You sacrificed your bodies, you frustrated their star, and you gave us this lead. Be proud of that."
The three players sat up straighter.
"That being said," the coach's voice hardened, "the battle is not over. They are not going to just lie down. They are a champion team with a monster on their roster, and they are furious. They are going to come out in the third quarter with a desperation you have not seen. They will play with no regard for their bodies. They will be chaotic. They will be dangerous."
He looked at the starters who had just played. "Tristan, Felix. You're out."
The two of them looked up, stunned.
"Coach?" Tristan said. "We're... we're fine. We can play. We need to close this."
"You're breathing heavy, Tristan. Your job was to build the lead, and you did it. Your job now is to rest. Because if we win this, we play again tomorrow, and I need you at 100%," the coach said. He then turned to the bench.
"Mark. You're in for Tristan. Ian. You're in for Felix."
The two players—Mark Herras, and Ian Veneracion—snapped to attention, their eyes wide.
"Joseph, you're still gassed from that bad call. Joshua, you're in. The lineup for the third is Mark, Marco, Joshua, Cedrick, and Ian. This is our 'Power and Hustle' lineup."
Tristan looked at the new unit. Mark, his steady but un-dynamic backup. Joshua, a pure energy-and-hustle guy. And the twin towers, Ian and Cedrick, back together.
"Coach," Tristan said, his voice low, "Morales is going to be out for blood. Is... is Mark ready for that press?"
"Mark is ready," the coach said, his voice firm, projecting confidence into his nervous backup PG. "Mark, what is your job?"
"Control the pace, Coach. Break the press. Feed the hot hand," Mark recited, his voice shaky but determined.
"Exactly. And who," the coach said, turning his gaze to his star shooting guard, "is the hot hand?"
Marco, who had been quietly listening, stood up, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
"Coach," Marco said.
"Marco," Coach G replied. "They are broken. Their spirit is cracked. Their star is angry, which means he's going to play hero ball. He's going to try and block every shot. He's not going to play team defense. The rest of their team is terrified. You had 13 points in that quarter. They are going to be so focused on stopping you that they will forget how to play. I want you to continue your aggressiveness. I want you to be the dagger. I want you to go out there and end this. Not just win. I want you to end it. Put the final nail in their coffin. Can you do that for me?"
Marco's grin widened. "Coach... I was born for this."
Start of the Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 39 — CDO 15
The Dasmariñas team that took the floor was a new beast. Mark Herras at the point, Marco Gumaba at the two, Joshua Velasquez at the three, and the towering, 220-pound wall of Cedrick Estrella and Ian Veneracion in the paint.
LA Morales was back on the floor for CDO, his face a mask of cold fury. The crowd was trying to rally, a desperate, high-pitched chant filling the air.
As predicted, the CDO offense was simple: Give the ball to Morales.
He got it on the low block, guarded now by the heavier, stronger Cedrick Estrella. He tried his power-move, but Cedrick didn't give an inch. Morales, frustrated, spun, and was met by the rotating help of Ian Veneracion. A wall of two 6'6" bangers.
Morales, in a fit of rage, just rose up and shot over both of them. It was a physically impossible, angry shot.
And it went in. And-one. He was fouled by Cedrick.
Score: Dasmariñas 39 — CDO 17
Morales snarled, pounding his chest. He went to the line and hit the free throw.
Score: Dasmariñas 39 — CDO 18
He had scored three points in 15 seconds. The crowd roared. The comeback was on.
CDO, fueled by the play, came out in a chaotic, trapping full-court press. Two players immediately swarmed Mark Herras.
"Press! Press!" Mark yelled, his voice high with panic.
Tristan, on the bench, leaned forward. "Stay calm, Mark... find the middle..."
Mark pivoted, his eyes wide. But he was steady. He found his outlet—Cedrick, flashing to the center line.
Cedrick caught it, turned, and passed to Marco, who was already sprinting. The press was broken.
Marco crossed half-court, 3-on-2. He drove the lane, drew the last defender, and dropped a simple, perfect bounce pass to a cutting Joshua, who laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 41 — CDO 18
The arena went silent. It was a cold, clinical, and devastatingly simple answer. Morales had made a hero play. Dasmariñas had made a team play.
"That's it, Mark! Good read!" Tristan yelled from the bench, clapping.
Morales again. He was not going to be denied. He got the ball, 15 feet out. He faced up on Cedrick, who was playing him with a low center of gravity. Morales used a quick, powerful crossover—a move far too agile for a 6'9" man—and blew past him. Ian rotated over. Morales went right at his chest, rose up, and dunked on him. A monstrous, violent slam.
Score: Dasmariñas 41 — CDO 20
The building was shaking. Morales had scored all five of his team's points. He was trying to will them back into the game.
Mark Herras brought the ball up. The CDO point guard, smelling blood, pressed up on him, trying for a steal. Mark was calm. He crossed over, protecting the ball, and passed to Marco on the wing.
This was it. Marco had the ball. The CDO defender, Al-Hassan, closed out on him hard, terrified of the three.
Marco, following his coach's orders, was aggressive. He saw the hard closeout, pump-faked. Al-Hassan, desperate, left his feet.
Marco let him fly by, took one hard dribble to his left, and rose up from the free-throw line, his form pure.
Swish. Mid-range.
Score: Dasmariñas 43 — CDO 20
Morales slammed the ball on the floor in frustration. He had just made a monster dunk, and Dasmariñas had answered with a quiet, simple, two-point dagger.
Morales. Again. He drove the lane like a runaway truck. Ian and Cedrick built a wall. He crashed into them. The whistle blew. A charge. Offensive foul. His third.
Morales stared at the ref, his eyes bulging. He was one foul away from being a non-factor. His coach, with no choice, had to sub him out. The monster was back on the bench.
The entire CDO team deflated. Their god had been vanquished.
With Morales out, the paint was open. Mark Herras, now playing with a smooth, confident rhythm, brought the ball up. He called for a pick-and-roll with Ian. The backup center for CDO was slow to react.
Mark drove the lane, drawing the help. He threw a perfect lob to Ian, who finished with an easy alley-oop dunk.
Score: Dasmariñas 45 — CDO 20
The lead was 25. This was no longer a game. It was an execution.
After another CDO miss, Dasmariñas came down. The CDO defense was in shambles, just running around, their spirits broken.
Mark passed to Marco. "ISO!" Marco yelled, signaling for everyone to clear out.
He was on the left wing, guarded by the hapless Al-Hassan.
Marco, feeling it, went into his bag. He hit him with a low, blistering crossover, right-to-left, Tight Handles making the ball a blur. The defender's ankles snapped; he stumbled. Marco exploded past him into the paint. The backup center rotated over. Marco, in mid-air, hit him with a 'jelly'—a high-arcing, finger-roll layup that kissed the glass and dropped in. It was pure, unadulterated style.
Score: Dasmariñas 49 — CDO 22
Tristan, on the bench, just shook his head and laughed. "He's just... he's just toying with them now."
After a pair of free throws from Joshua (who had been fouled on a hustle play), Marco had the ball again. The CDO team, defeated, was in a lazy zone defense.
Marco caught the ball 25 feet out. He looked at his defender, who was five feet away, his hands on his hips.
Marco smiled. He looked at the Dasmariñas bench and pointed. He was calling his shot.
He rose up, a deep, effortless, NBA-range three-pointer.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 52 — CDO 24
The CDO coach didn't even stand up. He just sat there, defeated.
The final nail in the coffin. Mark Herras brought the ball up. He saw Marco being aggressively double-teamed near the three-point line.
Feed the hot hand.
No. Mark had learned. He saw the double-team and immediately looked at the man who had been left open. Cedrick Estrella, at the high post.
Mark fired a crisp pass to Cedrick. Cedrick caught it, took one dribble, and hit a 15-foot jumper. It was the same play that Ian had run, now executed by the second unit.
Score: Dasmariñas 56 — CDO 26
The rest of the quarter was a formality. Coach Gutierrez subbed out Marco, who received a standing ovation from the small Dasmariñas crowd. He walked off the court, pounding his chest, 13 points in the quarter, a scoring clinic that had broken the back of CDO High.
John Manalo and the rest of the third-stringers came in.
The quarter ended, a brutal, decisive, 18-11 run for Dasmariñas, extending their lead to an insurmountable 31 points.
End of Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 57 — CDO 26
The team walked back to the bench, the game won. Mark Herras, his face beaming, was met by Tristan.
"You ran it," Tristan said, clapping his backup on the shoulder. "You ran it perfectly. You didn't get rattled. You made the right reads. That was a hell of a quarter, Mark."
"It was... it was easy," Mark said, his voice full of adrenaline. "They were just... giving us everything. And Marco... he couldn't miss."
Marco, who was toweling off, overheard. "Couldn't miss? My friend, I don't miss. I'm not a shooter. I am a professional dagger-thrower."
Coach Gutierrez just shook his head, a rare, proud smile on his face. He had rested his captain. He had given his backup point guard invaluable, high-pressure national experience. And he had unleashed his star scorer, who had just put the entire Palarong Pambansa on notice.
They had one quarter left. One quarter of garbage time, and then... they would be in the Group A Final Four. Against the winner of Bedia or Jacob.
The monsters were still waiting. But the Dasmariñas National High had just proven they were a team of monsters, too.