The brief pause between the third and fourth quarters was the most suffocating silence of the night. For the home crowd, it was ten minutes of held breath, the euphoria of the third-quarter domination slowly giving way to the gut-wrenching anxiety of the final stretch. For the players of Nasugbu High, it was a moment of reckoning. They huddled around Coach Reyes, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. The thirteen-point deficit felt like a mountain.
"Look at me!" Coach Reyes barked, his voice raw with emotion. He grabbed a towel and threw it to the floor. "Forget the last quarter! It's over. It's done. All that matters now are the next ten minutes. Ten minutes to decide if our season ends right here on this floor, or if we go out like the warriors I know you are!"
He locked eyes with his captain. "Robert. They think they've broken you. They think they've won. Are you going to let them be right?"
Robert Concepcion's head snapped up, his eyes burning with a defiant fire. "No, Coach."
"Then you go out there and you take this game from them!" the coach roared. "We press. We trap. We run until our lungs give out. We attack the rim on every possession. We foul hard and make them earn it at the line. No more strategy. No more schemes. This is about heart! This is about who wants it more! Leave every last drop of sweat, of fight, of soul you have out on that court! Now go!"
Across the court, the atmosphere in the Dasmariñas huddle was one of controlled confidence, but Coach Gutierrez was quick to temper it.
"Don't you dare get complacent," he warned, his voice a low, serious growl. "A thirteen-point lead is nothing in ten minutes. The wounded animal is the most dangerous. They are going to come at you with a desperation you haven't seen yet. They will foul, they will press, they will be chaotic. Do not fall into that trap. Match their intensity, but not their desperation. Play smart, trust our offense, and close this game out. This is our house. This is our championship. Protect it."
The buzzer sounded, sharp and demanding. The teams took the floor. The lineups were unchanged. It was the starters, the thoroughbreds, who would finish this race.
The final ten minutes of the Regional Championship were about to begin.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Nasugbu 33
Kris Estrada inbounded the ball to Robert Concepcion. The fourth quarter was underway.
Nasugbu's desperation was immediately palpable. They didn't even try to run an offense. Robert took one look at the basket and attacked, a blur of red driving straight at the heart of the Dasmariñas defense. He absorbed contact from Ian, threw up a wild, off-balance shot, and the whistle blew. The shot missed, but he was going to the line. He sank both free throws.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Nasugbu 35
On the inbound, Nasugbu unleashed their full-court press. Two defenders swarmed Tristan, trapping him near the baseline. He pivoted, protecting the ball, and managed to find an escape pass to Aiden near half-court.
Dasmariñas broke the press, but it had cost them precious seconds. With the shot clock winding down, Tristan was forced to create. He drove and kicked the ball out to Marco, who had a sliver of space. Marco, feeling the heat of the moment, fired a three-pointer that caught the back iron and bounced out.
JC Yap soared for the rebound.
Nasugbu was running. Robert pushed the ball with a frantic pace, catching the Dasmariñas defense in transition. He found Andrei Iquiña on the wing. Andrei, finally free from the defensive shackles of Daewoo, caught the ball and fired without hesitation.
Swish.
The Nasugbu bench exploded. The lead was back to single digits.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Nasugbu 38
The next few possessions followed a similar, brutal pattern. Dasmariñas, now facing a relentless and hyper-aggressive defense, struggled to find the fluid rhythm they had at the end of the third. A pass from Tristan to Aiden was tipped and stolen by Vincent Murao, leading to an easy layup. On the next trip down, Cedrick was called for a moving screen, another turnover. The Dasmariñas offense, so potent just minutes ago, had ground to a halt.
Robert Concepcion, meanwhile, was playing like a man possessed. He was no longer a chess master but a berserker, attacking the rim with a ferocity that bent the defense. He drove past Tristan, collided with Ian in the paint for a tough and-one layup, and flexed towards his bench as the ball dropped through. He completed the three-point play.
Robert: (Screaming at his team) "We're not done yet! Let's go!"
The lead, once a comfortable thirteen, had dwindled to just three points. The home crowd was erupted, a joyous energy gripping the arena. Coach Gutierrez called a timeout, his face a mask of stone.
Score: Dasmariñas 48 — Nasugbu 45
"Calm down!" he ordered in the huddle. "This is what we talked about. This is their desperation. They are playing on pure emotion. We need to play with our heads. Stop rushing. Use the clock. Make smart passes. One good, solid offensive possession breaks this run. Tristan, get Marco a look coming off a screen. Let's get back to what works."
But Nasugbu's momentum was a freight train. Coming out of the timeout, Dasmariñas ran the play perfectly. Tristan found Marco coming off a double screen from Ian and Cedrick. Marco was open. He took the shot—a shot he makes nine times out of ten. But this time, it rattled in and out. The collective groan from the Dasmariñas bench was a physical thing.
Kris Estrada grabbed the rebound and outletted it to Robert. Again, he pushed. He drove into the lane, drew the entire defense, and at the last second, kicked it out to a wide-open Andrei Iquiña in the corner—his favorite spot.
Swish.
The game was tied.
Score: Dasmariñas 48 — Nasugbu 48
The Nasugbu players on the court and on the bench erupted in a cacophony of triumphant yells. They had erased a thirteen-point deficit in under five minutes. The momentum had completely and utterly swung in their favor.
For the next four minutes, the game became an absolute dogfight. The teams traded baskets, neither able to pull away. Aiden hit a tough fadeaway jumper. Vincent Murao answered with a powerful drive and layup.
Marco, finally breaking his cold spell, drained a three-pointer that sent the home crowd back into a frenzy. Robert Concepcion, unfazed, came right back down and hit a dagger of a pull-up jumper over Tristan.
The physicality was immense. Every rebound was a battle. Every screen felt like a car crash. The referees, letting the players decide the game, swallowed their whistles on all but the most flagrant contact.
With one minute remaining, the scoreboard read like a heart monitor flat-lining in a tie.
Score: Dasmariñas 58 — Nasugbu 58
Dasmariñas had the ball. The weight of the entire season felt concentrated on this single possession. Tristan dribbled at the top of the key, the shouts of the crowd and his teammates fading into a dull roar. He saw an opening and drove hard, but the defense collapsed. He shoveled a pass to Ian under the basket. Ian went up strong and was hacked across the arms by Kris Estrada. A foul was called with 47 seconds on the clock.
The arena fell silent as the big center stepped to the free-throw line. Ian was not a great free-throw shooter. The pressure was immense. He took a deep breath, bounced the ball three times, and released. The first shot was perfect.
Swish.
The second one, however, was just a little too strong, bouncing off the back of the rim.
Score: Dasmariñas 59 — Nasugbu 58
Nasugbu had the ball with 45 seconds left and a chance to take the lead. They didn't rush. Robert Concepcion walked the ball up the court, his eyes on the clock. He was going to bleed it dry, ensuring this would be the last meaningful possession. The clock ticked down… thirty seconds… twenty-five…
Marco: (On defense, to Tristan) "Watch the drive, Tris! He wants to go right!"
At twenty seconds, Robert made his move. He faked right and crossed over hard to his left, getting a step on Tristan. Cedrick stepped up to help, but Robert was too quick. He elevated in the lane, surrounded by taller defenders, and lofted a delicate, high-arcing floater. The ball seemed to hang in the air forever before kissing the glass and dropping softly through the net.
The Nasugbu bench exploded. They had the lead.
Score: Dasmariñas 59 — Nasugbu 60
There were 18.4 seconds left. Coach Gutierrez signaled for his final timeout.
The Dasmariñas players walked to the bench in a state of shock. The lead, the momentum, the championship—it was all slipping away. Their heads were down, their chests heaving.
Coach Gutierrez grabbed his whiteboard, his movements sharp and deliberate.
"Heads up! Now!" he commanded, his voice shaking them from their stupor. "Look at me. This is it. This is the moment you've worked for all year. Eighteen seconds. One shot. We are not losing this game. Not here. Not now."
He quickly drew up a play. It was designed with decoys, a complex series of screens meant to confuse the defense. Marco would come off a staggered screen as the first option. Aiden would make a hard cut to the basket as the second.
He then wiped the board clean. He looked directly at Tristan, his eyes boring into his captain's soul.
"Forget the play," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "That's just for show. They're going to deny Marco. They're going to clog the lane for Aiden. It's going to come down to you."
He pointed a finger at Tristan's chest. "The ball is in your hands. Get a good look. Win the game."
Tristan looked at his coach, then at the exhausted, hopeful faces of his teammates. He nodded once, a silent acceptance of the burden and the honor.
They broke the huddle. The stadium was a pressure cooker of unbearable tension. Every single person was on their feet. The air was thick, heavy, and crackling with electricity.
Ian took the ball out of bounds. The Nasugbu defense was set, their faces grimly determined. The whistle blew. Ian inbounded the ball to Tristan. The clock started to tick.
18… 17…
Tristan dribbled calmly at the top, his eyes scanning the floor. Robert Concepcion was on him, playing tight, aggressive defense, his hands a blur.
12… 11… 10…
Tristan started the play. Marco made his cut, but as predicted, he was blanketed by two defenders. Aiden slashed towards the hoop, but the lane was a wall of red jerseys. It was just as the coach had said. It was all on him.
8… 7… 6…
Robert was playing him perfectly, forcing him to his weaker left hand. Tristan knew he couldn't settle for a step-back jumper. He had to create a better shot.
5… 4…
Tristan executed a vicious hesitation dribble. For one-tenth of a second, Robert froze, anticipating the pull-up. It was the only opening Tristan needed. He crossed over with explosive speed, back to his dominant right hand, and blew past his defender. He drove into the heart of the paint. Kris Estrada, Nasugbu's towering center, stepped up to meet him, his long arms reaching for the sky to block the shot.
3… 2…
There was no path to the rim. Tristan had to stop on a dime, just inside the free-throw line. He leaped into the air, his body contorting. To avoid Estrada's block, he had to fade away, his momentum carrying him backwards as he released the ball.
The shot was high, a perfect, beautiful arc silhouetted against the bright lights of the stadium.
As the ball reached its apex, the world seemed to hold its breath. The red light on the backboard flashed. The final buzzer screamed through the arena. The game was over.
The ball was still in the air.
It descended, tracing a perfect path towards the hoop.
Swish.
For a split second, there was absolute silence—the collective, disbelieving gasp of five thousand people.
Then, pandemonium.
The roar that erupted from the Dasmariñas crowd was a physical shockwave. The Dasmariñas bench cleared, a tidal wave of white jerseys flooding the court. Marco was the first to reach Tristan, tackling him in a flying hug that sent them both to the floor.
Ian and Cedrick were next, lifting their captain onto their shoulders as he pumped his fists into the air, a cry of pure, unadulterated triumph tearing from his throat.
They had done it.
Final Score: Dasmariñas 61 — Nasugbu 60
Confetti rained down from the rafters. Players were crying, embracing, lost in the chaotic joy of the moment. On the other side of the court, the players of Nasugbu collapsed, their faces etched with the heartbreaking agony of being so close.
Robert Concepcion was on his knees at center court, his head buried in his hands.
Amidst the celebration, after being lowered to the ground, Tristan pushed through the mob of his teammates. He walked over to Robert, his own emotions a whirlwind, and extended a hand. Robert looked up, his eyes red, and took it.
"Hell of a game," Tristan said, his voice hoarse. "You're an incredible player."
Robert just nodded, unable to speak, the respect between the two warriors palpable even in the aftermath of their war.
Tristan turned back to his team. He saw Marco sobbing with joy, Ian holding the championship trophy aloft, and Coach Gutierrez embracing his assistants, a rare, brilliant smile on his face. He looked at the scoreboard, the finality of it finally sinking in.
He looked at the screaming fans, at his brothers beside him, and felt the crushing weight of the season lift from his shoulders, replaced by a feeling so light, so pure, it was as if he could float.
They were the Regional Champions. And in that one perfect, shining moment, all the pain, all the doubt, all the endless hours of work had been worth it.