Basketball was everything to Miguel. At fifteen, he had dreams bigger than most of the other kids in his Manila neighborhood. His father, a former barangay captain, had pushed him into the sport when he was just a kid. "Ikaw na lang ang pag-asa natin," his father would say, every single time Miguel laced up his worn-out sneakers. "You're our only hope."
The pressure was real. But for Miguel, it wasn't just about making his father proud. Basketball was his escape from the chaos of home—the yelling, the empty bottles, the arguments that never seemed to end. The court was the only place where he felt in control, where the world made sense.
So when tryouts for the varsity team at San Andres High School came up, Miguel knew he had to make it. No fucking way he was going to let this chance slip.
On the first day of tryouts, the gym was packed. There were at least thirty kids, all fighting for just a few spots. Miguel could see the fear in some of their eyes, the way they clutched the ball like it was the last piece of bread in a famine. But Miguel? He was different. He had that fire, that relentless drive. He was determined to prove to everyone—especially his father—that he was more than just another kid from the slums.
The first drill was basic enough: suicides. Miguel had done this a thousand times, in rain, in the searing heat, and even on days when he was dead tired from school. As the coach blew the whistle, Miguel exploded off the line, his feet pounding against the wooden floor. He could hear the other boys struggling to keep up, their breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. But he kept going, pushing through the burn in his legs, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes.
"Fuck this," he muttered under his breath as he pushed even harder, determined to be the first one back.
After what felt like an eternity, the coach blew the whistle again. "Alright, good hustle," he said, his voice gruff. "But that's just the warm-up."
Miguel glanced around. A few boys were already doubled over, hands on their knees, gasping for air. Weak, he thought. This is where I take the lead.
The next few drills tested everything—shooting, passing, defense. Miguel was on fire. Every shot he took seemed to swish through the net, every pass was on point, and his defense was relentless. But he knew that none of it mattered unless he could prove himself in the scrimmage. That's where the real battle would be.
When the teams were picked for the scrimmage, Miguel was placed on the second squad. The underdogs. The coach was probably testing him, seeing if he could lift a team that had no business winning. Miguel liked that. It gave him something to prove.
As the game started, it was clear the first squad was more talented. They had the height, the skills, and the experience. But Miguel had something else: hunger. Every time he got the ball, he attacked the rim with a vengeance. The first time he drove past his defender, he took a hard foul, sending him crashing to the floor. His arm stung like hell, but he didn't let it show. He got up, glaring at the guy who fouled him.
"Watch your fucking back," the guy snarled.
Miguel didn't say anything. He just smirked and walked to the free-throw line. The gym was quiet as he took the shot, and the ball arced perfectly, dropping through the net without touching the rim. A clean swish. The second shot was the same.
In the second half, the score was close. The first squad was up by three, and the coach was watching every move like a hawk. Miguel knew this was it. He had to make something happen.
With only ten seconds left on the clock, the ball was in Miguel's hands. He dribbled at the top of the key, his heart pounding like a drum. His defender was tight on him, almost daring him to make a move. Miguel looked at the clock—five seconds. He took a step back, his feet dancing on the edge of the three-point line.
"Don't fucking miss," he whispered to himself.
Three seconds left. Miguel pulled up for the shot. The gym seemed to hold its breath as the ball sailed through the air.
Swish.
The buzzer sounded, and Miguel's team had won by one. The gym erupted in cheers, but Miguel didn't hear any of it. He just stood there, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face, a small smile curling at the edges of his lips.
When the coach finally called them all together, Miguel knew he'd done enough. As the names of those who made the cut were called out, Miguel felt his heart race. Finally, the coach looked at him.
"Pinili ka," the coach said, a slight nod of approval. "You're on varsity, kid."
Miguel didn't say anything, but inside, he was screaming. He'd done it. He'd fucking done it. Now, he just had to prove he deserved to stay there.
But deep down, Miguel knew this was just the beginning. The real fight had only just started.
