Alright. Deep breath.
This is it.
One sleep left. One game left. One final swing of the season to decide the ruler of the La Salle-UP trilogy.
Season 88 has boiled itself down to a single, nerve-rattling 40-minute truth serum.
Had a little pixie dust landed on that Vhoris shot, we’d already be planning the parade routes and arguing about where the celebration dinner should be. Instead, basketball did what it always does—it withheld mercy.
So here we are.
Final game.
Winner takes the season.
And honestly? The fact that we’re here still says everything about this team.
Let’s start with the uncomfortable stuff—because it makes the rest of the story louder.
La Salle shot 32% from the field.
A stomach-churning 17.4% from three.
Coughed up the ball 15 times.
And somehow finished the night with just 7 assists as a team.
That is the statistical profile of a blowout loss. A “pack-it-up-by-halftime” kind of night.
So why did UP still need a Gerry Abadiano masterclass in the fourth quarter to survive?
Why did it take an Abadiano–Remogat barrage to finally pry the game away?
Why did this thing crawl all the way down to the final possession?
Because the Green Archers refused to disappear.
This team played with a pulse. With teeth. With an edge that doesn’t show up in shooting charts.
Defense first. La Salle strangled UP into 38% shooting for the entire evening. Every catch was crowded. Every drive was contested. Nothing came easy.
Rebounding next. A commanding 50–41 advantage, including 22 offensive boards—pure, gritty, second-effort basketball. Missed shots turned into opportunities. Opportunities turned into belief.
And even with the turnover gap (15 to 10), UP couldn’t feast. La Salle still won points off turnovers, 11–9, because effort travels faster than mistakes.
This wasn’t pretty basketball.
This was honest basketball.
That was Green Archers basketball
And the beauty of it? No one in green even went nuclear.
Jacob Cortez led with 15.
Luis Pablo chipped in 12.
Everyone else stayed in single digits.
Vhoris Marasigan—8.
Earl Abadam—4.
Doy Dungo—2, a quiet night after lighting up Game One.
No hero ball. No scoring avalanche. Just survival.
Which brings us to the only thing that matters now.
Game Three.
Finals deciders have their own gravity, their own rules, their own chaos.
Expect the whistles to be tight early—handsy defense gets punished, fouls stack up fast. Then, like clockwork, the game opens up late. Officials step back. The players step forward.
Mid-game runs will matter.
Somewhere in the third or early fourth, a 7–0 or 9–2 burst will crack the door open. La Salle has to be the team pushing—not chasing—that moment.
And then comes the madness.
Fourth quarter basketball in a finals decider is never clean.
Shots rim out. Layups get rushed. Even wide-open looks feel like they’re being taken underwater.
This is takeover territory—but not from deep.
Late-game heroes don’t usually rise on threes. They slither into the paint. They hunt mismatches. They absorb contact. They force whistles. High-percentage twos. Grown-man buckets.
Expect a rock fight. Expect clunky possessions. Expect scoring to come in short, violent bursts. Four straight points might feel like eight.
And through all of it, one thing cannot—and will not—change.
Effort. Heart. Hustle.
Those are non-negotiable.
Those are what dragged La Salle to the brink despite everything going wrong.
Now all that’s left is this:
One major scoring streak from one familiar face.
Lock the screws tighter on defense.
Win the margins again.
One game.
One season.
One last stand.
ANIMO LA SALLE!
BEAT UP!!!
