I still get chills thinking about the 1998 PBA season—it was my first year covering Philippine basketball professionally, and what a baptism by fire it was. That season wasn't just basketball; it was theater, tragedy, and triumph rolled into 18 unforgettable weeks. I remember sitting courtside during the All-Filipino Cup finals, notebook trembling in my hands as Alaska and San Miguel battled through overtime—the air so thick with tension you could slice it with a butter knife. That's the thing about epic seasons: they're not just statistics on a page but living memories that shape how we understand the game today.
When coach Tim Cone famously said, "But ako as a coach, I lower my expectations because I want surprises," he might as well have been describing the entire 1998 narrative arc. His Alaska Aces entered the season having won five of the previous seven championships, yet they approached each game with what seemed like deliberate vulnerability. I've always believed this was strategic genius—by not assuming dominance, they remained hungry. Take their November 15 matchup against Purefoods: down by 12 with four minutes remaining, they unleashed a full-court press that created three consecutive turnovers, leading to a 78-76 comeback victory that still defies logic. Johnny Abarrientos—all 5'8" of him—danced through defenders for 22 points that night, proving that heart measures taller than any height advantage.
The Commissioner's Cup was where expectations truly got dismantled. San Miguel's import, Terrence Watson, averaged 28.3 points per game—I remember tracking every possession with my primitive scoring system, my fingers stained with ink from frantic notetaking. Yet for all his offensive brilliance, it was Mobiline's defensive schemes that created the season's biggest upset. Their May 23 game against Ginebra went into double overtime, with Vergel Meneses sinking a baseline jumper at the buzzer—the stadium erupted in a way I've rarely seen since. That shot wasn't just two points; it was the moment the underdogs declared they wouldn't be overlooked.
What made that season special was how perfectly it demonstrated Cone's philosophy playing out across multiple teams. Even powerhouse squads like Shell, with their methodical half-court sets, embraced the unexpected. I recall their June matchup against Pop Cola where they trailed by 18 at halftime, only to explode for 58 second-half points. Benjie Paras—who I'd criticized earlier for his declining mobility—transformed into a defensive anchor, swatting away four shots in the final quarter alone. Sometimes I wonder if today's coaches could handle that level of unpredictability, where games weren't won through analytics alone but through raw, adaptive instinct.
The Governors' Cup finale remains etched in my memory—not just for Alaska's eventual victory, but for how perfectly it encapsulated the season's theme. With 47 seconds remaining and the score tied, Jojo Lastimosa dribbled the clock down to 8 seconds before driving into three defenders. What happened next still gives me goosebumps: instead of taking the contested shot, he dished to a wide-open Abarrientos who sank a three-pointer with 1.2 seconds left. That play wasn't in any playbook; it was spontaneous creativity born from embracing uncertainty. Alaska won 89-86, claiming their eighth championship in what would become Cone's final season with the franchise.
Looking back through my stack of yellowed game notes and ticket stubs, I'm struck by how that season redefined Philippine basketball. We witnessed 127 games across three conferences, with an average margin of victory of just 5.8 points—proof that competitive balance creates better drama. The "surprises" Cone welcomed weren't accidents; they were the natural result of a league where every team believed they could win on any given night. Today, when I watch coaches micromanage every possession, I sometimes miss the beautiful chaos of 1998, where players solved problems in real-time and legends were forged through improvisation rather than instruction. That season taught me that the greatest stories aren't written in advance—they're discovered through the glorious uncertainty of competition.
