BUYING A PBA FRANCHISE | WHY YOU NEED TO WIN CHAMPIONSHIPS

JOSHUA MUNZON

Everything starts out as a billionaire’s shiny new toy.

For most hoopers, playing in the PBA is the ultimate boyhood dream. In some ways, it still is. But for someone like Mikee Romero, who once suited up for the DLSU Green Archers before an ankle injury dashed his pro basketball aspirations, that dream took on a different form. Determined rich kids always have a Plan B. For Romero, that meant owning a team.

Alongside longtime collaborator Erick Arejola, Romero made waves in smaller leagues—first with the PBL’s Harbour Centre Port Masters, then with the ABL’s Philippine Patriots. When the opportunity to co-own the PBA’s Burger King Whoppers came, he pounced. And when Powerade decided to offload their franchise, Romero swooped in again, rebranding the squad into GlobalPort Batang Pier.

That team is now known as NorthPort.

At one point, NorthPort boasted a deep talent pool: Gary David, Solomon Mercado, Stanley Pringle, Japeth Aguilar, Macmac Cardona, Terrence Romeo, Christian Standhardinger, Greg Slaughter, Jamie Malonzo, Arwind Santos, and—until recently—Arvin Tolentino. Before that, Romero’s Harbour Centre team featured a who’s-who of future PBA stars: Jayson Castro, LA Tenorio, Mark Barroca, Macmac again, Mercado again, Beau Belga, Joseph Yeo, Rico Maierhofer.

So collecting talent?

That’s never been the issue.

But the PBA is a different beast.

Take Samigue Eman, for example. Drafted second overall by the San Miguel Beermen (then Magnolia Beverage Masters) in 2007, Eman once said it was his childhood dream to join such a storied team. Yet he barely played—until a trade to Alaska gave him a shot. The same has happened to countless Ginebra hopefuls: dream fulfilled, career stalled. It’s the cost of hoarding talent.

For billionaires, owning a PBA team is one thing.

Keeping it competitive is another.

Say what you want about the SMC and MVP groups, but at least they spend what it takes to stay in the hunt. With great players come greater financial demands—max salaries, chemistry issues, locker room egos, and sometimes, disinterest when other business takes over. When costs start outweighing value, it’s easy for a team to slide into irrelevance.

And ironically, this is actually one of NorthPort’s best seasons in years.

Still, one good run doesn’t erase a decade of futility. As things stand, NorthPort is back to being a farm team. And if rumors are true, this could be their final PBA season. All eyes were on Terrafirma for an impending exit, but the way NorthPort has unloaded talent mirrors the slow fade of past exits like Shell, Powerade, and Sta. Lucia.

The roster is thin. They need players. But just like Terrafirma, they’re barely fielding a full team. In fact, while Blackwater and Phoenix (also tagged as farm teams) managed to dress 16 players this season, with Blackwater even shuffling names in and out. Blackwater signed Prince Caperal, Troy Mallillin, and rookie JC Cullar this conference in place of Jewel Ponferada, Tyrus Hill, and Kib Montalbo. NorthPort and Terrafirma only played 14 apiece this conference. Kadeem Jack may have delivered for NorthPort, but reinforcements rarely come premium when a team’s on a budget.

Let’s be honest: something's off with NorthPort.

The PBA once dreamed of parity—a league where every team had a chance. And when NorthPort was winning games, it felt like that dream was alive. But as the SMC and MVP arms race resumed, all that parity vanished. It’s disheartening.

Only half of the current franchises have won a title. Let that sink in. Converge and Rain or Shine seem capable of breaking the imbalance, but it's a tall order.

If NorthPort folds, the next domino could be Calvin Abueva’s release, or someone like Joshua Munzon quietly heading overseas.

And here’s the sad truth about most farm or conduit teams: once they leave, their brand suffers. The PBA offers national visibility. But if a team leaves as a bottom-feeder, that’s the image people remember.

If NorthPort is going to call it quits, then maybe Season 50 is the time to do it. It would be poetic—if also a bit tragic. Because starting the league’s next 50 years the way it began in 1975, where only half the teams truly matter, feels like history repeating itself.