When I watched the 2026 PVL Draft, I felt something I had never felt before.
For the first time, I looked at the list of hopefuls and thought: we may have finally reached saturation.
There were too many players now.
Too many dreams.
Too many talented athletes competing for too few opportunities.
What struck me even more was where most of the selections came from. The familiar names were there—UAAP and NCAA standouts. But beyond those systems, the door seemed much harder to enter. Players from other schools, alternative pathways, and even those from abroad did not seem to break through in the same way.
And maybe that was why the draft stayed with me.
Because I still remember when Philippine volleyball had the opposite problem.
I remember when there were not enough teams.
Not enough platforms.
Not enough places for graduating players to go.
My own life as a volleyball fan began almost by accident, inside a taxi. I heard radio DJs praising Charo Soriano and the Ateneo Lady Eagles because Ateneo had finally reached the Final Four. I was stunned.
I was an Atenean.
How did I not know this?
The regret deepened when I later found out that some games had been played at the Blue Eagle Gym, so close to where I used to live on campus. The sport that would later become part of my life had been right beside me all along.
I had simply discovered it late.
So I watched, first because of Charo, then because of Ateneo, and eventually because volleyball itself had quietly taken hold of me.
Back then, following the sport required effort. Shakey’s V-League was shown on NBN. There was no YouTube, no social media, no instant replay of everything you missed. If the game aired in the afternoon while you had work, you missed it. When I was on leave, I made sure I was in front of the television.
For a while, it felt like I was appreciating volleyball alone.
Through badminton, that loneliness slowly changed.
I began meeting people who knew the same names, followed the same teams, and understood why this sport mattered to me. They were the ones who brought me closer to the volleyball I had only been chasing through television schedules and rare broadcasts.
The first time I watched live, the distance disappeared.
The players were no longer figures on a screen. They were there, moving, calling, breathing, making the sport feel more immediate than I had ever imagined. I remember looking at them with the kind of amazement only a fan understands.
But even then, volleyball was still small.
San Juan Arena did not always feel like a grand stage. On ordinary days, there were only a few of us watching, scattered across a venue that only truly filled during championships. There was something intimate about it. The sport had not yet become a national spectacle. It still felt like a secret shared by people who had found it early enough to love it quietly.
That smallness was not only in the crowd. It was in the structure of the game itself.
Shakey’s V-League was still finding its shape. Some tournaments had schools. Others had clubs. Sometimes military teams and foreign guests had to share the same competitive space because the ecosystem was not yet large enough to separate everything cleanly. The formats could feel uneven, even improvised, but that was the reality of a sport still trying to build enough teams, enough pathways, and enough reasons to keep going.
Back then, Philippine Army often felt like the standard. Air Force, Coast Guard, and PNP were also part of that world. Strong graduates had limited destinations, and many of them ended up in those systems. Those who did not were often forced to return to regular work, playing volleyball only when invited, only when a tournament needed them, only when life allowed it.
I remember watching student-athletes face established club teams and seeing the gap immediately. The schools had promise, spirit, and talent, but the clubs had maturity and experience. Sometimes the imbalance was softened by guest players or imports. Sometimes it was simply there, visible in every rally.
There was even one tournament that stayed with me because of how small the field was. A Vietnamese team with Russian imports. Another foreign squad. Philippine Army. Ateneo.
Four teams.
That was all.
Looking back, it almost feels impossible to reconcile that version of volleyball with the PVL we see now. There was a time when the sport struggled to gather enough teams. There was a time when Ateneo, and other schools, could feel like they were being pulled in just to complete a tournament. There was a time when the pathway after college looked narrow, temporary, and uncertain.
That was why, even then, I had a prediction.
Not exactly a wish. A prediction.
I thought Philippine volleyball would eventually grow. More clubs would come. More opportunities would open. Players would no longer have to stop after college or treat volleyball as something they squeezed between work and real life.
And eventually, that prediction came true.
The Ateneo-La Salle rivalry exploded. Alyssa Valdez became a phenomenon. The crowds grew, the venues became bigger, the sponsors arrived, and the PVL became professional. Suddenly, the sport that once felt hidden became visible everywhere.
At first, the expansion felt generous.
Clubs kept recruiting because rosters had to be built. Players who were not household names still found opportunities. If one team did not renew a contract, another team might still have space. The system was young enough, hungry enough, and open enough to make almost every player believe there was still a door somewhere.
But growth eventually changes its own rules.
By 2025, I began seeing the shift. Teams were no longer merely building. They were already evaluating. The question was no longer simply who could be added, but who deserved to remain. Contracts became less automatic. Roster spots became more precious. The league had entered a phase where talent alone was no longer enough; contribution had to be visible.
Then came the 2026 draft, and the reality became impossible to ignore.
The sport had become successful enough to create a new problem.
Too many qualified players.
Too few openings.
Even the math explains it. If one uses a very conservative salary assumption of ₱25,000 per player per month, a 20-player roster already costs ₱500,000 monthly in player salaries alone. A 25-player roster costs ₱625,000.
That does not yet include coaches, assistant coaches, trainers, physical therapists, food, travel, equipment, facilities, and operations. It also does not reflect the reality that some players are reportedly earning much more.
At some point, every club reaches a limit. Not because talent disappears, but because budgets, rosters, and careers cannot expand endlessly.
That is why the 2026 draft felt different to me. It felt like looking at a league that had finally matured into selectiveness. The question was no longer how many players could be welcomed into the system. The harder question was how few spots were actually available.
For future draft classes, that question may become even more painful. How does a rookie enter a team that is already full? How does a new player break through when established athletes are still contributing? How many clubs can keep expanding when not everyone retires at the same time?
This is why I think volleyball careers may become shorter in the coming years. As the level of play rises and the talent pool grows, a player still having a stable club career at 30 or 35 may become fortunate rather than ordinary.
That realization has also changed how I look at athlete salaries. A corporate employee can build a career across decades. An athlete cannot assume the same timeline. Volleyball does not pay for a lifetime. It pays for a prime.
So when players earn well, I understand it more now. They are not only earning for the current season. They are earning for the life that comes after the applause, after the knees start hurting, after the younger players arrive, after the club decides it is time to move on.
Maybe this is also why some athletes look abroad. Maybe this is why other leagues become attractive. Maybe this is simply what happens when a sport matures: the dream grows, the competition sharpens, and the system becomes less forgiving.
Still, I cannot look at Philippine volleyball with bitterness.
I saw it when it was small. I saw it when watching required patience. I saw it when the crowds were thin, the broadcasts were limited, and the league still felt like it was trying to hold itself together.
And my most unforgettable memory will always be Charo Soriano offering me and a friend a ride after an Ateneo game. We were still commuting then. We had no cars and not much money. Inside the vehicle were other Ateneo players too.
I remember sitting there quietly, trying to act normal and failing completely.
Because the player I first heard about inside a taxi—the one who unknowingly pulled me into volleyball—was suddenly right there in front of me.
At that moment, I was not thinking about drafts, salaries, roster limits, or the future of the PVL.
I was simply a fan.
And maybe that is why the 2026 draft affected me the way it did.
It reminded me of the entire journey.
From a sport that once had too few teams to a league that may now have too many players.
From small crowds to crowded dreams.
From missed games at Blue Eagle Gym to professional careers that now feel both possible and fragile.
Whatever happens next, I will always be grateful that I witnessed Philippine volleyball grow.
The prediction came true.
But so did the price of that growth.
#PhilippineVolleyball #PVL #PVLDraft2026 #ShakeysVLeague #PremierVolleyballLeague #PSL #AlyssaValdez #CharoSoriano #AteneoLadyEagles #UAAPVolleyball #VolleyballPH #TheMarkExperience
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