“Kay Papa Ako Natuto.” How a Father’s Terrible Gameplay Sparked Lalush’s Esports Dream
Before he was Lalush—the quiet killer in the jungle for MDL Philippines’ Aurora Hunters—he was just Derick, a kid locked away in his room in Tondo, binging anime and pirating games on a sluggish PC.
“Taong bahay lang po ako noon,” he tells me with a shrug. “Lagi po akong nakakulong sa kwarto.”
(“I was a homebody. I always kept to myself in my room.”)
There’s something endearing about how he says it—like he’s admitting to a crime, but with no regrets. His IGN, he says, comes from Code Geass. “Romance lang ‘di ko masyado pinapanood.” (“I don’t like romance, I don’t watch them.”)
Everything else? He devoured it. A recluse with a taste for action and drama, Lalush unknowingly foreshadowed the kind of life he’d lead years later—strategic, intense, a little bit lonely.
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Before he became “Lalush,” he had no clear path and no real plan. But what he did have was a Papa who handed him his first ticket into a new world.
And that ticket? A hand-me-down phone loaded with Mobile Legends.
“Papa ko po talaga naghikayat sa akin maglaro ng MLBB,” he tells me, not with the cocky bravado you’d expect from a pro, but like a kid recounting a memory he holds close. “Noong bawal po akong lumabas, doon po niya ako pinapalaro sa phone niya.”
(“Papa taught me how to play MLBB. When I was not allowed to play outside, that’s when he lent me his phone so I could play.”)
During weekdays, would visit his Papa, and it was there—between meals and chuckles over bad plays—that his future was quietly forming.
They bonded not through deep talks or shared struggles, but through kills, lanes, and the art of trash talk.
“Palagi ko siyang inaasar kapag nagsa-Sun siya,” Lalush laughs, eyes lighting up. “Kukunin ko ’yung buff niya o iiwanan ko siya sa lane. Tapos ’pag marami siyang deaths, tatawanan ko siya.”
(“I would always tease him every time he played using Sun. I would steal his buffs and leave him alone in his lanes. And when he gets a lot of deaths, I would laugh at him.”)
It wasn’t just banter. It was a ritual. MLBB wasn’t just a game—it became their language, their love letter to each other.
The One-Trick Hero and His Protégé
His Papa wasn’t a top-tier player. He was a one-trick pony with 1,000 matches on Sun and a barely surviving 50% win rate. But to Derick, that account was gold. It was his start.
“Yung account na ginamit ko sa scrims, galing sa Papa ko,” (“The first account I used to play scrims was from Papa.”) he said. Eventually, he had to swap it out—poor stats are a red flag in the competitive scene—but that first grind, that push to learn and improve, all started with his Papa’s gameplay.
And while other players credit coaches or idols for their journey, Lalush credits his old man, who played Sun on every lane whether it worked or not, who let him play when no one else did.
From Bonding to Becoming
Their late-night duos evolved into solo dreams. It wasn’t long before Derick’s talents caught the eye of a classmate-turned-teammate—Manila Boy, now his tank at Aurora Hunters. The discovery was classic Pinoy small-world magic: “May magaling daw sa kabilang classroom.” Turns out, it was Lalush.
From there, ranked games turned into scrims. Scrims turned into invites. And soon, a boy who once got scolded for sneaking into computer shops was playing under the lights of MDL.
His Papa’s reaction?
“Go lang,” he told his son. “Kung gusto mo talaga, ituloy mo lang.”
(“Just go. If that’s what you truly want, then pursue it.”)
It wasn’t a grand speech. No cinematic father-son moment. Just quiet permission—the kind that carries more weight than a thousand cheers.
Why It Still Matters
Now in the pro scene, Lalush has seen the worst of it: scrim streaks filled with losses, long nights of doubt, the pressure to perform. But what keeps him grounded is a simple lesson he picked up not from esports—but from those early days sitting beside his Papa.
“Kung wala nang naniniwala sa ’yo, hangga’t naniniwala ka sa sarili mo, ituloy mo lang.”
(“Even if no one believes in you anymore, as long as you believe in yourself, just keep going.”)
And maybe, just maybe, it’s not that no one believed in him.
Because from the very beginning, there was always one—one who gave him a phone, a shot, a start.
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