The university was different. Bigger, louder, more unpredictable. But for Haruki, the
essence remained the same: observe, listen, connect.
During his first weeks in the faculty of education, he stood out not because he was the brightest, but also
because he was the most brilliant.
but for being the most attentive. He was the first to arrive and the last to leave. He took notes not only of the
contents, but also of the dynamics, of how the teachers treated the students, of what
aroused curiosity and what dampened interest.
In his spare time, he trained with the university team. Not as a starting point guard, but as an assistant
in internships, helping to design strategies. His experience as a high school player, his
analytical skills and his humility made him valuable.
One day, one of the coaches called him into his office.
"Nakamura," he said, looking at his file. Have you ever thought about being a coach in time
complete?
Haruki hesitated for a moment.
"I thought of teaching," he answered. But I never saw myself in such a direct role.
"Well, adjust your vision," said the coach, smiling. Because you have something that is not taught:
empathy.
That praise remained in his head for days.
In one of his practical classes, Haruki was to prepare a training plan for a fictitious group
of students with different abilities. He designed a model based on three pillars: rhythm, vision
and trust. When he presented his work, the entire class fell silent.
The professor broke the stillness with applause.
-This is not just basketball. This is emotional pedagogy.
Haruki sat down, more convinced than ever that he was in the right place.
And as the sun was beating down on campus, he thought:
"It doesn't matter if I'm on the pitch or on the sidelines. As long as I continue to believe in the game, I will
continue to
playing."
Little by little, Haruki earned a place in the university community. He was not one of those who
They spoke loudly or sat in the center, but their presence was constant. Some of them
They began to call them "the teacher without a blackboard", because his teachings were born from an old
notebook, from
a conversation over lunch or an observation on the edge of the court.
One day, the varsity team was visited by a group of invited high school students
for the scholarship program. Among them, Haruki recognized two familiar faces: Junpei and Sora,
now leaders in their respective school teams. They greeted each other with emotion.
"You here?" Junpei asked. I thought you had become a writer.
"I still am," Haruki said, smiling. But now I write with more than words.
During the visit, the university students organized a series of workshops and open trainings.
Haruki was in charge of guiding a session on reading the game.
Instead of shouting directions, he proposed a simple exercise: a game without the ball. Just moves,
looks, rhythm.
-What is the point of this? asked a student, confused.
"The game doesn't start when the ball is thrown," Haruki replied. It begins when one of you
decides to move.
As the minutes passed, the students began to understand. They moved more
attentive, they synchronized. In the end, when they introduced the real ball, the passes flowed as if
They would have rehearsed for weeks.
Sora approached him afterward.
"You keep showing things that you can't see," he said.
"And you still see them," Haruki answered.
That night, Haruki wrote in his notebook:
"Chapter 8.5: When Teaching Is Just Another Way to Keep Playing."
As the semester went by, Haruki became a key figure in college training. To
despite not being in the starting lineup, his analysis prior to matches and his ability to
detecting rival weaknesses earned him the respect of players and coaches.
One day, Kanzaki approached him with a proposal.
"I'm designing a training program for young bases," he said. But I want you to
Develop.
Haruki blinked, surprised.
-I?
-Yes. Because you not only know what is being done, but why it is being done.
They worked together for weeks. They designed sessions focused on the reading of spaces, on the
decision-making under pressure and in the emotional connection with teammates.
In parallel, Haruki was assigned as a tutor to a group of students who were presenting
difficulties of integration in the faculty. They were not good sportsmen, nor particularly sociable.
Some came from difficult backgrounds. But Haruki was not looking for performance: he was looking for
humanity.
"I want everyone to find their own way of playing," he told them at their first meeting. It doesn't matter if
they run, think or listen. Here, everyone can be a part of the game.
They created a group called "The Invisible Board". A space where they talked about emotions, fears,
dreams, life strategies. They used basketball as an excuse to talk about what was really
Matter.
The university, noticing the impact, integrated the project as part of its inclusion program.
Haruki was invited to give a talk at the campus emotional education forum.
"Sometimes a screening says more than a sentence," he concluded in front of a packed auditorium. Because it
connects.
And when we connect, we understand that we are not alone.
That night, Kanzaki told him:
-Haruki... What you're doing isn't basketball.
-No?
-It is transformation.
One spring morning, while reviewing reports in the campus library, Haruki received
a message from Souta:
"We are in the city. Riku, Ami and I. Do you have time for a dinner?"
It didn't take long for him to answer yes.
That night, they met again at a small family restaurant near the university. The laughs
They were instantaneous. Riku continued with his inexhaustible energy. Ami had a more professional air, with
glasses and a tablet full of statistics. Souta, calm as always, spoke little but
I listened with my whole body.
"We knew we'd see you shine," Riku said. But this is another league.
"I'm just moving," Haruki replied.
"Yes, but now you make the others move too," Ami added.
During the conversation, Ami slipped a folder on the table.
-It is a proposal from a publishing house. A friend read your old manuscript and wants to know if you'd be
willing to write something longer.
Haruki opened the folder. Inside, a presentation sheet entitled: "Beyond the Triple - Chronicles of
a point guard who learned to see."
He was silent for several seconds.
-Do you really want to publish this?
"Yes," said Ami. And they want you to finish it. Your way.
The next day, he returned to his room and retrieved all his notebooks. He read pages that had been
forgotten. Naïve words. Clumsy diagrams. Personal confessions. But everything was still alive.
Each line was one more move.
That weekend, he decided to start writing in earnest. Not as a student. Not as a coach.
But as someone who had lived a story that deserved to be told.
And when he opened a new blank document, he titled the file without hesitation:
"Beyond the backboard - how basketball taught me to teach."
Because he understood that the game was never just about the ball.
It was always about the people who went through it.
The following weeks were intense. Between classes, trainings and tutorials, Haruki dedicated
the nights to write. Not only did he relive his key moments, he also explored the human side of
every story: the fear of failing, the joy of sharing a victory, the silent frustration of
feeling invisible.
His old notebooks became a source of inspiration. He marked them with notes, he stressed
phrases that I had written without knowing how much they would mean years later.
-Do you realize that this could change the way sport is taught? -he commented
Kanzaki a night on campus.
"I don't want to change the sport," Haruki replied. I just want more people to find in it
a way of discovering oneself.
One day, he received an email from the National University of Teacher Training. They invited him to give a
presentation at the National Congress of Education and Play. The suggested title: "The invisible board:
how to teach beyond the scoreboard".
Haruki was slow to respond. Doubted. Not because of stage fright, but because of the magnitude of what is at
stake.
expected from him. It was Ami who convinced him.
-You don't have to impress anyone. Only what you lived through counts. That's more valuable than any
theory.
Accepted.
On the day of the presentation, the auditorium was packed. Teachers from all over the country, pedagogues,
coaches, students. Haruki spoke calmly. He shared anecdotes. He showed schemes. Read
fragments of his manuscript. He even projected images of his former colleagues.
At the end, he closed with a sentence:
-Being part of a team is not just about running, passing or defending. It is to remember that behind each
number, there's a story. And that every story deserves to be heard.
The ovation was long. Genuine.
And that night, when he returned home, Haruki wrote in his red notebook:
"Thank you, basketball. For giving me so much more than a game."
A month after his presentation, Haruki received hundreds of messages from teachers, students, and students.
Coaches. Some told him how they had modified their classes after hearing his story.
Others, how they were encouraged to return to the fields or start community projects.
His book, still unpublished, began to circulate in digital version among teacher networks and libraries
University. The publisher decided to speed up the publication process. The first edition, of 500
copies, sold out in less than a week.
One rainy afternoon, he received an invitation from his old high school. They wanted me to come back to give a
Talk to the new students of the basketball club. Haruki did not hesitate.
Returning to the gym was like returning to a place frozen in time. The same echo under the
steps. The same wooden stands. But something new floated in the air: respect.
The players looked at him with curiosity and admiration. Haruki did not talk about victories or trophies. Spoke
of mistakes, of friendships, of growing up without knowing it. He showed them his notebook. He read fragments.
Later
He let them ask.
A boy raised his hand.
-How do you not be afraid?
Haruki smiled.
-It is not done. You learn to play with it.
Afterward, he walked to his old spot in the back row of the bank. He sat down, took a deep breath and
Observed.
There, where it all began, he understood that he had come full circle.
And at the same time, he had opened another.
Because the game continued.
And as long as there are people willing to listen, teach, run or simply be... The Board
it never stops.
The official presentation of the book was held in a small bookstore in the center. The event was
modest, but full of emotions. Haruki didn't want a grandiloquent act. Only one space
where he could share what he had written with those who helped him live it.
The place filled up quickly. In the front row were Souta, Riku and Ami. Also in attendance
high school teachers, young coaches, even old rivals such as Kanzaki, Aoyama and
Ichiro.
When he stepped onto the makeshift dais, Haruki looked at everyone and held the first specimen between the
hands.
"This book is not mine alone," he said. He is one of all those who passed the ball when it was difficult, of those
who
they fell and got up. One of those who taught me to look beyond the play.
Then, he began to read a passage.
"When I was fourteen, I thought basketball was a sport. Today, I know it's a way to
to listen, to heal, to connect. A court can be a refuge. A pass, a promise. One
party, a story of those who do not give up."
The words hung in the air like an echo.
After the event, many came to greet him, to ask for signatures, to share anecdotes.
But the most special thing came at the end, when a boy of about twelve approached him shyly.
-Did you write this? he asked, pointing to the cover.
-Yes.
-And you were also one of those who didn't fit in?
"We all fit in," Haruki replied. We just need to find the right court.
The boy went away hugging the book.
That night, Haruki walked through the already dark streets, the number one copy in his backpack, and a
New notebook in your pocket.
He came home, turned on the light, and wrote:
"Chapter 9: When the story continues in others."
And then, he knew there was no end.
Just a new beginning.