The notebook closed softly, but the echo of the last words remained floating in the
air. Haruki stood for a moment longer with his fingers resting on the lid. I didn't need to anymore
to write so much. The stories were writing themselves, on the faces, on the courts, on the
looks that no longer ran away from themselves.
The? Circle of Play? he had grown up. It was not a club, nor a movement with hierarchies. It was a network
lived of young people who spoke through basketball, with norms that changed according to what they
each group will need. Some played in absolute silence. Others mixed art with sport.
At a high school in the south, Haruki had seen a group paint their shoes with different colors to
represent the emotions they felt during the matches.
That Saturday morning, the sky was gray and the air smelled of damp earth. Haruki crossed the courtyard of the
Instituto Aoba with his backpack on his shoulder. Inside he carried only two things: a notebook almost full and a
Spent ball with chalk marks. As he walked through the empty halls of the gym, he heard the echo
of known steps. Not voices, just footsteps.
When he arrived, there were already more than twenty young people gathered. Some of them already knew
each other. Others do not. It was not
necessary. The field was in charge of leveling everything.
"Today also in silence?" asked a girl with a low ponytail, which Haruki recognized as part of the
of one of the oldest circles.
? Today, only with my hands," he replied.
He placed the ball in the center of the field. Without saying anything else, he made a simple sign: three fingers to
the
front, one to the heart, and then to heaven. It was the sign that Souta invented in one of the
harder workouts, when they couldn't talk about how exhausted they were anymore.
A boy nodded. Another took a position. Two more moved to the wings. Nobody
he asked about the rules. No one complained about the team. It was as if everyone understood that the
The important thing was not to win, but to discover something between the empty spaces of the play.
And it began.
It wasn't a match. It was something else. A kind of dance in which mistakes were not marked, only
they were absorbed. Where feints were not celebrated, but opened paths. Where to score was only
part of the process, not the objective. Haruki did not direct. I just played. Sometimes as a base. Others, such as
post. Many, as a mobile observer. The important thing was not where it was, but how it was
connected with others.
Ami arrived during the second round. He sat in a corner of the gymnasium, his notebook on his
the knees, as always. But he didn't write right away. He just watched. Beside him, a girl of
High school with large glasses whispered to him:
Is he the one who invented this?
? "He just listened enough," Ami replied without looking away. And he let the others speak.
After several sequences of play, everyone sat in a circle. No one spoke yet. The
Choppy breaths were the only sound present. Haruki walked to the center. Herself
He bent down and, with blue chalk, drew a small symbol on the wooden floor: a triangle surrounded by
of curved lines, like waves.
"What's that?" asked a boy.
? "It's the pulse," Haruki replied. What it feels like when the game is alive.
And how do we know if it beats?
? When you forget yourself.
The group nodded. No celebrations, no speeches. Only understanding.
In the afternoon, they went to the park. Some played with low hoops, adapted by their own
students. Others taught basic passes to children who could barely walk. An old man
He was watching from a bench. Haruki approached him and offered him the ball.
Did you ever play?
? "Yes," replied the man. When I wasn't afraid of falling.
Haruki smiled.
? Here no one falls alone.
That night, the group organized a round of drawings on the field with colored chalk. There was no
Winners. Only strokes. Phrases such as: ? I play because I breathe better?, ? Souta is still here?, ? To me, see
everything we don't say?, ? Haruki taught us to see without looking."
Ami came over and showed him a sheet torn from his notebook. On it he had drawn a court,
But instead of lines, there were names of people. Each point of the perimeter was marked
with a moment lived.
? "This is not a map," she told him. It is a living memory.
"And what do you do when memories hurt?" asked Haruki.
? You use them as headlights. Not to return, but to know which path you should not forget.
A week later, the Ministry of Education sent out an invitation. They wanted some
members of the Play Circle will participate in a round table on alternative pedagogy.
Haruki didn't respond instantly. It was Ami who said:
? It's not about you. It's about what started with you.
Accepted.
In Tokyo, the corridors of the Ministry building were cold and formal. But Haruki, Riku, Ami and three
More students entered dressed in T-shirts without logos, worn sneakers and notebooks full
of drawings. Instead of a formal presentation, they projected a video without words. Images only
of courts, children, hands raised, hugs after a failed pass.
When he finished, one of the evaluators — a man in a gray tie — Asked:
And how do you measure the real impact?
Haruki calmly replied:
? When someone who never spoke? He begins to raise his hand to ask for the ball.
Back in Aoba, everything seemed simpler. The field, smaller. But the voices continued
Growing.
A boy gave Haruki a drawing made with colored pencil. It was a field with wings.
?What is this?
? It's so we can take her wherever we want," the boy replied.
Haruki hugged him.
One afternoon, while sweeping the gym's baseline, Riku showed up with a box.
? "Old treasures," he said.
Inside there were photos of the first match, videos of clumsy training, the first notebook of
plays by Haruki, a bottle of water with Souta's name on it.
Haruki held the object in his hands. He said nothing.
? "Let's build something out of this," Riku said.
And they did. With the help of students, former players, and allied teachers, they created a space
Open at the district's cultural center. It was not a court. It was a classroom without walls, with a floor of
wood, portable baskets, and shelves full of playbooks. Each visitor could
Write down your experience. Some left drawings. Other poems. Some only put a brand of
chalk and they went on their way.
Did they call him ? Espacio Voces?.
One day, a journalist arrived unannounced. I wanted to write a chronicle about the phenomenon
Aoba?. Haruki attended to him. He offered her a chair, water and a ball.
"Can I record?" the reporter asked.
? "You can play," Haruki said.
? I don't play well.
? Nobody comes here to do it well. Just to do it with sense.
The journalist put down the tape recorder. And he played. Clumsily at first. But in his fourth assist,
He smiled like a child.
The next day, he posted:
? What happens in Aoba is not basketball. It is language. It is pedagogy with body. It's strategy
with soul.?
That night, Haruki went up to the rooftop with Ami. The sky was clear. In silence, they sat down
side by side. The city seemed far away, although they were in the heart of it.
"Do you think this will last?" he asked.
? "I don't know," she replied. But as long as there's someone who takes a ball and thinks about another one
before
than in itself? it will continue to beat.
Haruki closed his eyes.
? Sometimes I dream that Souta is watching from somewhere.
? "It is," Ami said.
Before leaving, Haruki took out his notebook. There were few leaves left. In one of them, he wrote:
? Chapter 20.?
And below, just one line:
"When the game becomes language, every pass is a conversation that needs no translation."
He closed the notebook.
And this time, he didn't keep it.
He left it on the ledge of the court.
For those who needed to continue it.