Winter came to the university campus with the rustling of dry leaves and the warm steam of the
thermos flasks in your hands. Haruki walked through the corridors with a serene step, carrying his notebook
and a new notebook with blue covers. On the last page of the previous notebook he had written:
"Thank you, basketball. For giving me so much more than a game."
Now, with the new notebook, he felt like he was writing not only his story, but everyone's
those who had shared the field with him.
That month, he was assigned as coordinator of a new university activity: "Bridges of the
Game", a mentoring program between older students and adolescents in situations of
vulnerability. The goal was not to teach them to play well, but to trust. To belong. To find
a refuge in the shared rhythm of the ball.
"It doesn't matter how many points you score," he said in the first session. What matters is whether at the end of
the
They feel that someone really saw them.
The boys looked at him with a mixture of shyness and curiosity. Some already dominated the ball,
others did not even know how to tie their shoes properly. But they all shared a common need:
that someone believed in them.
Haruki went back to doing what he knew best: listening. He drew plays, but also silences.
He corrected positions, but also insecurities. And at every casual match, he made sure that
Everyone will touch the ball at least once before anyone throws.
Because being part of it was not a strategy. It was a decision.
The following weeks were filled with mutual learning. One of the young men, Takuya,
He had overflowing energy but was easily frustrated. Another, Itsuki, always stayed at the
at the back, without daring to ask for the ball. Haruki adapted his methods to each one. I knew that not everyone
they learned the same, nor did they trust in the same way.
"There is not just one way to be in the game," he repeated. Sometimes supporting from behind is the most
brave thing you can do.
Every Friday, at the end of the sessions, the children wrote on a blackboard a word that
summarize their experience: "team", "listen", "first time", "courage". Haruki took note of each
one. Then he transformed them into small stories that he shared in an internal newsletter of the
campus.
The program began to gain visibility. Professors from other faculties came to
ask how to replicate it. Some suggested taking it to primary schools, others to youth centers
of reintegration.
It was on one of those visits that he met again with Professor Kanzaki, now director of training
sports at another university. At the end of the session, the two sat down to talk.
"You're doing something bigger than you realize," Kanzaki told him. This is no longer just
basketball.
"I know," Haruki replied. But basketball is still the language.
That day, Haruki wrote in his blue notebook:
"There is no stronger inheritance than making someone feel like they belong."
As the program grew, so did its challenges. Not everyone in college
they were convinced of its impact. Some questioned why so many resources were devoted to a
"non-academic" activity. Haruki was summoned to a meeting with the board of directors.
"We are concerned about the sustainability of the project," said one of the councillors. What results
concrete can show?
Haruki took a deep breath. He did not present statistics. He brought a folder with drawings, phrases, and
testimonies
of the participants. Words like "I never felt part of it until now" or "it's the first time I've ever been part of it."
someone passes me the ball without laughing."
In the end, he added:
-If only one of these boys now believes that he deserves a place in the world, it was worth it.
There was silence. Then the campus rector, who had remained silent, took the floor.
"Go on, Mr. Nakamura. Keep building.
The news spread quickly. "Bridges of Play" became a symbol of the campus. One day
An anonymous letter even appeared stuck on the door of the gym:
"Thank you for giving us back the right to play."
That day Haruki cried. Not out of sadness, but because of the certainty that her story was no longer hers alone.
Some time later, during a day open to the public, a figure from the past crossed the door of the
gymnasium. It was Daichi.
"I heard rumors," he said. I had to see if they were true.
-And are they?
"Yes," Daichi replied, watching the boys train. You turned this court into a house.
Haruki didn't answer. He only got a ball. Like in the old days.
Over time, some of the original boys began to take on guiding roles. Takuya, the most
impulsive of the group, he volunteered as a helper. Haruki watched him teach with a
mixture of passion and clumsiness. But above all, with honesty.
"I'm not as good as Haruki-senpai," he said, "but I can help you not to give up.
That evolution moved Haruki more than any trophy.
But not everything was ideal. One afternoon, one of the new members, Ryusei, disappeared without warning.
For days he did not answer messages or return to class. Haruki was worried. Finally, he learned about
that the boy had had an emotional relapse and had been hospitalized.
The blow shook him. He wondered if he had done enough, if he had failed as a guide.
"You can't save everyone," Ami said on the phone. But you can make sure that none of them are
feel invisible.
Haruki visited Ryusei days later. He did not bring balls or notebooks. He just sat next to him.
"Did you give up?"
"No," replied Ryusei. I just got tired.
"It's all right to get tired," Haruki said. Just remember that we're still here. When you want to come back.
That match marked him. Haruki later wrote:
"Accompanying is not dragging. It's walking alongside, even when the other stops."
The program went ahead. New faces, new stories. Haruki decided it was time to
Form a small internal committee of mentors. Alumni, volunteers, even teachers
Added. "Bridges of the Game" was no longer his. It belonged to everyone.
That year, Haruki was invited to present the project at the National Congress of Education and
Sport. He accepted with humility, but also with a deep responsibility. I wouldn't talk like
coach or as an expert. I would speak like someone who had learned more by listening than
Teaching.
The auditorium was full. Parents, coaches, teachers from all over the country. Haruki took the stage
with his blue notebook in his hand and a ball signed by all the participants of the program.
"This," he said, showing her, "is not just a ball. It is an invisible network. Every pass we made connected to
someone who felt lonely. Every mistake was an opportunity to say, "You're not broken, you're
learning".
Then he showed images. Not of matches, but of hugs, talks, smiles after the
training. He ended with a sentence written on the screen:
"No one should be left out of the game because they don't know how to get in."
The ovation was long and standing.
After the conference, several educational media wrote about the project. Haruki was invited to
Advise on the design of national sports inclusion programmes. But beyond the
recognition, what moved him most was receiving a letter from Ryusei:
"I came back. I am fine. Thank you for staying close when I didn't even know where I was."
That night, Haruki walked to the university court. It was empty, lit only by a lamppost
old. He sat in the center and thought of all the names that passed by.
And then, he wrote:
"Chapter 10: When Play Teaches How to Live."
A month later, Haruki returned to his old high school. He had been invited to give a talk on
invisible leadership. As he entered the gym, the memories hit him like an echo: the bench in the background,
the sound of the ball in training, the looks of his teammates.
Many of the current students did not know him. To them, it was just a name on a poster.
But it took just a few minutes of chatting to connect. Haruki did not talk about tactics. He spoke of fear,
of belonging, of the first time someone passed the ball to him with confidence.
"You don't need to be the best to change a game," he said. You just need to see the other and make a
pass.
At the end of the event, the current team captain gave him a shirt with his old number: the
11.
-So that you never forget where your story began.
Haruki held her in his hands, with a smile that contained tears.
Days later, he officially founded the "Círculo de Juego" Network, a national program that connected
initiatives like his in other universities, neighborhoods and sports clubs. The goal was not to create
champions, but spaces of trust, listening and transformation.
In the first coordination meeting, more than thirty people from different points of view were connected
of the country. Haruki looked at them on the screen and thought, "This is not mine anymore. And that's the best
he could
pass."
That night, Ami called him.
-See?
-What?
-You are doing exactly what you dreamed of. You just didn't know what this was.
Haruki looked at his blue notebook. He closed it gently.
"You are right," he said. But there are still many pages to fill.
With the momentum of the network, stories began to emerge that Haruki never imagined. In a village
On the southern coast, a literature teacher used the philosophy of "Bridges of Play" to form a
mixed poetry and basketball workshop. In the north, a former player set up a community court where
They taught math using statistics from real matches.
One of the most active mentors, a young man named Eita, sent a video showing children
Elementary school throwing free throws while reciting phrases of confidence out loud:
-I am brave.
-I can fail.
"I deserve to be here.
Haruki watched that recording over and over again. Not because of technique, but because of emotion.
At a monthly meeting of the network, Eita shared her story.
"I was the last to be chosen in my first team," he said. I thought it would never be useful. Today, my player
quieter he taught another child to throw with his left foot. No one asked him to do it. Alone...
he did it. Because that's the game, isn't it? Give without being asked.
The silence that followed was profound. Haruki took the floor only to say:
-Yes, that's the game.
Days later, Haruki received an unexpected invitation: an international publisher wanted to translate his
first book and distribute it in training programs in Spanish-speaking sports schools in
Latin America.
He stared at the email without knowing what to answer.
"Will you?" Ami asked.
Haruki nodded.
-I will. But I want you to read it for what it is: an open letter to those looking for a place to
stay.
Weeks later, a group of trainers from different countries visited the campus to learn about the
model of the "Círculo de Juego" network. They came from Brazil, Colombia, Chile and Mexico. Haruki
organized a special day with workshops, demonstrations and exchange sessions of
Experiences.
During one of the activities, a Colombian trainer commented:
-In my neighborhood, many children drop out of school because they do not find meaning. But when they run
After the ball, they smile. That's a bridge. You built one that we want to cross as well.
Haruki felt his heart expand. He never imagined that that red notebook from his days of
institute could sow something so big.
At the end of the day, all visitors left a message on an improvised mural. One of
They wrote:
"Play is the most human language we have."
In the last week of the academic cycle, Haruki summoned all the mentors for a meeting
of closing. The founders of the program were there, the new leaders, the old players. No
There were speeches. They only shared anecdotes, hugs and promises to continue.
Before saying goodbye, Haruki took the floor:
-When all this started, I just wanted to understand why I felt good passing the ball. Today I know
which was because each pass was a way of saying: I trust you.
That night, at his desk, Haruki took out a new notebook.
Black cover. Blank page.
On the first page he wrote:
"Chapter 1: The Stories Others Will Now Told."
And he smiled.
That morning, Haruki could not sleep. He walked to the gym, where it had all started
over and over again. The place was empty, but he didn't feel alone. In every corner, I could imagine a
voice, a laugh, an instruction, a fall followed by a "it's okay".
He sat in the center of the court with the new notebook in his hand. He looked at the ceiling and closed the
eyes. For a moment, he was fifteen years old again. He felt fear, insecurity, the desire to
fit. But he also remembered the exact moment when he stopped waiting to be chosen, and
he began to choose others.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Days later, he presented a proposal to the faculty of education: a training cycle called
"Educating from play". It wasn't just for coaches, but for future teachers, psychologists,
social workers. The proposal was based on an idea: play as the basis for connection
human.
The dean approved it without hesitation.
"We need more bridges, not more borders," he said.
Thus began a new stage. Haruki was no longer running after the ball. He ran alongside those who
they wanted to find out what that ball could mean.
And whenever he saw someone help another without asking for anything in return, he would write a word on his
Notebook: "Impact".
One afternoon, while watching a new group play in silence from the stands, a boy
Came.
-Are you the one who started all this?
Haruki smiled.
-No. I only passed the first ball.
The boy nodded and returned to his family.
Haruki wrote one last line that night:
"As long as someone keeps pitching, the story continues."
The first day of the new training cycle "Educating from play" brought together more than forty
students from different careers. There were future teachers, occupational therapists, designers
of spaces, artists. Haruki greeted them with a single question written on the blackboard:
"What was the first time you felt part of something?"
One by one, they were sharing. Some spoke of parties, others of a conversation, a
laughter, an outstretched hand. Haruki didn't interrupt. He only wrote down key phrases in his notebook.
When they were all done, he said:
-That is what we are going to study here. Non-technical. Not data. But ways to create those moments
for others.
Over the next few weeks, the classroom was filled with empathy maps, analysis of matches that were not
focused on punctuation, but on invisible gestures: who helps lift a
teammate, who cheers from the bench, who makes a pass instead of shooting.
One day, a drama student remarked:
-I never thought that basketball could be so similar to the stage. Both require presence,
Listening and delivering.
Haruki nodded. The classroom had become a new field. And he, more than a teacher, was the
guide of a conversation that many had been wanting to have for a long time.
When the semester ended, the students organized an open day. It was not a
traditional exhibition. They set up stations where visitors could play, write, create,
speak. On leaving, each attendee received a small card that read:
"Thank you for playing with us."
Haruki kept it in his notebook. He closed his eyes and thought:
"This is not the end. It's the best sequel I could have imagined."
In the last days of the cycle, Haruki received an unexpected visitor. Souta and Riku had asked for
permission to stop by campus and greet you.
"We heard about everything," Riku said, giving him a slight nudge on the shoulder. We didn't know you were
going
to turn a notebook into a movement.
"Neither do I," Haruki replied, laughing.
They chatted for hours on a bench in front of the court. They remembered matches, mistakes, laughter.
Then Souta pulled out of his backpack a small, carefully wrapped package.
"This is yours," he said.
It was the original black notebook. The first. The one where Haruki had first scored the
words: "Chapter 1: The Initial Leap".
"We thought it was time to give it back to you," Souta added. You started, but now it's our turn
continue to write to us.
Haruki held it in his hands for a moment, then set it down on the bench.
"Then leave it here." Someone else will find it someday.
When they said goodbye, Haruki returned to his desk. In front of him were all his notebooks: the
red, blue, black. Different colors, but the same intention.
He took a new one, with a white lid this time. He opened the first page and wrote:
"Chapter 1: When Teaching Becomes Inheritance."
And in a low voice, as if throwing a pass, he murmured:
"Now it's your turn.
Weeks later, at an elementary school on the outskirts of the city, a curious boy was walking through the streets
of the city.
corridors while his classmates played at recess. He stopped in front of a wooden bench
forgotten in a corner of the gym.
On it rested a black-covered notebook, somewhat worn, with folded corners and a
gray elastic that kept it closed.
He took it carefully. On the first page, he read:
"Chapter 1: The Initial Leap."
He looked around. There was no one there. He sat down on the floor and began to read.
As the pages turned, his eyes widened in amazement. It was not an ordinary diary. Era
a collection of thoughts, matches, emotions, questions. And in each sentence, something said to him: "You
you can also get started."
When the bell rang, the boy did not run into the yard. He stood there, notebook in his hands. And
With a slight smile, he wrote on the last available sheet:
"Chapter 10: When Someone Else Decides to Play."
The legacy lived on. The game continued. Because as long as there is someone willing to spend the
ball, the stories don't end.
They only change hands.