The cycle had closed, but something new was beginning to germinate. Haruki knew it every time he
someone called him "teacher", not out of obligation, but with affection. Every conversation, every question,
Every doubt shared was a sign that their story was no longer an exception: it was part of something
bigger.
That semester, the Círculo de Juego network expanded to five new countries. The meetings
virtual ones no longer fit on a single screen, and the stories shared were as diverse as
Moving. Some used the method in juvenile prisons, others in family shelters
displaced, and some more adapted it to rural contexts with improvised courts and blackboards
made of cardboard.
Haruki couldn't be everywhere, but he felt like he was everywhere.
One night, while organizing his desk, he found a box with antique objects: the whistle of
his first match, a tape with his name written on it, a letter from Ami with corrections on it.
red in his first texts. Smiled. He took each object as if they were roots. And then he looked up at the
open window. The spring wind stirred the pages of the white notebook.
"There is still so much to do," he murmured.
And he sat down to write.
That semester, new students interested in the course "Educating
from the game." Haruki noticed something special about this generation: they brought different questions. Not
only
they wanted to learn to teach, but to transform.
A young woman named Kaori asked him after class:
-Do you think that play can change a culture?
Haruki was silent for a few seconds.
-I don't just think so. I've seen it.
Kaori became one of the most active voices in the group. He came from a rural community
where recess was almost the only free space for children. Inspired by the stories of the course,
He decided to bring the methodology to his village during the holidays.
When he returned, he shared a video where children of different ages were seen playing with a rope,
a box broken like a hoop, and invented rules that everyone respected.
"They didn't know what they were doing," Kaori said. But they played with dignity. As if the
world depended on that moment.
Haruki felt a lump in his throat.
"That's the game," he answered. A space where for an instant everything is possible.
That night he wrote:
"Chapter 10.5: When the Game Has No Name, But It Has Truth."
As the weeks passed, Haruki noticed that his schedule filled up faster than he had
I could hold. Talks, emails, interviews, proposals. The recognition brought with it a rhythm
that was beginning to weigh.
One afternoon, while explaining an activity in class, he stopped in his tracks. He forgot the word that
Sought. Not because of nerves, but because of exhaustion.
Ami, who had returned to campus as a pedagogical advisor for the program, noticed. He waited for him outside
of the classroom.
"You need to slow down," he said.
"I can't now. Everything is growing.
-Precisely for that reason. If you fall, this doesn't hold.
Haruki didn't argue. That night, he canceled the meetings for the next few days and went alone to the coast.
He rented a small cabin in front of the sea, without internet, without schedules. He walked on the beach, he
wrote
without pressure, he took long naps.
There, he understood that the legacy was not sustained by his individual effort, but by the network they had
knitted together.
In his white notebook he wrote:
"I don't have to be everywhere. Just make sure the fire is still burning."
He returned with a different attitude. He delegated functions, trusted his mentors, and allowed himself to enjoy
himself again
of silence.
And then, new ideas emerged again.
Upon returning, Haruki found a proposal on his desk: a multinational organization
he wanted to fund a massive program based on Círculo de Juego. The proposal included funds,
global dissemination and human resources, but also strict conditions: editorial control over
contents, standardized assessments, and a vertical structure.
For days, Haruki analyzed the documents, debated with his colleagues, asked for opinions. Had
enthusiasm, but also discomfort. How far was it possible to climb without losing one's soul?
He called an open meeting with all the mentors of the network. They sat in a circle, without
Hierarchies.
"We can grow a lot," he said. But if that means someone stops feeling seen on the court,
it's not worth it.
Kaori raised her voice.
-If the game ceases to be free, it ceases to be a game.
There was a silence. Then they all nodded.
That night, Haruki drafted a letter respectfully but firmly. He thanked the opportunity and
He rejected the offer.
Days later, Ami congratulated him.
"You would have regretted it if you accepted.
"I know," Haruki replied. Sometimes, saying no is what teaches the most.
With the project intact, they began working on a new collaborative platform. The idea was
Simple: share resources, stories, and exercises without hierarchies, in a horizontal space. The
called "The Wall of Passes".
The first contributions came from small communities: a dynamic created by children in
a favela in São Paulo, a song written by a Mapuche coach, a choreography by
Sign Language warm-up.
Haruki couldn't believe it. What had started with a timid pass in a school gym now
it was a language shared by hundreds.
That night he wrote:
"The game does not belong to us. We belong to him."
In spring they organized the first face-to-face workshop of the "Muro de Passes". People from
all over the country, even from abroad. There were no formal presentations. Each one carried something for
Offer: a technique, a story, a team dynamic, a song.
On the second day, Haruki heard a familiar voice:
-Do you still use notebooks?
He turned around. It was Itsuki, one of the first young people in the "Bridges of Play" program. Now it was
adult, tall, with a serene expression. He carried a blue notebook under his arm.
"Ever since you taught me," said Itsuki, "I began to write. And to teach.
They spent the afternoon sharing stories. Haruki listened, surprised, as Itsuki had replied
The methodology in a youth institution in his city. Now he guided others who, like him, some
felt invisible.
"You helped me to see me," he said. I want to do that for others.
Silently, Haruki opened his white notebook and wrote, "Chapter 10.6: When Those Who Learned
they teach without asking permission."
That night, as a gentle rain fell, Haruki returned to the gym where everything had been
Begun. He sat on the usual bench. In front of him, the empty court seemed as full as
never.
He took out his notebook and drew a straight line, without end. Below he wrote:
"The pass continues."
In the months that followed, the "Pass Wall" grew like a river that forks and adapts. No
All paths were the same, but they all flowed with the same purpose: to include, to listen, to play.
Some mentors began using the platform to translate materials into languages
Indigenous. Others integrated play into psychological therapies, pediatric hospitals, and even
family sessions. The community expanded beyond sports.
Haruki received an invitation to speak at an international meeting on social peace and
education. He accepted on the condition that he did not present figures, only stories.
In front of the audience, he said:
-The courts I saw were not perfect. Some didn't even have lines. But they all had a
One thing in common: the intention to connect. And that is enough.
When he finished, a young man approached him. He was from another country, but I knew his work.
-I don't want to be a coach. But I want to create spaces like yours.
"Then you are," Haruki replied.
Back home, he reorganized his notebooks. On a new one, with a green cover, he wrote a question:
"What would happen if every child learned from play to trust themselves and others?"
Underneath, without thinking, he wrote the title of what could be his next book:
"The roots of the pass."
With the project already consolidated, Haruki was invited to receive an honorary recognition for his
educational and transformative work. The ceremony was to be held at his former university, in the
the same auditorium where years ago he gave his first talk on "The Invisible Board".
That day, he did not bring a speech. He took the stage with his notebooks in a cloth bag and a
ball in hand. The audience expected solemn words, but he only said:
-I don't come to teach anything new. Just to remember that we all deserve to play.
And then, he came down from the stage, threw the ball into the audience, and let the people participate in a
Spontaneous passing game. Laughter, stumbling, gestures, looks. Everything went back to its origin: movement,
connection, trust.
In the end, when everyone caught their breath, Haruki held the ball and added:
"That's all. That is enough.
He returned to campus with a serene peace. His role had changed. He was no longer the player, not even the
trainer. It was part of the air that sustained the movement.
One morning, he stopped in front of a mural where students had painted a phrase of his:
"Passing the ball is also believing in the other."
He smiled, touched the paint with his fingertips, and left.
Days later, Kaori looked for him after class.
-Teacher, I'm about to finish my degree. I was offered a position in a rural school, with few
resources but a lot of desire.
"And what does your notebook say?"
-That it is the place.
Haruki gave him one of his old notebooks. Not with instructions, but with empty spaces.
"Make it yours," he said. And never stop passing the ball.
Kaori hugged the notebook like someone who receives an inheritance.
That same week, Itsuki announced that he would start a mentoring program with former
players of the juvenile prison system. Riku sent videos of a court from abroad
built with the help of migrants. Souta opened an emotional training center for
adolescents.
Haruki no longer directed anything. But everything was still ongoing. Bigger. Freer.
One night, while reviewing notes, he found the first sentence he ever wrote:
"Chapter 1: The Initial Leap."
And next to it, almost without realizing it, he wrote:
"Chapter 0: Trust as a starting point."
He didn't need any more finals. Because every story that emerged, every voice that dared to teach, was
a new page.
The game was not over.
He just kept going.
The year closed with a special meeting organized by the new leaders of the network. They
They prepared everything: from logistics to activities. Haruki was invited, not as a speaker, but as a speaker.
as a witness.
He sat at the back of the auditorium. From there he saw Kaori lead a workshop on trust, Itsuki
share how to use the pause as a pedagogical tool, to dozens of young people quoting phrases
that he had written some time ago. But now they sounded different. They were his.
One of the younger mentors, in the middle of his presentation, said:
-This network has no owner. It has roots, and those roots are alive.
At the end of the event, they presented a symbolic recognition to Haruki: a ball painted by children
from all participating regions. Each color represented a value: respect, courage, joy,
listen to me.
Haruki held her in his hands as if he were holding a world.
That night, he returned home, lit a candle, and opened his last notebook. Golden cover. Paper
thick. Untitled.
He wrote a single sentence:
"That there is always someone willing to come in."
And he closed the notebook gently.
The silence that followed was not an end.
It was a pause.
And like any good pass... someone, somewhere, would pick it up.
Some time later, a new student, with a curious look and a calm walk, approached Haruki at the
end of a class.
-Teacher, did you write all those notebooks?
Haruki smiled.
-Some do. Others wrote themselves.
-And how do you start one?
Haruki thought for a moment. Then she took out a blank sheet of paper from her bag.
"With this. And with a worthwhile question.
The boy took the sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
"Then I will start today.
Days later, Haruki found a copy of that sheet on the campus billboard. He had only one
Phrase written in black marker:
"Who would you like to pass the ball to?"
Next to it, dozens of answers written by others. Names. Voices. Dreams. Promises.
Haruki read it all. At the end he also wrote:
"The one I still don't know needs to play."
That night, he closed all his devices. He sat down in front of the window. He looked at the full moon on the
empty field.
He did not write.
He did not speak.
He just listened.
Because even silence can be a pass if someone is willing to receive it.
Years later, in a different city and in a school where play was part of the schedule, a
A child accidentally opened a forgotten box in the library. Inside, he found a painted ball and
a notebook with a white cover.
He opened it timidly.
"Chapter 1: When Teaching Becomes Inheritance."
He turned the pages, read stories, schemes, emotions. Something in those words seemed close to him,
although he did not understand everything.
Then, he tore a page from the end, looked for a pen and wrote:
"Chapter 11: When Playing Is the Most Serious Way to Grow."
He closed the notebook again and left it on his desk, as if he were planting a seed.
Someone else would find it.
Because that's how the story went on.
Not like a saga.
But as an echo that transforms into a voice.
And as long as there is a court, an idea, or a question...
someone will pass the ball again.