The Dreamed Basketball
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It’s the first Thursday of the school year, a few<br />
weeks before the shot I was telling you about, and<br />
I'm in my physical education class.<br />
We’re changing in the locker room when we hear<br />
that our teacher—who we all call Pithicus, or<br />
πTQs, because he’s supposed to have been around<br />
since before dinosaurs walked the Earth—has<br />
retired.<br />
“What a tragedy,” I say to Bermúdez.<br />
“Yeah, he was an understanding kind of GUY; we<br />
passed the class without really having to TRY.”<br />
Bermúdez and I think physical effort is overrated.<br />
And Mr. Pithicus agreed.<br />
If we managed to stay in line and run around the<br />
schoolyard without hurting ourselves, he gave us<br />
good grades.<br />
Even if we didn’t run, as long as we didn’t hurt<br />
ourselves he still gave us good grades.<br />
A deep voice shakes the locker room walls and<br />
fluorescent ceiling lights.<br />
<strong>The</strong> voice yells:<br />
10
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