The Dreamed Basketball

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It’s the first Thursday of the school year, a few weeks before the shot I was telling you about, and I'm in my physical education class. We’re changing in the locker room when we hear that our teacher—who we all call Pithicus, or πTQs, because he’s supposed to have been around since before dinosaurs walked the Earth—has retired. “What a tragedy,” I say to Bermúdez. “Yeah, he was an understanding kind of GUY; we passed the class without really having to TRY.” Bermúdez and I think physical effort is overrated. And Mr. Pithicus agreed. If we managed to stay in line and run around the schoolyard without hurting ourselves, he gave us good grades. Even if we didn’t run, as long as we didn’t hurt ourselves he still gave us good grades. A deep voice shakes the locker room walls and fluorescent ceiling lights. <strong>The</strong> voice yells: 10
HEY! My name is EVANS… …and you can call me Evans, Mr. Evans, or, if you prefer: Eh! Vans! We’re going to get in shape. Aaaall out in two lines!
Page 2 and 3: For my cousin Juanma and those Extr
Page 4 and 5: Over heeerrrre! I’M JOEL, I’M N
Page 6 and 7: I’m shaking all over. The tallest
Page 8 and 9: But wait up, wait up… I told you
Page 12 and 13: We rush out like rats from a sinkin

The Dreamed Basketball

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