Our class leapt forth like
frogs in rain barrels,
eager to hear his voice—
peppered with dreams of
splits, somersaults, and
endless cartwheels. Laughter
bounced against cracked walls,
like rubber balls shot
from a cannon into the
dusty sky, where clouds wore
gym shorts, inhaling the
sweet fragrance of ambition.
He taught us the art of
whirlwinds, how to spin
until gravity begged for
mercy. \"Hey, team,\" he exclaimed,
his enthusiasm a cannonball,
splashing motivation into creaky
bones. The gym echoed with
our unchoreographed attempts,
the air thick like syrup,
engaging the tortured ghosts
of former athletes, whispering
secrets of resilience and joy.
At the end of each
tumble, he’d regale us with
tales of the mighty Fat
Dragon, who once conquered
the pitch with a booming
laugh that rattled the universe.
With sweatbeads glinting like
stars on his forehead, Mr.
Ball knew how to kickstart joy,
defying gravity, teaching us
to float, splay, and soar—
puffed up with whimsical
ideas that bounced like our
hearts, always in rhythm,
singing under the fluorescent
lights of our peculiar arena.