Welcome!

I would like to tell you about my experience of reuniting with my childhood, that childhood in which the playing field did not matter, nor the teams' kits, those days when the composition of the teams was done in pairs, or in pairs. or odd, those days when any wall and a fairly smooth floor were worth, in which a tennis ball was worth, but also made of plastic or rubber, in which the rules of the game were set by common sense, and you had to be rogue , bad but with goodness, smartass but without offending, better but without humiliation. That experience, those retroactive sensations are those produced by my recent contact with the Valencian Ball, its simplicity, not simplicity, its ease, that does not lack of demand its roots, which can be smelled as soon as you enter a galotxeta, or a pediment or a ratchet. It seems that time has not passed, or rather, that you have gone back in time, in the years, in the centuries, to the origins of the game, of all games, when playing with homemade balls, made of cloth, wool and tape, hitting them with the gloves made from pieces of hard cardboard and tape, punishing the ball, realizing that you have to be very strong, that it is not so easy, that it is more fun than it seems, and that the pain in the palms of the hands does not go away for a week. Those feelings should remain, and be transmitted to future generations, to promote play, respect, strength, dexterity, shame, the street, the honesty and the purity of agonism.