My Losing Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

said.
    â€œDon’t irritate me, Cauthen,” Joe said, putting his tiny fist against Bob’s chin.
    â€œMake me laugh, Rat,” Bob said.
    â€œLeave Rat alone, Zipper,” Danny called down from his locker.
    Bob stuck up a middle finger at Danny and said, “Eat a big hairy one, Root.”
    â€œWhat a team,” Jimmy Halpin said, shaking his head sadly. “This fucking place sucks.”
    The new assistant coach, Ed Thompson, came into the locker room and walked down the straight line of lockers, squeezing our shoulders or slapping our butts, whispering words of encouragement. A sweet-faced, soft-spoken man, he looked like an aging Boy Scout as he imparted his own enthusiasm about the beginning of the new season.
    â€œLet’s get ready to go, boys. Let’s win it all this year. This is the year for us. Can you feel it, boys? Tell me now. Let’s get on out there.”
    After he spoke to each of us, he retreated from the locker room like an ambassador for a third-world nation intimidated by the hauteur of the Court of St. James’s. “Little Mel,” as we called him, was intimidated by us still and did not feel comfortable interacting with us quite yet.
    â€œWhy’d Little Mel take this job?” Danny asked the room.
    â€œHe just lucked out,” Bridges said.
    â€œWhat a sinking ship,” Bob said.
    â€œHey, none of that, Cauthen,” DeBrosse said. “We’re going to have a great team this year. None of this negative shit. Leave that in the barracks.”
    â€œWho are you, the fucking Gipper?” Bob answered.
    Danny Mohr finished lacing his shoes and said, “I like Little Mel. What in the hell did he see in Muleface?”
    â€œHe just wanted to coach All-Americans like you, Mohr,” Cauthen said.
    â€œEat me, Zipper,” Danny said, again shooting Bob the finger.
    â€œCan’t you feel the team jelling?” I said. “Feel the camaraderie. Feel the never-say-die spirit. Nothing’ll ever get between this band of brothers.”
    DeBrosse said, “Get the dictionary. Conroy’s moving his lips again.”
    Rat appeared suddenly at the door and said, “Muleface left his office. Hurry up. He’s on his way.”
    There was a headlong scramble of all of us as we raced for the door that opened to the floor. The sophomores had not spoken a word. It was their first day on the varsity team and they were nervous and mistrustful.
    â€œThis fucking place sucks,” Halpin said, then moved out toward the sounds of boys shooting around, limping in his knee brace.

CHAPTER 2
    FIRST PRACTICE
    T HERE WAS A TENSION IN THE GYM AMONG THE PLAYERS WHEN THE first practice was about to begin. We were more serious as we took jump shots, awaiting the appearance of the coaching staff at exactly 1600 hours. DeBrosse hit eight jump shots in a row from the top of the key as I admired the perfection of his form and the articulation of his follow-through. The net coughed as the ball swished through again and again. It was the loveliest sound in a shooter’s world. Bridges and Zinsky both practiced long-range jumpers from the corners. Everyone had his favorite spots to get to when shooting around before practice. The managers were feeding all of us retrieved balls as I caught sight of our two coaches, both named Thompson, skirting the bleachers on the way toward the court. Mel was talking quietly to his new assistant, and we wondered aloud if “Little Mel” had any idea what he had gotten himself into. Mohr believed that Mel Thompson was as charming in hiring new assistants as he was when he recruited us.
    Coach Mel Thompson blew his whistle, shouted “Two lines,” and without fanfare or commentary, our season began. He flipped me the ball and proffered me the honor of making the first layup in the first practice of my final year. A surge of enthusiasm rippled through the team as the line moved smoothly,