My Losing Season Read Online Free PDF

expertly. One thing a college basketball player could do without thinking or breaking a sweat was to move effortlessly through a layup line. Style was important, and everyone brought his best moves into play during the warmup. The big guys dunked it as we little guys did reverse layups on the other side of the glass. You worked on being cool, disinterested, unflappable. You knew that this period was the last time during the season that the team would not be exhausted. Getting out of bed tomorrow morning would require the forbearance and strength of roommates.
    A whistle blew again and Mel shouted, “Figure eights,” and we broke up into three lines of four men in a line. I passed the ball to Tee Hooper, the sophomore guard on my left, and ran behind him as Tee threw to Bridges and cut behind him, who threw it to me, cutting behind me as I passed it to Tee, who put it in for a layup. Not once did the ball touch the ground. Coach Thompson also turned it into a disciplinary drill where we ran the figure eights until we were close to dropping. The guys with bad hands—always the big guys—had trouble sometimes handling the long passes and their awkwardness infuriated Mel.
    â€œCatch the goddamn ball,” he yelled at Brian Kennedy, a willowy sophomore. “Protect it. It’s not a loaf of bread.”
    â€œGee, it’s not?” Cauthen whispered. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
    â€œYou got something to say, Cauthen?” Coach Thompson barked.
    â€œNo, sir,” Bob said, lowering his head. Our coach required gestures of submission.
    â€œYou still ain’t worth a shit, Conroy,” DeBrosse teased me, slapping my butt as he ran by me.
    â€œYou’re shorter than you were last year,” I whispered, coming up behind him in the figure eight line.
    â€œI’m a half inch taller than you, duck butt.”
    In truth, John and I were both very small basketball players, and that’s why we were guards. John was prickly and defensive about his height while I was not; I was prickly and defensive about my shooting ability or lack thereof. All athletes disguised the secret shame of their shortcomings. John spent a great deal of time stretching his neck, lifting up, trying to convince himself he was taller than I was. When I was listed as five foot eleven in the program, DeBrosse went wild and said, “Honor violation, Conroy. HV. HV. Turn yourself in.”
    â€œI didn’t say I was that tall,” I said. “Our coach has always pretended I was. It makes him feel better.”
    â€œWhy?” Johnny said. “You still can’t shoot worth a shit.”
    In the middle of the figure eight drill, I got to study the sophomores up close for the first time. Their speed and athleticism impressed me, but it was their closeness as a class that was most unique. Their freshman team put together a remarkable record. With each game they improved at all positions. They were the first freshman team I had witnessed who did not seem completely undone by the plebe system. By the end of that first year, they had cohered into something very special. I thought they would make The Citadel a team to be feared in the Southern Conference. Even in the layup line and the figure eight drill, they hung together, a team not yet incorporated into our team. Incautious and reckless, they hurled themselves around the court and brought an enthusiasm to this first practice that made me feel a great affection for each of them. So much of our team’s destiny rode on their shoulders. So much would be required of them, and no one knew how their egos would withstand the changeable nature of our tempestuous coach.
    Years later I read a copy of a program from that year which spelled out this team’s prospects in the words of Mel Thompson himself. Though it was still a cautionary tale with loopholes and escape clauses, I read between the lines that our coach was as optimistic about this