Read My Losing Season for Free Online

it, Mohr,” he shouted. “What’re you trying to do? If you don’t move it any better than that, you sure as hell aren’t going to be ready for Auburn.”
    â€œPick it up, Pat. Pick it up,” Ed Thompson said, the first time we heard the new assistant speak in practice.
    The whistle blew again. We were sweating now and the sweat felt good on the skin. October was still hot in the low country, and the tide was going out in the Ashley River, fifty yards away from the field house where we practiced. Because Mel’s practices were set in concrete, Johnny and I began moving toward the south end of the court before the command was given: “Guards at the other end of the court with Coach Thompson. Forwards and centers over here with me for rebounding,” yelled Mel.
    â€œI’m going to eat your jock this year, Conroy,” DeBrosse said.
    â€œThey got any interesting boys in Ohio, DeBrosse? Or are they all like you?”
    â€œYou’re faster with words, Conroy. But watch who sticks it in the net.”
    â€œI’ll be all over your short squat self.”
    We communicated in secret using the skills of ventriloquists. I enjoyed John DeBrosse’s cockiness and brashness on the court. It pleased me that he taunted me openly and tried to get me to retaliate. DeBrosse grabbed the ball from Little Mel as the guards lined up for one-on-one drills.
    â€œGet out there, Conroy,” DeBrosse said. “I’ll teach you some new tricks.”
    I got down in my defensive stance and pushed off of DeBrosse’s shoulders hard. He took a step forward and I retreated exactly that amount. When he rocked back to his original position, I moved up on him again. John was a jump shooter, a great one, but he hated to drive to the basket. He knew it and he knew I knew it. Ours was a cat-and-mouse game and we were like shadow selves with each other. He faked right, then went left, which was unusual for John, but I was on him close. I tried to flick the ball away from his left hand, but he turned his body and regained control of the ball with his right hand. Johnny then began backing me into the lane as though we were two centers fighting for position in the paint. Once we began playing, no words were spoken between us, ever.
    Suddenly, Johnny whirled for the jump shot and I left my feet a fraction of a second late. The ball swished through the net.
    â€œGood hustle, both of you,” Little Mel said.
    I trotted to the back of the line and watched as John took his defensive position against Tee Hooper, the sophomore guard. I had kept a sharp eye on Tee Hooper since his arrival as a freshman. His natural position was small forward, and he was a slashing, hell-for-leather kind of player who gave it everything he had every time he hit the court. His improvement from the first game to his last as a plebe had dazzled me. His game was still rough around the edges, but he was six feet five inches tall, had the best and fastest first step on the team, and was one of those rawboned, skinny kids who always found a way to score. To me, he carried an air of greatness about him, but I personally hoped that greatness would flower sometime after my graduation. Tee Hooper was a real threat to take my position and send me to the end of the bench for my whole senior year.
    As DeBrosse waited for Tee’s first move, I noticed how much taller Tee was than the rest of the guards. Yet he was quick as we were and his first step to the basket was a lunge move that swept him past John and into the lane where Tee went high and laid the ball high off the backboard.
    â€œJesus Christ,” DeBrosse said as he joined me in the back of the line. “Did you see that, Conroy?”
    â€œWorst defense I ever saw,” I whispered.
    â€œSee how well you guard him,” DeBrosse said.
    When it was my turn to guard Tee, I played off him, giving him the outside shot because I noticed that Tee, like me, wanted