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to put the ball on the floor and whip by for the layup. I offered him the jump shot because I knew that Tee did not yet fully trust his shot. But he was game and fast, and he practically enveloped me and Johnny when he guarded us.
    I put my hands on my waist as I watched Jimmy Halpin covering the freshman guard Jerry Hirsch. My hands. The subject was painful to me. I had the smallest hands I’d ever seen on a man. I was reading a book by Bob Cousy on what made him so great, and he shocked me by revealing that one of the absolute requirements for a point guard was large hands. I could not palm a basketball; I was forced to use both hands for balance and control. There was no way for me to do a one-handed layup, but I had perfected the art of pretending to do one. With great care and some legerdemain, I kept all attention away from this liability.
    I regarded Tee Hooper’s great, spidery hands with envy as I listened to the big men battling each other under the board at the far basket. I was in trouble; this gifted, athletic boy had it in his power to steal my last season away from me.
    On the opposite end of the court, in the land of the big man, a war was going on. The rebounding drills seemed like full-contact karate drills. There were often fights and scuffles under the boards. Mel liked it when the forwards and centers lost their tempers with each other. They pounded on each other with unrestrained fury for twenty minutes each day, and their tempers remained rent and frayed for the rest of the afternoon. Mel was excited by violence among the rebounders, cheering when the big guys made each other bleed.
    The sophomore sensation, Bill Zinsky, was more than holding his own. He cut around Danny Mohr and stole a rebound from him. Mel launched into a stream of invective and profanity.
    â€œGoddamn it, Mohr—don’t you have any guts? Don’t you have any fucking pride? You’re four inches taller than Zinsky—he should never get a rebound from you. Not one. Block him out, Mohr! Jesus Christ! Is there anybody with any guts in there? Don’t give me that look, Mohr! Give me some goddamn rebounds.”
    Dan Mohr’s face carried hurt and aftershock that his teammates still remember. If Mel’s volcanic temper had met its foil, it lay in Danny’s proud but deeply humiliated face.
    â€œYou got something to say for yourself, Mohr?” Mel asked.
    â€œI’m trying, Coach,” Dan said. “I swear I’m trying.”
    â€œShut the fuck up, Mohr. You’re nothing but a can of corn. Now block out your goddamn man. Keep him off the board. Like this.”
    At least once a week, Mel demonstrated to the big men how to keep their man off the boards. Very few in the history of college basketball could rebound as well as Mel Thompson, and it was thrilling to watch him block Dan Mohr. Mel stretched his body out, crouched low, and his wingspan seemed gigantic. He felt around behind Danny then clasped him with his two great flared-out hands, then backed Danny out and away from the boards with his backside. He moved his feet fast in tiny, almost dainty steps, but when the ball came off the board he pounced on it with a hunger that all the great ones have.
    â€œSee,” he growled. “That’s how you do it. It takes heart, guts, courage to get the job done. You got the guts, Mohr?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Danny shouted.
    â€œBullshit, Mohr. You ain’t got shit.”
    The whistle blew and we lined up for a half hour of defensive drills. We walked through our defensive assignments, moved through all three zone defenses. The drills Mel used for defense were boilerplate and common among almost every basketball team. But Mel had always seemed uncomfortable coaching it, and this part of practice he wanted to get through quickly. His theory about defense was this: I give you a man and you stop the son-of-a-bitch. Don’t expect any help from your teammates because