My Losing Season by Pat Conroy Read Free Book Online Page A

the locker room we heard the thunder of our violent tribe, and we felt the butterflies hatched in our stomachs. Danny Mohr sat at the first locker, the farthest away from the entrance; Jimmy Halpin sat next to me painfully putting on his knee brace; I laced up my Converse All Stars next to Mohr and regarded my image in the full-length mirror across the room.
    Coach Thompson arranged us according to a strict class system: the juniors came next with DeBrosse sitting next to Halpin, followed by Bridges, Bornhorst, and Cauthen. Everyone on the team knew to keep Bob Cauthen and Doug Bridges separated. There was always a dangerous chemistry produced when those two scraped against one another.
    Then came our dazzling collection of sophomores: Bill Zinsky, whose game was finished and mature; Tee Hooper, the tall slashing guard who had beaten me out for a starting position; Al Kroboth, the relentless rebounder; Greg Connor, the ex–football player whose intensity was a burning thing; and Brian Kennedy, irrepressible, clumsy, a little too loud for a sophomore.
    I made my way up and down the line of dressing teammates, trying to relax the sophomores. I remembered the terror I felt before and during my first varsity game two years earlier when The Citadel had played West Virginia in Morgantown. “Last year the upperclassmen tortured you and tried to run you out of school,” I said. “This year they’ll treat you like gods.”
    â€œLike they treat you, right, Conroy?” Cauthen asked.
    â€œIt’s my third straight year as I stride this campus like a god,” I replied. “I consider myself a Zeus-like figure.”
    â€œMore like a leprechaun,” Bob added.
    â€œThat was a racist reference to my Irish heritage and my diminutive size,” I told the sophomores. “But know this—Bob fears my rapier wit.”
    â€œSay what, Conroy?” Bob asked.
    â€œAnd my vast vocabulary,” I said, returning to my locker.
    â€œHey, Conroy,” Danny Mohr said as I pulled on my warmups.
    Rat warned us of our coach’s arrival. “Fifteen minutes, guys.”
    â€œWho’s gonna be captain this year?” Danny asked me. “Muleface say anything to you?”
    â€œNot a word,” I said. “Maybe he’ll make you, me, and Jimmy tri-captains, since we’re the only survivors of our fabulous freshman team.”
    â€œGod, we’d’ve been great if we could’ve stayed together,” Jimmy said.
    â€œHe wouldn’t make just you captain? Would he, Conroy? You’re just a fucking Green Weenie.”
    â€œDon’t worry about my feelings, Root,” I said, and Jimmy Halpin almost fell off the bench laughing.
    â€œWe don’t know what he’s going to do,” I said. “But he’s got these three charismatic, Patton-like leaders to choose from.”
    Bob Cauthen, who made a habit of teasing me before practice and games, yelled from the middle of the locker room, “Hey, Conroy, how are you and the other homos getting along down in the English department? I hear the English profs are one hundred percent faggots.”
    â€œI lost my Maidenform bra, Bob. Could you help me find it?”
    â€œAt least I know how to take one off. Unlike you, Conroy.”
    â€œGet ready for the game, Cauthen,” DeBrosse said.
    â€œEat me, DeBrosse,” Bob said. “Anyone who thinks we can actually beat Auburn is full of shit.”
    Doug Bridges laughed as though he had just been told the funniest joke in the world, and Halpin joined him, then Bridges shouted, “Hey, Conroy. Our
team,
man. You can feel it coming together, can’t you?”
    Bob, wilted a bit in the glare of the sophomores, said, “If we were worth a shit, we wouldn’t be playing at The Citadel.”
    â€œHey, sophomores,” I shouted. “It’s the positive attitude in this locker room that’ll lead us from victory to victory to