the game.
âI told you not to shoot, Conroy,â Mel Thompson shouted as I headed for the bench.
âSorry, Coach,â I said, noting that I had made the shot in question.
âThatâs your problem, Conroy,â he said. âYouâre always sorry.â
My team did not congeal as a team for the rest of the evening. Each time one of us made a move with the ball, it seemed individual, selfish, and unrelated to the other four players on the court, while Auburn was assassin-like in its delicious execution of its offense. They were a much better basketball team and much better coached, playing with brio, freshness, and unquenchable zeal.
I studied Buisson, dissecting his game and trying to steal as much as I could from him and graft his talents onto my own. First, I saw how much Buisson wanted to be there for his teammates, the joyfulness he took in delivering a pass to an open player and the gratitude they felt toward him for his childlike magnanimity. I basked in the bracing aura of his indomitable confidence. He flashed like a buccaneer across both ends of the court, brash, swashbuckling, all the elixirs of being fully alive and in control sparking off him as his team finished the joy of taking my team to the cleaners. The final score was an unbelievable 105â83.
But ah! There were bright spots for the Bulldogs. As the
News and Courier
sports editor Evan Bussey would write the next morning, âDanny Mohr, The Citadel pivot man, again proved to be old Mr. Dependable in the scoring column. The 6-6 senior scored 20 points and at one stretch in the first half was about the only one holding the Citadel Bulldogs in the game. Sophomore Bill Zinsky got 16 points in his first varsity game and proved to be the best the Cadets had on the boards. He had nine rebounds.
âDoug Bridges had 15 points, DeBrosse 8, and Tee Hooper in a most impressive debut had 11.â
I followed the rest of Bobby Buissonâs career closely. He proved to be as good as I thought. His nickname was âBweets,â and Adolph Rupp was quoted as saying that Buisson was âone of the finest defensive players weâve ever seen.â
I agree.
Bobby Buisson. Wherever you are. I was an eyewitness to your mastery, the tender wizardry you brought to my home gym. I dedicated the rest of my year to remaking myself in your image. It was an honor to take the court against you. I was no match for you and for that I apologize. But I took some things from your game that would hold me in good stead.
After showering, I walked in darkness behind the barracks on Plebe Walk, trying to control my shame. A second-stringer and a senior, I said, torturing myself. My season was already slipping away, and it had just started. In agony I made my way across the length of the campus alone, doomed to be a spectator while my life as an athlete went flashing past me on the fly.
Shame, I felt, the purest shame.
PART 2
THE MAKING OF
A POINT GUARD
CHAPTER 4
FIRST SHOT
L ET ME TAKE YOU TO THE SPOT.
In the city of Orlando, Florida, near the foul line of an outdoor court, Billy Sullivan took a pass from Gregory Rubichaud then threw it to me. âLet the new kid shoot it,â he said.
I took my first shot ever at that basket in Orlando in my tenth year on earth and felt the course of my whole life change. I felt a bolt of pure wonder and joyâI had found a place I could take my terrified childhood to hide. Though I missed that first shot, I moved in fast to retrieve it and laid it in off the backboard.
âNice shot, kid,â Gregory said.
âWhere you from?â Billy asked.
âNowhere,â I answered. Both boys laughed and Iâd made my first friends in Orlando. They also had changed my world and place in it forever. From that first day, a basketball court provided me with a sense of home in whatever town I entered. I became a fixture on that St. James playground after school and would wait patiently until the
âI told you not to shoot, Conroy,â Mel Thompson shouted as I headed for the bench.
âSorry, Coach,â I said, noting that I had made the shot in question.
âThatâs your problem, Conroy,â he said. âYouâre always sorry.â
My team did not congeal as a team for the rest of the evening. Each time one of us made a move with the ball, it seemed individual, selfish, and unrelated to the other four players on the court, while Auburn was assassin-like in its delicious execution of its offense. They were a much better basketball team and much better coached, playing with brio, freshness, and unquenchable zeal.
I studied Buisson, dissecting his game and trying to steal as much as I could from him and graft his talents onto my own. First, I saw how much Buisson wanted to be there for his teammates, the joyfulness he took in delivering a pass to an open player and the gratitude they felt toward him for his childlike magnanimity. I basked in the bracing aura of his indomitable confidence. He flashed like a buccaneer across both ends of the court, brash, swashbuckling, all the elixirs of being fully alive and in control sparking off him as his team finished the joy of taking my team to the cleaners. The final score was an unbelievable 105â83.
But ah! There were bright spots for the Bulldogs. As the
News and Courier
sports editor Evan Bussey would write the next morning, âDanny Mohr, The Citadel pivot man, again proved to be old Mr. Dependable in the scoring column. The 6-6 senior scored 20 points and at one stretch in the first half was about the only one holding the Citadel Bulldogs in the game. Sophomore Bill Zinsky got 16 points in his first varsity game and proved to be the best the Cadets had on the boards. He had nine rebounds.
âDoug Bridges had 15 points, DeBrosse 8, and Tee Hooper in a most impressive debut had 11.â
I followed the rest of Bobby Buissonâs career closely. He proved to be as good as I thought. His nickname was âBweets,â and Adolph Rupp was quoted as saying that Buisson was âone of the finest defensive players weâve ever seen.â
I agree.
Bobby Buisson. Wherever you are. I was an eyewitness to your mastery, the tender wizardry you brought to my home gym. I dedicated the rest of my year to remaking myself in your image. It was an honor to take the court against you. I was no match for you and for that I apologize. But I took some things from your game that would hold me in good stead.
After showering, I walked in darkness behind the barracks on Plebe Walk, trying to control my shame. A second-stringer and a senior, I said, torturing myself. My season was already slipping away, and it had just started. In agony I made my way across the length of the campus alone, doomed to be a spectator while my life as an athlete went flashing past me on the fly.
Shame, I felt, the purest shame.
PART 2
THE MAKING OF
A POINT GUARD
CHAPTER 4
FIRST SHOT
L ET ME TAKE YOU TO THE SPOT.
In the city of Orlando, Florida, near the foul line of an outdoor court, Billy Sullivan took a pass from Gregory Rubichaud then threw it to me. âLet the new kid shoot it,â he said.
I took my first shot ever at that basket in Orlando in my tenth year on earth and felt the course of my whole life change. I felt a bolt of pure wonder and joyâI had found a place I could take my terrified childhood to hide. Though I missed that first shot, I moved in fast to retrieve it and laid it in off the backboard.
âNice shot, kid,â Gregory said.
âWhere you from?â Billy asked.
âNowhere,â I answered. Both boys laughed and Iâd made my first friends in Orlando. They also had changed my world and place in it forever. From that first day, a basketball court provided me with a sense of home in whatever town I entered. I became a fixture on that St. James playground after school and would wait patiently until the
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