Read Online The Squared Circle by JAMES W. BENNETT - Free Book Online

with refreshments, reporters, and photographers. Most of the reporters learned soon enough that Sonny wasn’t a good interview, so it wasn’t surprising when they tended to gather around Luther and Coach Gentry. One reporter, however, a man from Newsday , asked Sonny what he thought about New York City.
    â€œNot much,” he replied. He was drinking a large glass of punch and gobbling French pastries on his still-queasy stomach.
    â€œYou don’t like the Big Apple?”
    â€œI didn’t say that. I just don’t think about it much.”
    As poised as Coach Gentry was in the press conference environment, he never seemed comfortable when his players hobnobbed with the media. This time was no exception. At 11:45, he told Price to herd them to their rooms. Even before Sonny and Robert Lee got inside the room, the phone was ringing.
    It was Uncle Seth, drunk and in the company of several cronies. He told Sonny, “We’ve been sitting here counting the rings. We got up to one hundred and sixty before you answered.”
    â€œHi, Uncle Seth.”
    Seth and the other revelers took turns on the receiver, proclaiming the glory of this moment in loud, slurred syllables. Sonny held the receiver three feet from his head so Robert Lee could hear as well.
    To win the finals the next night, they had to beat St. John’s. Not regarded as a great team, St. John’s had upset favored Louisville to reach this title game. Since St. John’s was a New York City team, the Redmen would enjoy a huge homecourt advantage. Before the game even started, the noise level from the 16,000 partisans was like a tidal wave, and it was hostile. Sonny could feel his stomach churning, but it wasn’t enough to give him nausea.
    The intimidation generated by the roaring crowd didn’t endure past the 14-minute mark, when the score was 15–14. At halftime, the SIU lead was swollen to 47–25. By the time the blowout was over, 94–63, the crowd had thinned out considerably; Madison Square Garden was as quiet as a practice gym.
    Reporters swarmed the locker room, but Coach Gentry moved everyone quickly in order to meet the midnight flight from La Guardia. Because he was chosen the Most Valuable Player for the tournament, Sonny did have to stick around for a center-court ceremony and a brief interview with cable hookups. One writer described his style of play as that of a “dervish.” Another labeled him the “Tasmanian Devil of the hardwood,” whatever that meant. But at 18 years and 11 months, Sonny Youngblood was averaging 32 points a game against high-level competition, and bringing home the MVP plaque from the Big Apple NIT.
    Lights out on the plane, but it seemed to Sonny that he was the only one having trouble sleeping. He twisted his long limbs this way and that in search of a comfortable space. His stomach was still queasy from game-generated tension and gorging on available snacks. His racing mind permitted only intermittent dozing, in and out.
    In the disorientation of this racing mind, he found himself out of time and place. The vivid images in his brain were not of the NIT, but somehow of the freshman team back in Abydos. He wasn’t on a plane at all; he was back on the bus to Tamms, in the ninth grade. It was a long and winding ride in the dark, especially after the driver, who was new, got lost and ended up in Thebes. They had to use secondary roads cutting through the Shawnee National Forest. There were patches of frozen snow along the shoulder and every once in a while Sonny caught a glimpse of the naked trees along the bluffs.
    Most of the other guys didn’t seem as tense as he was, but then he was the only one with no previous game experience. Butch Cross played a battery-operated video game, while Julio was listening to a tape on his Walkman. Sonny had a seat to himself, but across the aisle was One Gram, who kept a steady stream of small talk going. With his