Coach Book- Chapter 2

“C’mon, Ronnie!’’ Dad shouted a little too enthusiastically from the top of the bleachers. “Watch his hips, not his eyes.’’

I learned the most about defense from dad, even if he was a little obnoxious about it. He knew if I looked into the other guy’s eyes, he’d look one way and go the other. And there I’d be with my jockstrap around my ankles and my tail between my legs watching my man score a bucket.

Never mind that most sixth-graders couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time, much less look where they were going when dribbling a basketball. Their eyes were always glued to that damn ball.

Bud Dad was my advantage. Roger Joseph Brinson, or Bert as all his buddies called him, had drilled me well. From the time I could remember, I had a basketball in my hands.

First, it was of those little red, rubber kinds that dad and I would roll back and forth on the living room carpet. Later, it was a light orange plastic sphere that didn’t bounce much, but you sure could throw it far.

That wasn’t good enough for me, though.

When I saw my brothers play for Madison Junior High, and later Westchester High School, I had to be like them. I didn’t have to bug dad long to get my first real basketball. In fact, I think Jim and Mike may have helped my cause — they were tired of me taking theirs.

That’s when basketball was the most fun. The four of us would stay out in the driveway until it got dark.

Dad would throw up set shots with one leg prodded forward, bent slightly. It didn’t look weird at the time, but it became weirder and weirder the older I got.

Jim and Mike were always trying fancy stuff to outdo each other. Jim, two years older than Mike, couldn’t stand the fact that Mike was as good as, or better, than he was. And Mike was always upset that Jim never gave him credit for working at the sport harder.

Jim made varsity as a junior, Mike did it as a freshman. Neither were all-state or anything like that, but to me they were. Being eight years younger than Mike, I guess I came along late enough that anything my older brothers did inspired awe.

I still remember the game against our big rival, Shappawana High, when Jim stole a pass with 10 seconds left to clinch a win for our Golden Eagles. He only scored three points in the game (I kept track of that stuff on a tiny notebook from the stands), and he said it was no big deal. But that steal was the most important play of the game. And, like I said, dad always stressed defense.

Mike had a few more big moments for Westchester. He scored 22 points against North Covington that gave us the conference title in 1952.

The next year, when he was a senior, we had one of our best teams ever. Westchester made it to the regional finals and Mike was the leading scorer. The official scorer said he finished with 499 points that year, but he screwed up a goaltending call in the second New Iberia game and he gave the damn basket to somebody else.

You can look it up. I’ve got the scorebook in the basement somewhere.

Dad used to yell at Jim and Mike, too. Back then, I just thought it was part of the game. Later, I found out it was just part of dad … and a few other folks around town.

I don’t really know how much it affected my brothers. I can only guess.

Jim used to act like it never bothered him, but he did weird stuff that made me think dad got to him sometimes.

He’s the one who started drinking in high school. He’s the one who tried marijuana. And he’s the one who always had to drive the Rambler as fast as it was humanly possible to drive a Rambler. Once, he even spun out on an icy night and hit a telephone pole.

Boy, was Dad pissed.

Mike, on the other hand, kind of took things in stride. I think he thought dad was really trying to offer constructive criticism every single time he opened his yap.

Mike always wanted to make dad happy. No request was ever too much. No demand was ever unreasonable.

Poor Mike. What a schmuck. But he turned out all right, I guess. In fact, both of them did OK.

So did my little sister Anna — “The Mistake’’ I liked to tease her. Mom and dad were done having kids when I showed up in 1945. Anna popped up two years later.

Hey, she had to be a mistake! Nobody ever heard of a girl being born in the Brinson family. Uncle Mark had three boys and Uncle Bob had two. Other than my aunts and my grandma, Anna was the only Brinson girl I knew.

She never faced the unrelenting advice dad gave us boys on basketball. Sometimes it seemed that’s all he ever talked about. He loved the game. Learned it from Pappy Wethington at old Norwalk U. in Massachusetts.

Dad wasn’t too bad in his day, from what I gather. But he didn’t do anything with the sport after college. There weren’t any pro leagues and the company teams didn’t pay as well as his engineering job. So Dad and basketball parted ways until he started having sons.

Boy, did his interest come back in a big way, too. He was always talking basketball. He didn’t talk much about points or rebounds or individual honors. But he always talked about Pappy’s defense.

Dad said they actually shut out some other team once, and he credited it all to Pappy’s defense. I think he was just BS-ing. But, when it came to my old man and basketball, it sometimes became difficult to tell truth from fiction.

You just tried to learn the lesson dad was teaching and you were fine. You screwed up and he yelled. You didn’t put forth the effort he thought you should be giving and he’d scream bloody murder, grab you by the shirt and stare into your eyes until they started watering. Your heart was pumping right in the middle of your throat and all you could think about was how much longer Dad was going to cuss.

But it’s not something that seemed all that unusual to us. Other Dads acted the same way with their kids. Some of our coaches were the same. It was just the way it was.

To my knowledge, Dad never hit any of us. But I wasn’t really aware of what was going on when Jim and Mike were kids. All I know is what he was like when I started playing. Officially, that was in sixth grade.

There were only four teams in the city for kids that age back then, one at each of the elementary schools — Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln. I went to Lincoln and the first time I put on that old, ugly brown jersey that was about two sizes too big for my skinny body and said “LINCOLN’’ on the front, I was the happiest kid in the world.

With nose in the air and chest puffed out, I used to tell other kids when I saw them at church: “I’m on the Lincoln Elementary School basketball team.’’

Always emphasized that word “basketball,’’ too.

They weren’t impressed. But I was. And so was Dad. And that’s about all that really mattered back then.

Coach Book – Chapter 1

The rain is so thick and heavy tonight, the wipers slap it across the windshield like a spatula spreads frosting on a birthday cake.

Hazy red comets trail the cars in front of me.

Bright white starbursts from oncoming vehicles force squints as they penetrate the violent aquarium I’m trying to drive home.

The yellowish hue of street lights line my way like a pair of pearl necklaces whose stained gems turn from spheres to oblong cotton balls though ever increasing speed and precipitation.

Dark green signs with white, unreadable lettering whiz by.

Which exit was that?

I don’t know.

It’s not mine.

The steady pounding of rain on the roof, loud crackling belches of thunder, and the occasional swoosh of my car passing another are the only sounds I notice … except for the thoughts blasting through my head one after another like automatic-weapon fire.

I turned the radio off as soon as I got into the car. There was already too much for my brain to digest.

How do I break the news to the team that Ron is out for the season? He wasn’t at practice today and I stuttered something about … ah hell… I don’t even remember. They probably know already. I’m going to have to tell them tomorrow or I’ll look like a complete fool.

I warned the kids about celebrating the conference championship. I tried to tell them to stay away from parties where there may be beer … and for God sakes, don’t ever drink any!

This could have been a state championship year at Westwood High. Now, forget it.

I should have made it plain with Ron. He’s one of those kids who has a tendency to go along with whatever anybody says.

After his dad died, his mother clung to him and he didn’t have many friends. Now he thinks the only way to keep friends is to do everything they tell him to do.

I should have known better. And he’s a senior. That’s the end of his career. I can’t believe I screwed that up.

Swoosh… another exit. I think I’ve got about three more to go.

How do I get a little more out of Chuck? He’s got all the tools. If I could just squeeze a few more ounces of sweat out of that kid, this basketball team could really do something next year.

I wish I knew more about Chuck’s head. I don’t know how hard I can push before he turns on me. He only moved into the district three years ago and his parents don’t come to any of the games.

Darn it! If I’d made a better effort to get to know his folks, maybe I’d know when enough is enough with their kid. How much trouble would that have been? The payoff could have been huge.

And then there’s Antoine, whose parents think he deserves special treatment because he’s one of the few blacks in the school and the only one on the team.

Jimminy Chrstmas! I try my damndest to treat everyone the same. Antoine is a great kid, and I’ve never had a problem with him.

But his folks think he should start. Yeh? Well, stand in line, mom and dad! You’re not the first parents who over-evaluate their kid’s athletic skills.

The only difference here is they bring race into it.

Look, I’m sorry you think the only way you’re going to get out of debt is by riding your son’s coattails to a pro basketball salary. Deal with it.

So here’s Mike Brinson, the stupid, ignorant, bigoted coach, driving his car home after a particularly bad night of practice.

Crap … was that my exit? I strain my neck back to try and catch a glimpse of the fuzzy sign.

 “That’s the last thing I remember,’’ I say as a doctor stares down at me.

Man, I’ve got to stop coaching. This is driving me nuts.