By Pat Conroy
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
Pat Conroy, certainly one of America’s most advantageous novelists, has penned a deeply affecting coming-of-age memoir approximately family members, love, loss, basketball—and existence itself. in the course of one unforgettable season as a fort cadet, Conroy turns into a part of a basketball group that's finally destined to fail. And but for an army child who grew up at the circulate, the Bulldogs offer a sanctuary from the chilly, abrasive father who dominates his life—and a crucible for turning into his personal man.
With all of the drama and incandescence of his bestselling fiction, Conroy re-creates his pivotal senior yr as captain of the castle Bulldogs. He chronicles the highs and lows of that fateful 1966–67 season, his difficult disciplinarian trainer, the thrill of successful, and the hard-won classes of wasting. so much of all, he recounts how a bunch of boys got here jointly as a group, enjoying a activity that may develop into a metaphor for a guy whose spirit might by no means be defeated.
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Extra resources for My Losing Season: A Memoir
I be mindful it,” he acknowledged fiercely. “I did not omit layups, Conroy. I by no means neglected a layup in my lifestyles. ” back we got here to a stoplight and John grew to become to me back. He reached over and grabbed my wrist and squeezed it. “Pat,” he stated, the 1st time all night he had known as me by means of my first identify, “I wish you to understand anything. you have to me that you just think it. That video game. That final shot. i did not leave out that shot on goal. I swear to you, i would by no means do whatever like that. ” “It by no means happened to me or an individual else, Johnny. you were not even able to pondering this sort of factor. ” “One individual did,” John acknowledged. “And one individual acknowledged it. ” “Who? ” I requested. “Our trainer. Mel Thompson suggestion it. ” “Ah,” I stated. “Mel Thompson. Now there is a tale. ” “Mel got here up and stood in the back of me. Then he said—I swear he stated it—‘Hey, DeBrosse, i do know you did not leave out that shot on objective. i do know you would not do anything like that, could you? ' ” “You'd by no means omit a shot on purpose,” I acknowledged. “No you can imagine that of you. ” “That's now not true,” John acknowledged. “My personal trainer did. ” AFTER MY come across at the highway with John DeBrosse, I spent the remainder of the seashore tune journey with that senior yr insinuating its unwelcome presence into my roiled, middle-aged existence. it all started to pulse with new, unexpected urgency. through writing The Lords of self-discipline, i presumed I had picked the bones of that 12 months fresh and left them mendacity, immaculate and sterile, at the street in the back of me. i used to be flawed. So it was once within the fall of 1995, my heartsick and downcast group started to rematerialize slowly from the wreckage of time. There looked to be a meeting strength developing a few collaborative centrifugal pull on we all. i'll believe our failure and disfigurement summoning us whilst Dave Bornhorst and Greg Connor confirmed up with their households on the bankruptcy book shop in Charleston; then Jim Halpin and invoice Zinsky materialized in Philadelphia. We gave the impression of misplaced playing cards from a tarot deck, but every time one in all my teammates seemed, my pleasure in our reunion sprang out in a rapturous burst of sunshine. Their presence and the attendance in their households moved me. It didn't believe like sentimentality to me, notwithstanding i've got an enormous capability for the maudlin and fake word. No, it used to be like whatever else completely, like a sort of enlightenment or the start of a trip. on the finish of that journey, on October 26, 1995, I stood within the divorce courtroom of the town of San Francisco as i finished my thirteen-year-old marriage to Lenore Fleischer in a rite that felt like half self-evisceration and half auto-da-fé. I had walked right into a travesty of a wedding and had performed it with my eyes extensive open and with the frantic warnings of all my relations and top associates begging me to run for my existence from the girl I enjoyed. Even my father had warned me that Lenore used to be a gold digger, announcing that i used to be a simple southern mark who didn't comprehend something concerning the slippery, counterfeiting suggestions of a big-city lady at the make. i assumed that the attractive, flippant Lenore was once misunderstood.