by Pat Conroy
I stood in the front of the line by the locker room door with my teammates behind me. Bo handed me a new Wilson Special to dribble while leading the team onto the court for warm-ups. Reverently, I took the ball and inhaled its newness. It smelled like an expensive pair of men’s shoes. I bounced it on the cement floor for luck, the feel of the leather so pleasant to my fingertips, so natural in my hands.
We could hear the deep-throated hum of the Corps waiting for the teams to emerge. Then we heard the partisan outcry as the VMI players appeared on the opposite side of the field house. The Corps greeted them with a volley of boos and hisses that reverberated across the campus. When the noise subsided, we waited for Bo to swing open the door to our locker room. Glazed with sweat, we tensed for the moment of entry, the butterflies swarming in their familiar, nervous dance in our stomachs; we listened closely to the Corps’s hymn of loathing directed at VMI, felt the eyes of the Corps turning toward us. Bo wiped my forehead with a towel. I winked at him. Then he flung the door open and we burst into the Armory, princes of the sudden light, flawed but game champions of the Corps of Cadets.
The Corps rose to its feet and greeted us in its cyclonic voice. It exploded in the wild, exhilarated language of a tribe screaming out its oneness with us. Nothing has ever affected me in that same profoundly visceral way as the salutation of the Corps when I broke free from the steamy enclave of the locker room into the blue-hazed, cavernous, light-filtered center of the Armory. The band struck up “Dixie.” The screams entered my brain like some enormously powerful insulin, like gusts of pure oxygen, and I glided across the deeply polished mirror of the gymnasium floor, a boy in my prime who could run windsprints all day, a boy who could bring the ball up court against anybody on earth.
The team fanned out in two disciplined squads as I drove to the right side of the court and put the first warm-up shot high against the backboard and heard its sweet rippling sound as it fell through the nylon net. I was moving now and my motor was running. I fed off the applause. God, how I love this game, I thought, rebounding a missed shot and throwing a bounce pass to Doug Cumming as he broke toward the basket. God, how I love this game and how I wish I had been better at it. The happiest days of my boyhood were spent above the woodshine of oak and below the gaze of both friendly and hostile crowds. And I never loved the game better than when we played at home and sprinted directly into the fierce embrace of the Corps. It was a memorable thing to play a game with the Corps in all its virile wildness behind you. If a team played us in the Armory, we were ten points better than we were on the road and not because we automatically played better at home but because our skills merged with the fury of the Corps in full cry. Strangers could garner some glimpse of the plebe system’s violent nature by sitting in the Armory and listening to the Corps’s voice. The applause of the Corps, charged with repressed sexuality, was feral and imprisoned and out of control.
There was also an extra dimension of rivalry and fraternity when we played Virginia Military Institute. We were the last two state military colleges of any significance in the nation. Cadets were a rare and vanishing species of American fauna, and our contests were like duels between well-groomed gentlemen. Our hair was closely cropped, we said “sir” to the referees, we stood at attention during the National Anthem, and we were two of the last all-white basketball teams in the country. If the Institute was something from the Old South, then VMI was something from Old Virginia, and that was very different and very important indeed. I also liked the individual VMI players better than any other team in the Southern Conference. They were the only ones who did not laugh at our uniforms on road trips, did not call cadence as we walked to the locker room, and did not blame us for every death in the Vietnam War. The first stirrings of the antiwar movement were beginning on American college campuses, and the Institute became a highly visible symbol of that war to other student bodies.
The first antiwar demonstration I ever witnessed had stopped a game at George Washington University when fifty students staged a sit-down in center court. Reuben and I watched in amazement from the sidelines as campus police forcibly removed them from the gym. We were both disturbed and amused. As we watched, a pretty, brown-haired girl walked quietly up to us and said hello. When we looked around, she threw a bucket of human blood into our faces. Then she screamed at us, “How many kids did Institute graduates kill today, you bastards?” The crowd was booing loudly. Later, I realized they were jeering at the demonstrators but at that moment, I thought they were voicing some indefinable but universal loathing of me personally as I stood there wiping blood from my eyes and spitting it out of my mouth.
“Captain McLean,” the referee said, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Just call me ‘Cap,’ Big George,” I said, shaking hands with the referee I had seen three times a year for four years. “I don’t like to stand on formality. Just call the fouls on them. I swear I’m not going to touch human flesh tonight.”
“With you guarding Mance, I figure you’ll foul out in this first half, Cap.” Big George laughed, as we walked toward center court.
“Do you know any gamblers, George?” I whispered. “I can be bought cheap.”
Jimmy Mance was watching me as we approached mid-court.
“Captain Mance,” George said, nodding toward me, “Captain McLean.”
“How you doing, Will?” Mance said, grinning and extending his hand. We shook hands warmly.
“It’s my last game, Jimmy. Don’t make me look like a complete jerk in front of the home crowd.”
“I’ll be lucky to score ten against you, Will,” he said. “You know that.”
The only way I could hold Mance to ten points would be to cut off one of his feet.
“George, I would like to file an official report,” I said seriously.
“Will, would you please shut up and let me tell you the rules so we can get on with the game?”
“No, this is important, George. I have information from an impeccable source that Mr. Mance here is a Russian woman who had an operation so she could play ball for VMI.”
Jimmy laughed loudly, for Jimmy Mance thought I was a hoot. It was the only thing about playing against him that was not personally humiliating. It had become an integral part of my strategy in defending him that I get him laughing at the opening tips and keep him giggling to the final whistle. I had once got him laughing so hard I had held him to twenty-two points. Another time I had made a joke about his mother, and he had ripped me for thirty-eight, fuming and choleric for the rest of the game. Even his sense of humor was a sensitive, high-strung instrument, and I had learned to play it delicately.
Jimmy Mance had played a far more important role in my life than he would ever realize. By observing this brilliant athlete, with his classical moves and his effortless grace, I could judge the depth and tenor of my own mediocrity. He was six feet four inches tall and built in that free-flowing, loose-muscled dignity of the natural. Every time I went against him I was unconscionably overmatched. He could jump higher, run faster, shoot better, pass more accurately … it was as though God had deliberately set out to make a basketball player when he designed the body of Jimmy Mance. He had given me only the desire to be a great athlete, not the body. Mance had proven that to me each time I guarded him. My desire to stop him emphasized the extent of his gifts and the limits of my own. It was an honor to be on the same court with him, and I would tell my children of the nights I challenged him, guarded him, of the times I was beaten by him.
I left Mance and the referees and joined my teammates, who had encircled Coach Byrum, listening to him exhort us to win in an endless string of cliches that made up the impoverished language of sport. Bo Maybank stroked my face with a warm towel.
The buzzer sounded and we took to the court for my last game at the Institute. And, oh, the feeling as the voice of the Corps greeted us. I burned with the majesty of my sport; I burned with the joy of living life at that moment. In the stands I saw Pig and Mark and Tra
dd standing with their arms raised in gestures of support for me, caught the eyes of Commerce and Abigail, saluted the General, saw the Bear and Edward the Great, noticed Pearce sitting in a crowd of plebes, heard Cain Gilbreath call my name in the first row of. the stands, waved to the boys in R Company, and felt inalienable gratitude to this sport—this sport that had allowed me to become the showman, permitted the shy boy to strut and mug and preen for the approval of the crowd. I knew that Annie Kate would be listening to the game on radio, that my name would come to her through invisible waves as she sat in her isolation on Sullivan’s Island. On the court, in the middle of games, I was completely happy. I felt cleansed of all sin, inflated with the grace of the planet, and free.
The centers rose toward the ball and I lost consciousness of the crowd, lost consciousness of myself, and entered into the high country of sport. Down the court I pursued Jimmy Mance. I watched a VMI forward pump in a beautiful jumper from the corner. I retrieved the ball out of bounds, flipped it to Johnny, moved up court, and saw the first play break down as Doug found himself trapped and surrounded in the corner as I ran toward him. He shoveled the ball to me just as I saw Reuben make a move on the VMI center and I shot the ball to him, as he went toward the rim for the ball and dunked it savagely through the basket. And I turned into the applause, exalted, running, wild on the court. I burned. I burned with the joy of the game. I tell you I was a burning boy that night in Charleston.
But burning alone could not stop or interfere with the brilliance of Jimmy Mance. He began to control the tempo and flow of the game with the sheer immensity of his gifts. He scored on his first five jumps shots. Down the court he would lope toward me, directly toward me, looking at me with those blazing predator’s eyes, his body moving with a cold fluency, his dribble confident. He was the monarch of this brief season, and he knew the responsibilities of his reign. When he dribbled toward me maneuvering for his sixth shot, I shouted to him above the din of the crowd, “You’re humiliating me, Mance. You’re making me look like shit in front of all my friends.”
He smiled, then wheeled suddenly around a pic, and I watched the ball arc high into the air, barely above my outstretched hand. It hit the rim and fell into the hands of a leaping, fully extended Doug Cumming.
“You’re human, Mance. You’re actually a human being,” I screamed, breaking to the center of the court where I received a perfect pass over my shoulder from Doug and broke toward our basket with Johnny DuBruhl’s shout entering my left ear as he filled the lane. Driving toward Mance, who had fallen back to defend against the fast break, I cut toward his right side, went up into the air with him, waited until I saw both of his arms above my head, and hit Johnny with a behind-the-back pass he caught on the dead run. He scored without a man around him and the Corps went berserk. I danced back up the court, a thing of beauty, receiving the shouted praise as my just due.
But Mance came toward me again. And he came toward me every time VMI had the ball, every time we scored or missed a shot. His presence and the nobility of his skills excited me. He humbled me. He defeated me time and time again as he moved in my direction. I battled him with all my strength and canniness about the game. Every trick I knew I used against him. But he countered them with the simplicity of his art. I would drive the lane past him and score. He would answer me with a long jump shot from the top of the key. Then Reuben would break loose in the middle and score in one of his long sweeping hooks or Johnny would come off a pic and score on a lovely jump shot, tying the score.
Again, all eyes turned toward Mance, toward me guarding Mance, and he would break off a double pic with me scrambling to catch up to him and another shot would sting the net with astounding accuracy. His art was pure; his defender was only earnest. His team led by three at half-time. In those first twenty minutes, Mance had scored twenty-four points.
But he also had three fouls, and during the half-time talk Coach Byrum gave me license to drive the middle against Mance to get him to foul out. Byrum shouted the instructions at me as Bo wiped the sweat from my face with a towel.
As the centers faced off for the beginning of the second half, the cadets of R Company rose and gave me a standing ovation. Pig, Tradd, and Mark held aloft a banner that read, “Romeo LOVES McLean.” I had to turn away from that banner and my company to avoid crying in front of three thousand people.
“I heard a joke in the barracks today, Jimmy,” I said, laughing to myself. “It’s the funniest goddam joke I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s the joke?” he asked as the referee moved between the centers.
“I’m not going to tell you,” I said, grinning at him, “but I swear I laughed for an hour.”
VMI’s center controlled the jump. Mance received the ball and slowly began bringing it up the court. “What’s the joke?” he repeated above the noise of the crowd.
“It’s the funniest joke I’ve ever heard,” I answered as he turned his back to me and began backing me toward the basket. He failed to see Johnny DuBruhl leave the man he was guarding and sweep around Mance’s blind side, tipping the ball toward the scorer’s table. I broke for our basket and called for the ball.
The pass was too long and I sprinted for it as hard as I could run. It hit the floor in front of me and bounced high above the basket. I reached it in midair and shot the ball at the same instant, laying it against the painted white square of the glass backboard. I knew the shot was good before I saw it go in. When you are playing as well as you can play, there are times when you do not have to watch your shots strike the cords of the net. Experience and touch and instinct tell you that the shot is good as soon as it leaves your hand.
When I reached Mance, I taunted him, “On that last play, All-American candidate Jimmy Mance looked like horseshit. Everybody’s laughing at you, Jimmy.”
“Tell me the joke, McLean,” he threatened, keeping a wary eye on Johnny, “or I’m going to score every single time I come down the court. And you know I can come damn close to doing it.”
After issuing this statement, he pumped in a perfect twenty-five-foot jump shot that robbed the crowd of its exultancy and confidence. I quickly told him the only joke I could remember on the spur of the moment. “A cadet’s definition of an intellectual is anyone who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger.”
“That’s not funny, McLean,” he said, glowering angrily at me. “That’s the worst joke I ever heard.”
“You had to be there, Jimmy,” I answered, receiving the in-bounds pass from Johnny and bringing it up the court.
When I reached the front court, Reuben and the forwards cleared out of the middle; Johnny moved to the left of the court and stood directly in front of our bench.
“Drive him, Will,” Johnny called. “Drive his ass off.”
The right side of the court was left open for me to maneuver Mance.
“You’ve got three fouls, Jimmy,” I said, eyeing the big men of VMI dropping off their men to protect their star. “Be careful. The pro scouts want to know if you can play defense. If you can’t guard me there’s a chance you won’t be able to handle Jerry West and Oscar Robertson.”
“Come on, Will,” Mance challenged, sweat dropping off him in clean, hot drops.
I broke hard for the basket, beating Mance in a quick first step, put my body between him and the ball, and drove past him with all the speed and skill earned in a ten-year apprenticeship in the sport. But I felt him recover, match me step for step, straining to retrieve the last essential angle, which I refused to surrender. When I left my feet, I felt his breath and hovering presence and knew that he foolishly was going to try to block the shot. I showed him the ball and saw his long, muscled arm slap at it. He slapped my wrist instead as I pump faked, and with my eyes still on the basket and traveling full speed I was in the midst of doing what I did the best in my game. I laid the ball in softly, perfectly, with an underhand sweep that barely eluded a leaping VMI forward who had sloughed off Doug to help Man
ce.
I made the foul shot and the score was tied. For the next fifteen minutes, the play was spirited and furious, but with three minutes to play Johnny hit a jump shot that tied the score for the thirteenth time in the game.
Mance came down the court with his eye fixed to the clock. Picking him up at half court, I tried to make him surrender the ball or give up his dribble. But he was too good and quick, and he taught me some lessons about ball handling as he moved me toward the key.
I could sense that the other VMI players were setting up a series of screens behind me.
“Pic right, Will,” I heard Johnny cry out.
“Pic left,” I heard Doug’s voice and I knew that Mance was making his choices and taking his time.
I moved to my left, overplaying his right hand, his best hand. With a beautiful crossover dribble he drove to his left past the first pic, but kept his eye on me for a second too long. He did not see Johnny anticipate his move and jump into his path, establishing a solid defensive position. He did not see Johnny until he ran right over him, his shoulder catching Johnny in the midsection. It sounded like the collision of steers, and Johnny somersaulted across the court. The referee put his palm behind his head and signaled a charging violation. There was bedlam in the crowd as the buzzer sounded and the official score-keeper indicated that the great Jimmy Mance had fouled out of the game.
With his head down, Mance loped toward his bench. I followed him and near midcourt I laid my hand on his shoulder. He stopped, and we faced each other wordlessly. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we walked toward his bench together. The Corps rose and paid him homage in a thunderous, rousing ovation. Before he sat down, we embraced, embraced hard, and we held it for several moments. It would be the last time we would ever play against each other, the last time we would ever duel beneath the lights. He had scored forty points; I had scored twelve.