By Pat Conroy
NEW YORK occasions BESTSELLER • A deeply affecting coming-of-age memoir approximately relatives, love, loss, basketball—and lifestyles itself—by the cherished writer of The Prince of Tides and The nice Santini
in the course of one unforgettable season as a castle cadet, Pat Conroy turns into a part of a basketball crew that's finally destined to fail. And but for an army child who grew up at the circulate, the Bulldogs supply a sanctuary from the chilly, abrasive father who dominates his life—and a crucible for changing into his personal man.
With all of the drama and incandescence of his bestselling fiction, Conroy re-creates his pivotal senior 12 months as captain of the fort Bulldogs. He chronicles the highs and lows of that fateful 1966–67 season, his difficult disciplinarian trainer, the fun of successful, and the hard-won classes of wasting. so much of all, he recounts how a gaggle of boys got here jointly as a staff, taking part in a game that might turn into a metaphor for a guy whose spirit may by no means be defeated.
Praise for My wasting Season
“A awesome accomplishment, perhaps the best booklet Pat Conroy has written.”—The Washington put up ebook World
“A splendidly wealthy memoir that you simply don’t need to be a activities fan to love.”—Houston Chronicle
“A memoir with the entire Conroy emblems . . . Here’s abundant facts that losers continuously inform the easiest stories.”—Newsweek
“In My wasting Season, Conroy opens his palms vast to embody his tricky previous and nearly every person in it.”—New York day-by-day News
“Haunting, bittersweet and as compelling as his bestselling fiction.”—Boston Herald
From the Hardcover edition.
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Extra info for My Losing Season: A Memoir
After he spoke to each of us, he retreated from the locker room like an ambassador for a third-world nation intimidated by the hauteur of the Court of St. James's. “Little Mel,” as we called him, was intimidated by us still and did not feel comfortable interacting with us quite yet. ” Danny asked the room. “He just lucked out,” Bridges said. “What a sinking ship,” Bob said. “Hey, none of that, Cauthen,” DeBrosse said. “We're going to have a great team this year. None of this negative shit. ” Bob answered.
Cauthen whispered. ” Coach Thompson barked. “No, sir,” Bob said, lowering his head. Our coach required gestures of submission. “You still ain't worth a shit, Conroy,” DeBrosse teased me, slapping my butt as he ran by me. “You're shorter than you were last year,” I whispered, coming up behind him in the figure eight line. ” In truth, John and I were both very small basketball players, and that's why we were guards. John was prickly and defensive about his height while I was not; I was prickly and defensive about my shooting ability or lack thereof.
Even my father had warned me that Lenore was a gold digger, saying that I was an easy southern mark who did not understand one thing about the slippery, counterfeiting strategies of a big-city woman on the make. I thought that the beautiful, flippant Lenore was misunderstood. I had met the dark woman at last, the woman who let me in on the secret that the ferocity of tyrants could hide in the sweet flow of mother's milk, that the words “I love you” could contain all the bloodthirsty despair of the abattoir, all the hopelessness of the most isolated, frozen gulag, all the lurid sadness of death row.