My Losing Season by Pat Conroy

Author:Pat Conroy
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553898187
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2003-08-25T16:00:00+00:00

MY FATHER, RESPLENDENT IN HIS Marine Corps uniform, met me at Washington National Airport and drove me to Falls Church, Virginia, where I would spend Christmas in still another strange house. My family had moved in late summer and I had written letters to another address I had not seen. Dad was never friendly or bantering with me when I was in college. I kept my hatred of him in a tight hermitage—I was his Northern Ireland; he was my England. We rode for ten miles without saying a single word. I turned on the radio, found a station I liked, and he snapped it off.

Finally, he spoke. “Your team is shit.”

“We're having a little trouble getting it together, Dad.”

“You're shit. I saw the George Washington box score. You scored three big ones. I wouldn't even let 'em put my name in the box score if I only scored three.”

“We won that game, Dad,” I said. “By three points, I think,” I added cautiously.

“You couldn't carry my jock. I ate guys like you alive for breakfast,” he said, looking at me for a reaction. He got none.

As a small boy I remember my father taking over every basketball game he played in, an intimidating figure who taunted enemy crowds with angry gestures and fighting words. My mother once moved my sister Carol and me out of a crowd of sailors who were screaming obscenities at my father, who was jawing back to them with gusto. My father was the dirtiest basketball player I have ever seen. It pleased him every time he heard me say it.

In silence we drove another five miles before Dad said, at a light, “Florida State kicked the shit out of you.”

“They sure did, Dad.”

“You get in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Score any?”

“Twelve, Dad.”

“Bullshit. Somebody on Florida State's team would've had to die during the game for you to get twelve.”

“Got lucky, Dad,” I said, staring straight ahead.

“You beat those Ivy League pussies, though,” he said.

“Columbia University.”

“Ivy League. There's pussy basketball at its best.”

“Bradley at Princeton, Dad. Can't forget that.”

“You get in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Score any?”

“Twelve, sir.”

My father looked at me to see if I was lying, then said, “Bullshit. They must have stunk up the floor.”

“Got lucky, Dad.”

“Hooper break a leg? He's the one who beat you out.”

“He's been in a slump, Dad. Just a sophomore. He'll be back. He's great.”

“He'll beat you out again. He'll sense that you're a loser.”

Thus I received my annual Christmas pep talk from my father, who drove the rest of the way home in silence.

At home, my four younger brothers and two sisters engulfed me in a wave of sweetness that always felt cleansing and right. I hugged my mother, her eyes set with all the charm and hysteria and unhappiness that house could produce in its terrifying inadequacy. The family had picked up two tailless, feral cats named Wart and Halloween, who hid in the closets and under sofas, periodically lunging out to claw or bite a passing bare foot. The pets were perfect metaphors for the damage being passed out all around.

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