I don’t want to say that the guys were happy I wasn’t playing that year, but it was pretty obvious they weren’t going to be crying rivers of sadness for me. I had done too much last season to alienate myself from them to think they would have some sympathy that I’d busted up my leg and hip. The coach explained I would be acting like a student coach that season, meaning I was going to watch the squad and work with the guys one-on-one to build up the skills they needed to improve. At first it seemed like the shittiest thing I could do for a season, but then something happened. I remembered how much I loved the game of basketball. Last year it had been all about points and winning, and I forgot the sheer joy of just playing the game. It crept up on me. I was going over hand placement for free throws when I got up and hobbled over to the free-throw line. I couldn’t even jog yet, but standing still, I could do all right. The guy I was showing—I think his name was Simon or something—was watching as I steadied the ball with my left hand, showing him what I’d been talking about.
