Free Life Is Not an Accident by Jay Williams Page B

a break.
    That training manual collected dust for two months. I spent the summer hanging out with friends, getting ready to live the dream, thinking I had it down. They gave us a couple of days to get acclimated, then Booz and I met with the head manager, Jeff LaMere, and his staff, who’d be supervising our workouts. Theirjob was to coordinate our practices, prepare all of our equipment in the locker rooms and on the court, remind us of our individual workout times, and basically coordinate the whole show.
    Will Stephens told Carlos and me that our first workout would be on the track. Now, if you’ve never been to North Carolina in July, let me tell you, it is not the most comfortable place in the world. It’s 100 degrees and the humidity is off the charts. You’re dripping sweat just from walking. Booz had just eaten two or three hot dogs and was finishing the last one as we walked into the locker room. Jeff said, “Boozer, having hot dogs before a workout is probably not the best thing to do.”
    Carlos, a gentle giant off the court, had a chip on his shoulder back then. “Whatever, Jeff. I’m good.” We got dressed, put on our blue shorts with the Duke logo, and began to officially commence our college basketball careers. When we went outside, we noticed all of the skill-position players of the football team warming up. Will told us we would be working out with them. And that was when it occurred to me how smart it would’ve been to have opened that thick book.
    One drill had us running around the track, and every time we hit a certain mark, we had to do a sprint. I don’t know how many meters, but it was a long-distance sprint. We jogged, then sprinted, then jogged, then sprinted—15 or 20 times. I’d never worked out like this before. The heat was unbearable.
    After doing these jog-sprints, I was ready to keel over and pass out. After four, I almost threw up in my mouth. So if I’m struggling, how do you think poor Boozer is doing? He’s from Alaska. There’s no heat like this in Alaska. He sounded like a wounded animal. When people are tired, it’s normal to put your hands on your knees and breathe heavily. His toes were pointed inward, hisknees were touching, and he was taking these deep breaths that sounded like a bear moaning in the woods.
    â€œYo, Booz, you okay? You gonna make it?”
    All he could manage was “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”
    It’s hysterical now, but at the time I was too tired to laugh. We sprinted with the wide receivers and picked up huge tractor tires and pulled ropes in the sand against each other, all this Navy SEAL shit. Afterwards, we crawled back into the locker room and into this massive bathroom, where we collapsed on the cold tile floor.
    That was when Boozer threw up on himself.
    Jeff was standing just outside the bathroom door with a knowing look on his face. “See, Carlos, I told you you shouldn’t have had a hot dog.”
    â€œShut the fuck up, Jeff, and go get me another dog,” Boozer wheezed.
    And that was just the first day. Eventually things got a little easier, but it certainly took a lot to adjust to training at that level. If you’re a Duke recruit reading this right now, I have one piece of advice: read the damn book.
    The first week of practices was a nightmare. I knew nothing. I couldn’t remember plays, and my conditioning was still a work in progress. J.D. Simpson was guarding me; he was a junior walk-on and was in terrific shape. We were playing five-on-five, and I remember getting the ball inbounded, turning around, and almost colliding face-to-face. His defensive pressure was relentless. I wasn’t even able to bring the ball up the floor. He never got tired.
    â€œStop!” Coach K barked when I turned the ball over. “Why would you do that? Why would you go this way? Why didn’t you just beat him up the court? Beat him up the court!” And he would do this