Free The Squared Circle by JAMES W. BENNETT

a great game he played, and so did Andrea. Uncle Seth introduced Sonny to an insurance man, but Sonny was watching from the corner of his eye where he saw Rice talking to McAllister, the head coach at the high school.
    By the time he peeled off his jersey in the locker room, most of the other guys were already showering. That was when Rice walked in and said, “Youngblood, I need to talk to you for a minute; come into the office.”
    â€œRight now?”
    â€œRight now. Follow me.”
    As soon as they were both inside the basketball office, Rice closed the door. Sonny sat on a folding chair whose cold metal shivered his warm flesh. Rice parked in the swivel chair and groaned it like everything; he lit up a Marlboro Light.
    â€œYoungblood, we need to talk. I’m going to give you some advice, which you may or may not decide to take. Players don’t usually choose to listen to advice, because they think they know it all.”
    â€œI can listen to advice,” said Sonny. His voice broke a little; the shortness of breath was from the tension created by going one-on-one with Brother Rice.
    â€œYou’re not tired, are you?”
    â€œNo,” said Sonny. “I’m not tired.”
    â€œGood. Bad things happen to players who are tired. Mistakes, lapses in concentration. Even a player with very little talent can be in shape. You, of course, have lots of talent.”
    Sonny flushed a little. It was very matter-of-fact the way the coach said it, like he was counting his change or talking about the weather, but it was a high compliment. Rice searched for the ashtray that was hiding somewhere on the desk beneath piles of folders, mail, circulars, and sports literature. Even the telephone was mostly buried under paper.
    Rice took a deep drag before he exhaled upward toward the steampipe ceiling. He continued, “Right now, it’s talent that’s getting you by. At this level it’s enough. At the next level, it won’t be.”
    Sonny wasn’t sure where the coach was headed, but he did know one thing: when you talked to Rice, your job was to listen.
    â€œYou don’t know yet what it means to play hard. You can coast and win because of your natural ability. I can’t see you playing with the sophomores next year, and neither can McAllister. You’ll be on the varsity. From freshman basketball to the high school varsity is a big jump. What’s going to happen when you’re challenged?”
    The compliments were nice, but Sonny couldn’t help feeling wounded. He thought of the countless hours he practiced on his own, any time of year, any place, any kind of weather. “You don’t think I try hard?”
    â€œI think you play as hard as you know how. The time will come when you’ll need to know how to play harder. Youngblood, I’ve seen thousands of players and coached hundreds. There’s lots of talented players out there, but the thing that separates them, what makes the great players, is mental toughness. These are the guys with the switch inside; there’s always another notch on the switch, so they can always turn it up one more level. They have the inner voice that keeps telling them ‘I can play harder than this’ each time down the floor.”
    Smoke streamed from Rice’s nostrils while he paused to crush out his cigarette. Sonny tried to think of this as something other than a put-down; he knew his coach wouldn’t waste this kind of time and energy on an average player.
    â€œYou see what I’m saying, Youngblood?”
    â€œSort of, I guess.”
    Rice tipped back in the straining chair. He locked his fat fingers on the enormous belly. “You ever watch Nova , Youngblood?”
    â€œNo, my mother does.”
    â€œThey’re running a series on sharks. You should see the sharks in a feeding frenzy, turning the water red.” He was smiling his crooked smile. “Ferocious and single-minded,