Some people talk about generational trauma. You won't hear about it from your coach, or your team captains, because they're preaching optimism, drive, relentless pursuit, and all that other jargon. But sometimes, when you face the right team, you'll feel it.
Very few of the players who last faced Loyola-Istria were still on this roster. Just Björn Hennessy and Billiard Patson - but that was really all it took. Despite Björn's attempt at a rallying speech, it wasn't unlike a group of animals just following the programming they'd been assigned. Everyone else followed in their footsteps. They felt the tension associated with this game. Sure, they practiced harder, they locked in on film study, they showed up ready to play the game of their lives in Richardson Arena.
And then the buzzer went off, the Blue Thunder won the tip off, and before anyone knew what happened, the Governors were down nine to two.
When you put fleas in a jar, and put a lid on it, they become accustomed to only jumping at a certain height. Hennessy and Patson? They were accustomed to that height. The two men on this team with the most veterancy were falling apart. All their game experience, and they were locking up.
New coach. New roster. Years of successful college play to bolster their confidence - but what Loyola-Istria had done to them had seeped into their very bones. They didn't believe they could win. And the rest of the roster?
Monkeys are interesting you see. If you put a bunch of bananas at the top of a ladder, and spray all the monkeys with cold water every time one climbs to the top, the rest of the monkeys will start to attack any monkey that attempts the climb in fear of the punishment. But when you start to substitute all the monkeys out for new monkeys, monkeys that were never sprayed, they'll still attack any monkey that tries to climb - they don't know why, but they know they can't let it happen.
And not all the monkeys were gone.
The rest of the team picked up on the nervousness, no, the fear, and what happened would have been one of the most humiliating moments in the history of Richardson sports if everyone and their mother hadn't been expecting it. 86-67 - and only then because of a 10-2 run in the final few minutes when the Blue Thunder bench took the floor.
And this thing was, of course, over far earlier. Every timeout, every stoppage, the Governor squad looked broken. Hanging their heads, sometimes kneeling down, rubbing their eyes, and looking up at the scoreboard as if trying to convince themselves this was all some bad nightmare.
Richardson's athletic director of nearly thirty years, Greg Clemens, was seen exiting the Governor locker room with basketball head coach Billy Garrett at the end of the night. Ranoria's former IBC head coach, the man who spearheaded the Governors for six seasons? Social media - and Richardson University - was ablaze with rumors by the time the announcement was made the next morning - he was out as head coach.

Office of the Richardson University Athletic Director - Greg Clemens
Greg Clemens rubbed his eyes, trying to clear out the pressure behind them. He wasn't sure if it was his exhaustion or the early morning light. Or if it was the still chanting crowd of Richardson University students outside of the McNair Memorial Athletic Center. He'd hoped his post announcing the firing of Billy Garrett would calm them - shit, sacrificing a guy who'd gotten the Governors deep into the national basketball tournament a half dozen times in as many tries should have been enough to appearse them, right?
But the chants that routinely shook the massive glass panes of his windows the the ever-increasing number of discarded solo cups, disposable vapes, and candy wrappers littering the outskirts of the pride and joy of his department, Dietrich Stadium, said otherwise.
He leaned against the window, unflinching at the occasional crumpled soda can that got whipped towards the window.
This school hated Loyola-Istria - but they couldn't exactly take this out on the Blue Thunder - it was his job first and foremost to bring in a coach who could beat their boogeyman. His responsibility to give the program the resources to do it. But how the hell was he supposed to do that? Even if Richardson was made into a perennial title contender at home, it probably wouldn't be enough to compete with Banijan basketball.
"Greg."
He hadn't noticed the door open, but with what was going on outside, he wasn't taking chances, whipping around and immedietely reaching for his hip.
But when his tired eyes gained focus, on the man. For most, they might've finished the draw when they saw the mountain of a man - his shoulders and head both nearly brushing the frame of the door. But for Greg, tension in his shoulders eased a bit at his old friend. "Wendell."
Greg gestured to a seat, but Wendell Walker, president of the greatest university in the country, waved a hand to decline.
"This won't take long, Greg."
Wendell's massive form was a silhouette, no, a shadow seeming to absorb the light from behind him, the tips of his boots just inches away from the light of day finding them. He was always imposing, but right now, he looked downright ominous, and Greg audibly gulped, noticing that his focus, at least, was no longer registering the chanting outside as anything more than white noise.
"What's up Wendell?" Greg took his hand away from his hip, leaning down on his desk, "Been a long night, brother."
"You know the how the uh," he pointed up, "boosters feel about getting embarrassed."
Greg tilted his head, "Well, yeah, that's why I had to let Billy go, last night," he cursed and smacked the top of his desk, "Great coach too, runaway hire, hate it!"
"He wasn't a great coach." Wendell sharply countered, and Greg finally picked up on what was happening, "And the fact that you said that tells me all I need to know. He had one job, and he failed. Greg, you will find a replacement for that failure who will beat Loyola."
"What?" Greg stood up, arms outstretched, "Come on man! I'll try, but this season? With a replacement coach and these broken ass players!? What the hell is wrong with you!?"
"'Broken ass players' my ass," Wendell stepped forward into the light, his eye patch visible now, maybe even more imposing in the light, "Let me make this clear. You're on the chopping block, I've given you plenty of chances with this garbage, and I vouched for you to the boosters. No more mistakes, Greg."
Greg flinched, stepping back as Wendell approached, and managed a nod, at least.
"And whether I fire you or not, don't ever take that tone with me again, worm."
The chanting was suddenly audible again. Wendell stopped just in front of the desk, and Greg was pressed up against the glass window, the heat only adding to his perspiration, the inflamed crowd only re-invigorated at the sight of the athletic director.
"Yes sir."
McNair Memorial Indoor Facility
This was a downright star studded coaching staff. Kasen Harrowitz, defensive coordinator of a championship Felswyr State squad and for the Iron Legion - and he'd proven himself as head man of the Governors as well with his two NSCF championships to this point. Brad Manlio, a Sadeg State legend, had come on as offensive coordinator. Alton Kearse headed the defense, uncle of Gideon and brother to Justin Kearse. An RFL standout and former All-Ranorian in his own right with all the coaching pedigree you could ask for to lead a program, much less a defense.
"I still can't believe you let Yadav walk," Brad Manlio laughed as he and Kasen Harrowitz watched Dex Banka dice up a defense that was - allegedly - the reigning best in college football. "Can't tell you what I could've done with that kid." Banka's pass connected, and the quarterback couldn't help put pump his fist. "Dex!" Manlio shouted, and his superstar turned around, "Wrong read, you hit Mugisha there and we've got just as many yards, no defenders!" Dex flashed him a thumbs up and an apology, and the coach broke character for a second, "Helluva throw though."
"We didn't know either," Kasen groaned, still obviously pained from watching his Iron Legion give up three losses to his former passer, "That's why you're he-" suddenly, the music stopped. Practice continued, but the two turned to see the rare sight of Greg Clemens, dropping a cable in one hand and waving to the two men with the other.
"That's the AD right?" Brad looked back to Harrowitz, "The hell's he doing?"
"Gentlemen, I need you both, now. Wrap this thing up." Greg made a lasso with his finger.
"Excuse me? Greg, this is my team, what the hell are you talking about ending practice? LeBois Santura isn't calling off spring practice early. Loyola-Istria isn-"
"This is about Loyola-Istria. Shit! Please, I wouldn't ask if this wasn't urgent, but the basketball guys start their practice in twenty minutes, there's no time!"
Both of them let that hang in the air for a minute. Studied Greg's pleading form. Looked at each other, nodded, and Kasen Harrowitz turned to Alton Kearse, their defensive coordinator. "Alton! Go ahead and finish up practice! We've got urgent business, good work today men!"
Greg didn't wait long to start explaining the situation once they were outside of the facility.
"Listen fellas. We're in a tight spot. Right now the assistant coaches are co-heading the basketball team. We need a miracle, or we're going to have a repeat of last time - we cannot lose to Loyola again."
"And what do you want us to do about it?" Harrowitz shook his head, "Every day we're preparing to beat those guys! This basketball thing sucks, but we all know the Bowl is the game that matters! Pulling us out of practice isn't helping that! Why are you disrupting the football team?" Greg looked at the ground, the winter chill biting through their windbreakers, and Harrowitz got it. "Your job is on the line, isn't it?"
Greg nodded, "I know, you're probably the pick if they give me the outs, but I'm asking, no, begging you, let me borrow your offensive coordinator."
Brad balked, "What did you just say?"
Greg slung his backpack down his arm, unzipped it, and pulled out a comically oversized jacked bearing the Richardson University logo with basketball in fine print underneath it. "Listen, the Net Corps have done more in single seasons than the Ranorian team ever managed in its history. You're Drawkian, you're our best chance to turn this thing around! Please!"
Kasen Harrowitz snorted, and Manlio laughed almost maniacally, "Are you kidding me? Get out of here man. I came here to step back from head coaching, focus on what I'm best on, develop a potentially generational talent in that Banka kid. And you want me to toss all that aside? I don't know shit about basketball!"
"Please," Greg pleaded, holding the jacket out like a lifeline, "I'll make sure you're celebrated, win or lose, before they kick me to the curb. You have to try."
The wind howled its own protest as if nature itself knew this was a stupid ass idea, the bastard child of a potential caffeine overdose, two sleepless nights, and the aftertaste of desperation that led to regret the next morning. "Greg, I'm so-"
"I'll double your pay for the next month!"
"I don't need yo-"
"Hey," Kasen Harrowitz cut him off, "Look, our official spring practices are almost over anyway. What the hell Brad, let's give it a shot."
Greg's face came up, the faintest ghost of an open-mouthed smile forming on his cheeks, and the sun broke through the gray clouds for the first time in months. The glow illuminated the Drawkian in its golden light, an angel sent from heaven - maybe unironically, depending on what you classify as heaven.
Brad Manlio steeled himself, and in one arm took the jacket, swinging it around his shoulders and shooting one arm through in a single smooth motion. The wind caught the fabric, fluttering it behind him like the cape of a hero, and the sun glinted off his eyes.
Greg fell to his knees, then all fours, body wracked with sobs, "Thank you Brad, Kasen, thank you!"
"Morons," Brad Manlio shook his head, his own melancholy shattering the illusion of a heroic moment. The wind died down and the skies returned to gray. Kasen Harrowitz couldn't help but laugh.
"Where the hell's the gymnasium?"












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