I was groggy when I came to, which was when I looked to my right at K, still holding my hand.
"I'm never going to play again." I began to sob.
I had been mourning all that I had thrown away, and now I was overcome with guilt, ashamed that I had let him down.
He let go of his firm grasp, reached into his pocket and took out a pendant. He told me it was his mother's rosary as he put it in my hand. "Give this back to me when you play again, because you are going to play again."
I looked directly at him, but that wasn't good enough for him. He demanded that I hear him and feel what he was saying.
"Look at me," he said with conviction. "You're going to play again."
I am certain he was distraught seeing one of his many surrogate sons in such a horrifying condition, but he refused to show sadness or disappointment. Instead he stood by my side, not allowing me the option of giving up.
As much as I respected and loved Coach K, there were times when I was angry with him because I didn't understand his thinking. During games, his intensity knew no bounds, and whenever he yelled that my best wasn't good enough, it took every ounce of me not to respond to him with what was really on my mind. I knew better than to shoot my mouth off, but I had to do something to release the frustration and prevent my head from exploding, so I took it out on my opponents. The more Coach K got in my face to challenge me, the more I would try to kill the guy who guarded me on the court.
