#new athlete “there is a 6 foot guy in the hall fighting with a 5 foot guy should we do something

[d4rkshad0w]

i’m pretty sure more than one athlete from a different sport in Fox tower has Wymacks number, i wonder the amount of times that other athletes have heard the foxes shouting in 3 different languages with some parts in english, then fighting in the hallway (neil/kevin , neil/aaron) and their first thought was that they were trying to kill each other so they got Wymacks number to tell him to go control his pack of wild hyenas

[jamesbucksiclebarnes]

Rating: Mature: Language, violence, Major Character Death.

Chapter List: [1] | [2] | [3] | [4] | [5] | [6] | [7] | [8] | [9] | [10] | [11] | [12] | [13] | [14] | [15] | [16] | [17]

[AO3 Link] | [Fic Page]

Tag List: @crossbowking, @khaleesislytherin

SERIES SUMMARY:

"Not human. She was not human. They all knew it. Could almost feel it, but couldn't make sense of it. That was why they were afraid. Not because of what she used to be Before. But because of what she was now."

Having found herself serving as the right-hand to the Governor for too long, Synnove le Jacques does her best to make things right with the people of the Prison. Stuck beside her partner in crime, her irritatingly obnoxious and hideously problematic best friend, Merle, she does her best to fight back against the monster she has let the Governor become.

CHAPTER TITLE: At The Gates of Hades.

When we arrived at the gates of Woodbury, night had fallen.

We had parked the cars up the road, out of sight, and made the rest of the journey on foot. As per the plan, I separated from the group once we were within throwing distance of the gate, skulking off into the shadows to the right. I got as close as I could without being spotted and waited for Rick to fire off half a round into the gate.

Once he had drawn the attention of the two guards, I stalked forwards, keeping low and silent until I reached the building where the gate met the solid brick wall. It was easy to climb. I’d done it a dozen times before.

Neither of the two people lying prone atop the guard walk that ran along the top of the gate noticed me. It took me a second to realize I didn’t recognise either of them, meaning my sheer presence alone wouldn’t be enough to subdue them.

They continued to fire into the darkness, toward the upturned car Rick and Daryl were hiding behind.

“G’day mates,” I greeted loudly.

Both the burly man and athletically slender woman jolted at the suddenness of my voice. The girl was the first on her feet, swinging her rifle toward me. I stepped into her guard as quick as lightning, grabbing the gun by the barrel and twisting it to the side.

The woman let out a hiss of pain as her finger twisted inside the trigger guard, forcing her to pull her hand back. With her grip on the rifle loosened, I was easily able to yank it from her grip, turning in place to make a move against the man.

He was tall with wide-set shoulders and thickly coiled arms, but his size made him slow. By the time I’d disarmed the woman, he’d only just managed to get onto his feet.

I used the butt of the gun to strike him in the chest, winding him easily before smoothly reaching to pull my knife free from my belt. The motion was so quick and elegant that the woman didn’t even have time to register what I was doing until my arm was mid-swing.

She sucked in a breath of fear as I slashed the knife toward the man.

The strap of his rifle frayed and snapped. Having not expected the rifle’s full weight to suddenly be in his hand, the man’s grip faltered slightly. I lifted my leg and kicked at the man’s forearm, jarring his loose hold on the gun enough that it clattered to the floor.

The woman, overcoming her slight shock, stepped forward in an attempt to subdue me. I felt her coming and stepped backwards, ducking beneath her arm before straightening behind her. The rifle in my grip fell to the floor, enabling me to reach out and grab her, lifting my other hand to hold my knife to her throat.

The man’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in shock as he raised his hands.

“No, no,” he pleaded. “Please. Take me, not her. Please.”

I watched him silently for a moment, taking in the pure fear on his face as his gaze slipped between my face and the knife I was gently pressing against the dark skin of the woman’s throat.

“Relax, big boy,” I said after a minute, letting my grip on the woman fall lax. Purposefully, I stepped away from her, sheathing the knife. “Just needed to get your attention.”

The woman took a quick step forward to stand beside him, her hand reaching up to the unmarred skin of her throat.

From the road bellow, Rick’s voice called up, “Open the gate!”

The man seemed to do a double-take when he looked down at Rick, his eyes going wide. Beside him, the girl’s face contorted into a scowl.

“We’re not letting you in here,” she said pointedly.

“Fine,” I sighed. “I will.”

I saw her eyes snap down to the discarded rifle by her feet mere seconds before she actually made a move for it. My knife was out of its sheath, flying through the air, and embedding itself in the wood between the grip and trigger guard before her hand could even reach it. She jerked back.

“We aren’t here to fight you,” I insisted.

“Tyreese! Sasha!” Karen’s voice called from the darkness.

The man, Tyreese, jerked his entire body toward the sound as he called out, equally confused as he was concerned, “Karen? Karen, are you okay?”

She stepped out from the shadows of the trees and into the light. “I’m fine!”

“Where’s the Governor?” Tyreese asked with a suspicious glance toward me.

“He fired on everyone,” Karen replied, a hitch in her voice. “He killed them all.”

Tyreese and Sasha shared a troubled glance before looking back down at her, gesturing a hand toward Rick. “Why are you with them?” he asked.

“They saved me,” Karen replied.

Sasha turned to look at me, her brows furrowed, thick lips turned down at the corners. “Who are you – why are you here?”

“Synnove,” I answered. Their instant, somewhat shocked reaction told me that they had definitely heard my name before. “We were on our way to finish this when we found Karen and the others.”

“They… He… He killed them all?” Tyreese asked, his voice shaken slightly as he gave me a heart-wrenched look.

I nodded once, swallowing against the sharp sensation in my throat.

With a deep sigh, Tyreese looked to the woman standing beside him and pursed his lips. Seemingly making up his mind, he turned and began to climb down the haphazardly built ladder. Sasha followed him. Once they were both on the ground, I jumped down, landing on the asphalt beside him with nary a sound.

Together, we pulled open the gate.

Rick approached purposefully, looking intensely up at Tyreese, his lips in a tight line.

Tyreese was almost comically larger than Rick, which would have made me laugh had the circumstances been different.

“Karen told us Andrea hopped the fence, made a break for the prison,” Rick informed them. “She never made it.”

Both Sasha and Tyreese’s expressions fell. They knew what that meant. The Governor had gotten to her first.

“She might still be here,” Rick stated, giving both guards pointed looks.

I felt something cold spread through my vines as both Sasha and Tyrese shared a troubled glance. Neither of them knew where to even begin looking for her.

But I did. And the realization made my stomach twist painfully.

“Follow me,” I breathed, grabbing Rick by the sleeve of his shirt and tugging him forwards.

I led them down to the cells with my heart lodged in my throat. The distant tang of copper lingered on my tongue, the smell growing stronger with each step toward the building in which we had always housed our prisoners. When we reached the hall, the stench of both death and blood was almost overwhelming.

“This is where he’d keep her,” I stated with a hoarse voice, gesturing down the hallway toward the ominous metal door at its end.

Rick made a move to step past me and I reached out to grab his shoulder. He turned his head jerkily, giving me an agitated look before his expression softened slightly at the sight of my guilty frown.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” I breathed.

He gave me a nod of acknowledgement before pulling away.

Michonne followed behind him, her hand gripping the handle of her blade as if she, too, had the sense she may need to use it.

Daryl lingered in the entrance of the hall, watching me as I stood there in indecision. Did I want to know what lay behind that door? Probably not. But I didn’t want them to face it alone. With a curt nod to the man beside me, I began to follow Rick and Michonne down the hall.

Rick tried to push the door open only to find the lock securely in place. He called out Andrea’s name and was met with a breathy, weak response from the other side. Spurred on by concern, he attempted to throw his body against the metal door, willing it to open beneath his weight. It held strong for a few moments before finally crumbling from the assault, bursting open and filling the hallway with an overwhelming stench of blood and death.

Rick stepped inside, followed shortly by Michonne. The looks on their faces solidified the idea that what lay beyond was nothing but bad news.

Daryl stepped in next. He let out a sigh through his nose at the sight before him.

Next, I slowly passed through the doorway.

Andrea sat, partially sunken to the floor, against the metallic wall beside the doorway. Her pale skin was almost grey, coated in a thick sheen of sweat. On her shoulder was a wide, gaping circular wound, spilling blood down the front of her shirt. I had lived in this world long enough to know a biter’s mark when I saw one.

While Rick, Michonne, and Daryl stood around her, I found my gaze being drawn across the room to the second body. Slowly, I stepped over to it, coming to a stop beside it with a sickening feeling beginning to well in my stomach.

Crouching down, I reached out to touch the corpse’s shoulder and began to turn him over. I needn’t have bothered. I already knew who it was. Looking down at his slackened expression was still a punch to the gut.

“Goddamn it, Milton,” I whispered to myself.

“He turned on him,” Andrea breathed from the other side of the wall.

I turned in place to look at her with a frown.

“He tried to help me,” she wheezed.

My frown slowly turned into a sad smile as I looked back at her, nodding. Figures the moment Milton did something out of his comfort zone, it’d get the poor guy killed. I turned him over onto his back, putting his arms over his chest as some kind of sign of respect, before straightening and coming to stand beside the others.

Tyreese and Sasha were both lingering in the doorway. Their matching expressions of horror would have been comical in a less devastating circumstance.

The group shared their final goodbyes with Andrea. It was heart-wrenching to say the least. I barely knew the woman and even I felt close to tears.

When she looked over to me, I gave her an appreciate nod. “Sucks to be the good guy sometimes, don’t it?” I asked with a sad grin. The remark made her chuckle which, in turn, made her wince.

Michonne’s goodbye was the worst. My jaw clenched so hard it began to ache. I was trying too hard to hold back the sorrow. But once all was said, Rick gave her a gun and we left her to do what needed to be done.

The sound of the gunshot made everyone flinch. Even me.

Later that day, I stood upon the steps of the town hall with Tyreese, Karen, and Sasha beside me. We told the people the truth of the Governor’s actions, of the stories he had spun in order to make us seem like the villains. Some had accepted our words as fact whilst others had argued that I was just trying to save face.

Karen’s assurances were the only thing that kept them from revolting against me and soon, when the sun reached the centre of the sky, many of the people of Woodbury accepted me once again as their friend and comrade.

Rick came to stand beside me, offering the people of Woodbury sanctuary at the prison. He wasn’t shy about describing the difficulties. Starting anew would be a lot of work but, with all of us, it was entirely possible to begin a community that valued its people more than its power.

Almost everyone agreed. Those who didn’t decided to leave of their own volition. We didn’t stop them.

I began yelling out orders for Nelson and Margarette to fetch the buses from the Governor’s yard and for the rest of the people to gather their belongings. We couldn’t be sure when or if the Governor would even return, so it was best to act quickly. I stressed that fact as calmly as I could. Everyone obeyed without question.

Once I was confident everyone was in motion, I led Daryl and Rick to the supply rooms. We still had a dozen or so seeds that had yet to be planted, a whole shelf full of canned goods, and whatever weaponry the Governor had deigned to leave behind. Daryl began packing the stuff up in boxes.

I grabbed Rick by the shoulder and jerked my head toward the second door. It led to a small enclosed pantry, within which I knew lay something that would be beneficial to Rick in particular.

He walked beside me over toward the door and I pulled it open with a wide grin, watching his expression as he saw what lay within.

The pure, elated look of joy on his face was enough to warm my chest, to set the sorrow toiling within aside for a welcomed moment.

“Our youngest was still dependant on this when she and her mother first arrived,” I explained, looking into the cupboard with a smile. “Believe it or not, most of it was found in the town itself. Didn’t even need to go out venturing for it. Lucky for you.”

Rick turned away from the shelf of baby formula and gave me a wide grin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The day passed us by quickly. Everyone was almost ready to go before the sun had dipped beneath the tree line.

I was standing by the school bus with Daryl, making sure all the kids were getting on safely, when the thing I had been dreading the most happened.

Two girls, pale with curly red hair and wide, innocent eyes, came bounding up to me. Their faces were identical down to the last freckle across their tiny, button noses. The Helena twins had taken to me the moment we’d met, when their mother had first joined the guard alongside me. Since her arrival, we had spent a lot of time together, to the point where the twins had begun jokingly referring to me as “Aunty Syn”. The moment I saw them all but skipping up to me, their twin ponytails bouncing along, my heart froze mid-beat.

My entire body went cold. I could barely move by the time they reached me, both throwing themselves at me with such force I let out a grunt and had to step back in order to keep my balance. Their arms wrapped around my waist as they both let out a series of sweet giggles.

“We knew you’d come back,” Tayra said chirpily.

“Mommy said you wouldn’t, but we knew,” said Ava.

Slowly, my entire body fighting against the urge to break down right then and there, I wrapped my arms around them. My chest was so tight I was struggling to breathe, my jaw clenching and unclenching with the effort it was taking not to cry.

How the fuck was I supposed to tell these girls… These sweet, innocent girls that their mother was dead? That she’d been gunned down by the very man that had promised them safety?

My mask was beginning to slip. I couldn’t keep it in place. Face contorting into a miserable frown, I looked beside me with a desperate look at Daryl.

Understanding dawned on his face instantly. But what could he do?

The girls pulled away from me and I, against all odds, managed to slip that mask straight back into place with enough effort to tear a figurative muscle. Neither of them sensed anything was wrong.

“Are we all going to the prison now?” Tayra asked with a grin. “I’ve never been to a prison before.”

I lowered myself down into a crouch and touched both of their shoulders on opposite sides. “Yeah. We are. You excited?”

Both girls nodded gleefully.

I gave them what even I admit was a strained smile. They were ignorant to the reality that awaited them. Did I have the willpower to be the one to pull the veil of innocence from their eyes?

“Good. You got everything?” I asked.

They shared a thoughtful look before nodding at me with a grin. “Miss Silvia packed our bags for us,” Ava answered.

“Did she remember Mr and Mrs Piggy?” I asked them with a forced look of humorously exaggerated mock doubt, referring to the identical stuffed pigs they never slept without.

Tayra giggled. “Of course, she did!”

I nodded and rose to my feet. “That’s good. Are you ready to go?”

That was when things took a turn for the worst. Ava and Tayra shared another look in the way I guessed all twins did. It was a look that carried an entire conversation. When they looked back at me, their demeanour had shifted slightly. They seemed almost shy.

“We’re waiting for Mommy,” Tayra said.

“We don’t want to go without her,” Ava added.

I had hoped beyond hope that they just wouldn’t bring it up. A stupid hope, I know. Really, it was cruel of me to stretch this on. Selfish, even. But I’d needed a minute to gather the balls to do it.

With an unrestrained miserable look at Daryl, I lowered myself back down into a crouch and reached out to take both of their tiny hands in my own.

Daryl, understanding my need to do this alone, took a deep breath through his nose before walking away, toward where Rick and Michonne were standing by the other bus.

“Listen girls,” I began, fighting to keep my tone clear and crisp. The sorrow beneath my voice was unmistakeable, however, and both girls looked troubled as they glanced down at our joined hands. “Your mum… uh… Your mother, she… She’s gone, girls. I’m sorry.”

They blinked up at me in confusion. Both of them had already begun to tear up, their green eyes shining as they shook their heads in almost perfect unison. They pulled their hands from mine and stepped back.

“No – No, she’s not!” Tayra yelled angrily.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Ava, unlike her sister, was timid and confused. “Gone where?”

Fucking God. I was struggling to keep my own emotions in check, to keep my own eyes clear and my voice unhitched. “Hey, hey,” I said softly, reaching back out to take their hands again. Ava let me. Tayra didn’t. “I know it’s difficult to understand, but your mother was doing what she thought best to keep you girls safe. But the Governor… The Governor was a bad man and he hurt everyone. Everyone that was with him. Including your mother.”

“The Governor?” Ava asked, her pale auburn brows furrowing. “But he cares about us. He’s our friend.”

I shook my head. “He was, once. Mine, too. But he changed.”

Tayra’s tears had begun to slip free of her wide eyes, trickling down her reddened cheeks as she glared at me with a scowl. “You were supposed to protect us!”

My throat closed up. I was forced to squeeze my eyes shut in order to force back the tears that had begun to gather. “I know,” I said, my voice breaking on the last word. “I know, girls. I tried.”

“You didn’t try!” Tayra yelled, her voice now carrying across the street. People turned in our direction.

Ava was still standing there, holding my hands, as she began to sob herself. With her sister screaming at me in the background, she stepped forwards and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I held her tightly to my chest whilst her sister watched, disgusted.

“Don’t hug her! It’s her fault!”

“Shhh,” I whispered to Ava. My gaze remained on Tayra as I opened one of my arms, inviting her in.

It took her a minute. She had to work through the anger first, I think. I could relate to that. But soon, almost screaming in defeat, she leapt forward and into my embrace.

We hugged for a good few minutes as I struggled to keep my own emotions swallowed down. I doubted my own breakdown would do them any good.

After a little while, Silvia stepped out of the bus where she had been organising the other children, and came to stand beside us with a sad look. I glanced up to her at her arrival, nodding as I pulled away from the twins.

“Alright, girls,” I breathed softly. “Time to go. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

They both nodded. Tears still streaked down their cheeks, but they had exhausted themselves with their own sobs. Tiredly, they staggered over to Silvia, who helped them up onto the bus with one final, thankful look in my direction.

I waited a few moments until the doors of the bus closed before making my way over to where Rick, Daryl, and Michonne still stood. They were helping some of the townsfolk load their belongings into the storage section beneath the bus.

Daryl noticed me first. He stepped around Rick with a concerned look. “You alright?”

“Absolutely not,” I answered with a forced grin. “When are leaving?”

“In about five minutes,” Rick answered. “Ready?”

I looked down the road. Memories played across my vision as I took in sight before me. The first time I’d seen it, overrun with biters in the dark, dreary light of dusk. Then, a few weeks later, the first time I’d looked down this street and seen nothing but the living. The feeling I’d had when I realized we’d actually done it. Made a place. A home. I had a vivid memory of Merle and Martinez running down the street, chasing a football that had gone astray from a group of young kids. They’d fought over who would get it first.

Merle had fallen flat on his face, which had tripped Martinez, who had rolled to a stop just a few feet away from where the ball had come to rest.

A small, bittersweet smile stretched across my face as I looked back to Daryl and Rick. “You guys go. There’s something I need to do.”

Both Rick and Daryl shared a concerned look before turning back to me with near matching frowns.

“You sure?” Rick asked, his forehead creased in worry. “I don’t like leaving you here alone.”

Daryl didn’t even give me a chance to respond. He stepped forward, glancing at Rick with a nod, before declaring, “I’ll stay.”

Rick nodded and looked to me. “Don’t be long. We’ll leave one of the cars behind for you.”

I nodded my appreciation and stood by as he climbed onto the bus and into the driver’s seat. Daryl and I stood side-by-side and watched the buses pull out of the front gate and onto the road beyond. Three of the cars followed closely behind.

The silence that settled once they were out of sight was almost deafening. I turned in place to look back down that long road, at the line of shops and houses that made up the majority of the place I had, until recently, called home. A sharp sensation began to build in my chest.

Without a word, I began to walk down the street, my hands shoved into the pockets of my jeans.

Daryl followed along behind me, respectively silent.

When we reached my apartment building, I stood by the front doors for a good moment before gathering the will to actually go inside. I’d lived on the top floor, in the apartment beside Merle’s and above Martinez’s. As I walked up the stairs, looking down each hallway, I felt myself hollowing out. Almost every door had been left ajar, giving me a decent look inside most of the apartments. They were barren, stripped of personal belongings, and had an almost ghostly air about them. Logically, I knew people had been through here no more than half an hour ago, but it felt as if this place had been abandoned for years.

When we reached the top floor, I found myself hesitating at the beginning of the hallway. My initial thought was to gather my own belongings in solitude, so that I’d have a spare moment to myself in order to finally allow the tidal wave of emotions welling within me to spill over. But now, I wasn’t alone. Though I doubted Daryl would judge me if I broke down there and then, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of exposing myself so vulnerably to him quite yet.

Walking into my own apartment after all this time would be hard enough, but the second idea that filtered in through my foggy mind was even harder. Yet, I knew, deep down, it was what needed to be done. I could deal with losing the majority of my shit. It was only stuff, after all.

Taking in a deep breath, I began walking down the desolate hallway with my heart in my throat. Passing by my own door, I came to a stop in front of Merle’s apartment. He’d never locked his damn door.

It swung open easily, exposing the room beyond before us in all it’s plain-ass glory. You wouldn’t really expect it of Merle, but he kept the place almost pristinely tidy. Even folded his damn shirts. I used to make fun of him for it, though I knew it was a habit he’d likely picked up in the army.

Remaining in the doorway a beat, I turned my head to look at Daryl with a sad smile. Without a word, I jerked my head toward the interior of the room. Understanding dawned on the young Dixon’s face, his mouth twitching downward in a sad frown. Taking in a deep breath through his nose, he nodded at me and stepped past, into the room.

I followed, gently closing the door behind me.

“Damn neat-freak,” Daryl remarked under his breath as he turned in place, taking in the room with a snort.

I let out a soft laugh, walking over to the haphazardly built bookcase against the right wall. We’d kept a stash of Russel’s moonshine in the cabinet beneath the last shelf, along with a handful of what Merle referred to as “keepsakes”. He’d told me a story about each one, and though I was almost eighty-seven percent certain half of them had been utter bullshit, there was one hiding in there that I knew he’d spoken honestly about.

As Daryl moved further into the room, lifting the lid of the trunk at the end of the bed, I lowered myself down into a crouch and pulled open the small cupboard door beneath the bookcase.

The box of bottles sat at the forefront of the shelf. There were roughly six bottles left, all mostly full of the clear liquid, with their lids firmly latched. I pulled them out with a sad smile, placing them on the carpeted ground beside me. Behind that box was another, smaller cardboard rectangle. Gingerly, I pulled it to the front of the shelf.

Inside, there were enough knick-knacks to make the Little Mermaid squeal with joy. A shitty, metal cigarette holder with a painted image of naked woman on the front; an old, rusted bullet, supposedly from World War Two; exactly two-dollars-thirty-five in coins; a belt buckle depicting a skeleton riding on a motorcycle; and a small, closed jewellery box.

I took out the plain box, holding it in the palm of my hand for a moment. The box had belonged to the previous occupant of my apartment. I’d kept it in my possession until Merle had shown up. I still remembered the day I’d given it to him, mockingly getting down on one knee and opening the empty box with a declaration of, “Would you do me the honour of fucking right off out of my life forever?”

He’d given me a mock-gasp and responded in a high, mockingly feminine voice, “Yes, yes. A thousand times yes.”

The memory made the corners of my sad smile twitch. My eyes began to sting with the urge to cry. I swallowed back against the sharp sensation in my throat and rose up to my feet, taking a deep breath before turning to face Daryl. He was partway through rummaging around in Merle’s old trunk, pulling out his shirts and discarded books and tossing them to the side without much thought.

I moved toward him, gripping the box in my hand tightly.

He noticed my approach and straightened, his gaze going from my frowning face to the box in my hand and back with a curious expression. “What’s that?”

I opened my mouth to answer, only to find no words would come. Looking back down at the box, I cleared my throat and let out a shaken breath before trying again. “It wouldn’t feel right leaving these here. I think he would’ve liked you to have them.”

I offered the small, black box to him with a sad smile.

He kept his gaze on me for a moment, furrowing his brows in confusion before taking it from me and looking down at it with indecisive confusion. The moment he opened it, I felt the change in the air instantly. His expression fell for a moment, contorting into a visage of complete and utter sorrow before a slow, sad smile spread across his face. Holding the box in one hand, he reached up and pulled the dog-tags from the small cushioned interior.

“He, uh… He wore them all the time at the start,” I explained, my voice shaky and slightly hitched. “They kept getting grabbed by biters when we were outside the fence, so I convinced the idiot to take them off whenever we went on runs.”  

The sound Daryl made was halfway between a laugh and a sob. Honestly, I felt that sound in my damn soul. With a sniffle, he shook his head and lowered the dog-tags back into the box, handing it back to me without closing the lid. I took it with a confused frown in his direction.

He just shook his head again, eyes downcast, mouth pulled in a taut line.

“Daryl…” I breathed, but he turned away and walked over to the window, shoulders teased, head down.

My lips pouted in a frown as I stood there, looking at his back with my brows furrowed. After a silent moment, I looked down at the box in my hand, at the silver chain and small pieces of metal, the only things that remained of his brother… and slowly lifted them out. I placed the box on top of the junk inside the trunk before walking forwards, coming to a stop behind Daryl’s stiff back.

“I’m going to put these on you,” I said matter-of-factly. “And if you move, I might just choke you with them.”

Daryl jerked around to face me, his eyes wide and full of misery as he shook his head again. “I can’t wear them. They ain’t mine.”

“The hell you can’t,” I responded, keeping eye contact with him as I lifted the chain up, over his head.

To give him credit, he didn’t move. Just watched me with his brows furrowed as I lowered the dog-tags, securing the chain behind his neck with a small, sad smile. We were standing so close I could feel the warmth of his body, hear the way his heart-beat thundered rapidly inside his chest.

“He loved you, you know,” I said softly. “In his own weird, entirely fucked up way.”

Daryl’s miserable expression faded for a brief moment as he snorted a breathy chuckle. Surprisingly, he didn’t dispute me on it like I’d half expected him to. Instead, he looked down at the dog-tags that now dangled from around his neck and swallowed back against his emotions. Gently, he lifted a hand and grabbed the tags, pursing his lips in an effort to stop them from quivering.

I took half a step back in order to give him some room.

“I miss him,” he said after a moment, his voice soft, gruff and shaky.

My heart squeezed painfully in my chest at the admission and I, myself, had to swallow back against the sharp emotion stuck in my throat. “I know,” I breathed. “Me, too.”

His gaze lifted from the tags to meet mine, almost as if he hadn’t quite believed me. But the fact that I’d been able to say it at all told me it was true. I really would miss the problematic little fucker. It hadn’t really hit me until that moment. The reality of how much I’d actually cared about the man. He’d been a horrible person but somehow, he’d managed to wiggle his way into my heart more than I cared to admit.

Daryl seemed to see that realisation manifest on my face, and he dropped the tags to his chest, reaching out for me with one hand. His fingers curled around my tattooed upper arm and he pulled me gently toward him. I stepped forward, allowing him to wrap his arms around me in a tight hug.

I went stiff, unsure how I felt about the sudden, unexpected embrace. Truthfully, I think I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t need it. That I could handle the grief on my own. That I didn’t enjoy the feel of his hard, coiled arms around me.

Of course, that lasted all of three seconds before I all but collapsed into him. My own arms wound tightly around his waist and I buried my face into his shoulder. We stood together like that for a while, tightly holding one another, until I sensed the room beginning to darken. The sun was setting beneath the rooftops across the road, casting a long shadow into the windows of my apartment building.

With a sniffle, I allowed my arms to unwind from around him and stepped back. Neither of us made eye contact as we separated, each making some kind of excuse not to look at one another. I turned back toward the bookshelf, making a half-hearted remark about bringing the moonshine back to the prison, whilst he lifted a hand and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, declaring he’d go downstairs to start the car.

I tried not to let myself focus on his lingering scent after he’d left the room. Tried to pretend that each time I thought back to that moment, my heart didn’t try to leap out of my chest.

Blowing out a long breath, I bent down and lifted the box of moonshine. Whilst walking past my own apartment, I paused and glanced at the door. Did I dare?

No. No way. I’d had much too many emotional moments today. I didn’t doubt another one would just push my already unstable mind that one step too far.

True to his word, Daryl was waiting for me by the front gate with a running car. I loaded the moonshine into the trunk and slammed it shut before climbing wordlessly into the passenger side.

When Daryl was securely in the driver’s seat, he turned his head to glance at me. “Ready?” he asked.

I shook my head, glancing into the side mirror with a frown. “Not really.”

Daryl waited for my go ahead. It took me a second to mentally say my goodbyes to the place before I turned to look at him with a sad smile.

“Alright. Get me the fuck out of here.”

[kansascityhappenings]

Chiefs add TCU tackle Lucas Niang with third-round pick in NFL draft

KANSAS CITY, Mo. — The Kansas City Chiefs rounded out the second night of the NFL draft with a boost to their offensive line.

With the 96th pick, the Chiefs selected TCU tackle Lucas Niang in the third round.

At 6-foot-6 and 315 pounds, this mammoth tackle was a second-team All-Big 12 pick in 2018 and started all 13 games for the Horned Frogs that season. But he only started seven games in his senior season after he had to have hip surgery.

Still, Niang is a developmental player that the Chiefs believe could play just about anywhere along the offensive line.

“I just been waiting honestly the last two days for them to call me. I thought that was where I was going to end up,” Niang said. “The anticipation was wild, thinking I was going to end up there and not knowing.”

RELATED: ‘He picked you’: Chiefs asked Patrick Mahomes who we wanted, he said Clyde Edwards-Helaire

The Chiefs used their first-round No. 32 pick to select Louisiana State running back Clyde Edwards-Helaire on Thursday night.

The 5-foot-7 junior ran just 215 times for 1,414 yards and 16 touchdowns while catching an astounding 55 passes for 453 yards and another score for the national champions last season.

RELATED: Chiefs select LSU running back Clyde Edwards-Helaire with 32nd pick in NFL draft

Edwards-Helaire showed up when it mattered most, too, running 16 times for 110 yards in LSU’s victory over Clemson in the title game.

For their second-round pick, the Chiefs took a gamble on a player with off-field issues.

With the 63rd pick, the Chiefs selected Mississippi State linebacker Willie Gay Jr. to plug one of their biggest holes on defense. They have a starting spot available after losing Reggie Ragland to free agency.

Gay is considered one of the best athletes among linebackers in the draft, and his ability to play sideline-to-sideline while also dropping into coverage is perfect for coordinator Steve Spagnuolo’s system.

RELATED: Chiefs gamble on Willie Gay Jr., Miss St. linebacker, with 63rd pick in NFL draft

The pick comes with a certain amount of risk, though.

Gay was suspended eight games by the NCAA as part of an academic fraud investigation that swept up 10 players total and led to severe sanctions for the program.

He also was ejected from the Egg Bowl against Ole Miss in 2018 after two he was given two unsportsmanlike conduct penalties, and he was the teammate that allegedly hurt Mississippi State quarterback Garrett Shrader in a practice fight leading up to last season’s Music City Bowl.

“We did our homework on everything,” Reid said. “We felt very comfortable taking him at that spot, and it also helps to have the people in the locker room we have with Tyrann (Mathieu) and Frank (Clark). They’ll take him under their wing. That whole linebacking room is a tight group. They’ll take him in and make sure he’s in the right hands.”

The biggest surprise wasn’t that the Chiefs picked any of those guys but that they didn’t target a cornerback.

The Chiefs came into the draft in the most enviable of positions: They were able to retain most of their own free agents, ensuring 20 of 22 starters from their title team would be back.

But they still have holes in the defensive backfield after losing Kendall Fuller and Morris Claiborne to free agency, and high-end targets such as Louisiana Tech’s Amik Robertson and Virginia’s Bryce Hall were still on the board.

“I think we stick to working on our team and our roster,” Veach said, “and I think having an opportunity to win a Super Bowl, I don’t think we’re competing against any one team. We’re trying to find players that come in and play right away.”

Pending any upcoming trades on Saturday, the Chiefs have two more picks: No. 138 in Round 4, and No. 177 in Round 5.

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/sports/nfl-draft/chiefs-add-tcu-tackle-lucas-niang-with-third-round-pick-in-nfl-draft/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2020/04/25/chiefs-add-tcu-tackle-lucas-niang-with-third-round-pick-in-nfl-draft/

[cover32-yahoopartner-blog]

Hall of Fame quarterback Y.A. Tittle dead at age 90

Y.A. Tittle, the quarterback discarded by the San Francisco 49ers who led the New York Giants to three consecutive NFL Championship Game appearances and eventually landed in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, died Monday at the age of 90.

Louisiana State University, where Tittle played collegiately, announced his death via a statement from deputy athletic director Verge Ausberry.

Yelberton Abraham Tittle Jr. was born Oct. 24, 1926 in Marshall, Texas. As a youth, he idolized Texas Christian star quarterback (and future Hall of Famer) Sammy Baugh. Tittle began preparing for his life as a quarterback by throwing footballs through hanging tires because he’d seen newsreels of Baugh doing so.

Tittle played at LSU from 1944-47, getting a deferment from military service in World War II because of his asthma. He was an All-SEC selection in both 1946 and 1947. Tittle was the Tigers’ quarterback in the 1946 Cotton Bowl against Arkansas that ended in a 0-0 tie due to frigid temperatures and icy field conditions.

He was drafted sixth overall by the Detroit Lions in the 1948 NFL Draft but began his professional career with the Baltimore Colts of the All-America Football Conference. Tittle was named Rookie of the Year and remained with the Colts until they disbanded in 1950 (Another Baltimore franchise named the Colts joined the NFL in 1953).

Tittle joined the 49ers for the 1950 season, becoming the team’s starter in 1953. He became the first professional football player to appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated on Nov, 22, 1954. Tittle appeared on the cover in his 49ers uniform and time-period specific acrylic helmet.

Tittle led the NFL in touchdown passes (17) in 1955. The 49ers were expected to compete for championships led by Tittle and the rest of the Million Dollar Backfield (fullback Joe Perry and John Henry Johnson and halfback Hugh McIlhenny) but they never won a conference championship.

Tittle’s time in San Francisco was over when head coach Red Hickey came in and installed the shotgun offense, which required scrambling that Tittle could not handle at his age. Before the 1961 season, he was traded to the Giants for offensive guard Lou Cordileone (who famously said, “Me for Tittle? Just me?” when the trade was announced).

It turned out to be one of the most lopsided trades in NFL history.

Tittle led the Giants to Eastern Conference titles in 1961, 1962, and 1963 but was unable to deliver an NFL Championship after losing twice to Vince Lombardi’s Green Bay Packers (1961, 1962) and George Halas’ Chicago Bears (1963). He was an All-Pro in his three seasons with the Giants and named the 1963 NFL Most Valuable Player.

On Oct. 28, 1962, Tittle became the fourth quarterback in NFL history to throw seven touchdowns in a 49-34 victory over the Washington Redskins. Only four quarterbacks have thrown seven touchdowns in a game since.

Tittle’s final play in the NFL was immortalized in a photo that hangs at the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

In a 1964 game against the Pittsburgh Steelers, the 6-foot, 190-pound Tittle was hit by Steelers defensive end John Baker, who was 6’7” and weighed 280 pounds. Tittle was on his knees in the end zone with his helmet knocked off by the hit, looking very dazed and confused. The moment was captured by photographer Morris Berman.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette chose not to run the picture in the next day’s edition, thinking it wasn’t very newsworthy. Berman entered the picture for prizes and it won the National Headliner award for Best Sports Photograph of 1964. It came to symbolize an aging superstar who was finally knocked down and couldn’t get back up.

The self-deprecating Tittle recalled the hit in his 2009 memoir “Nothing Comes Easy”.

“Baker had crushed the cartilage in my ribs and brutally gashed my forehead,” Tittle wrote. “I also suffered a concussion and a cracked sternum. That photo would become one of the most enduring images in sports history. What a hell of a way to get famous!”

The day Tittle announced his retirement, Jan. 22, 1965, is the same day the AFL’s New York Jets announced the signing of Alabama quarterback Joe Namath. For the most part, Tittle spoke fondly of his playing days saying “he could be his own boss” instead of having “some guy in the press box with three or four assistants” calling plays.

After his playing days, Tittle owned and operated an insurance company. During his fall after football, he was reflective in the same way as a soldier who no longer has a war to fight.

“It will be a strange fall for me,” Tittle said in a 1965 Sports Illustrated interview. “For 27 years, from September to December, I have put on my armor and gone out to engage in what is, really, a sort of warfare. This fall, I’ll be attending to my insurance business. I’m too old to give it one more shot. But I wish I could.”

In his NFL career, Tittle was 2,118-of-3,817 for 28,339 yards, 212 touchdowns, and 221 interceptions. He also carried the ball 291 times for 999 yards and 33 touchdowns.

At the time of his retirement, Tittle was the NFL’s all-time leader in career passing yards, career passing touchdowns, career passing attempts, career completions, career games played (176), and career total offense (29,338).

He was a seven-time Pro Bowl selection (1953, 1954, 1957, 1959, 1961-63) and a four-time All-Pro (1957, 1961-63). Tittle led the NFL in touchdowns three times: 1955 (17), 1962 (33), and 1963 (36) and led the NFL in passer rating in 1963 (104.8). Tittle was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1971. His No. 14 was retired by the Giants and he was inducted into both the Giants Ring of Honor and 49ers Hall of Fame.

Tittle’s wife, Minnette, died in 2011. He is survived by sons Michael, Patrick, and John and daughter Dianne Tittle de Laet. Dianne wrote of her father in the 1995 book “Giants & Heroes”.

AROUND COVER32

What do the Broncos need to do to remain playoff contenders in the long run?

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Breaking down the numbers behind the Raiders’ Week 5 loss to the Ravens

What’s new around the NFL this week?

[yahoo-the-dagger-blog]

Why coach who launched Gonzaga's dynasty has no regrets about leaving it behind

LONG BEACH, Calif. — In the bathroom of a Minneapolis hotel room, one of college basketball’s most promising young coaches splashed cold water on his face and talked to his reflection in the mirror.

It was July 1999, and Dan Monson was a wreck. He had only a few hours to make a career-altering choice between one job that made him happy and another that provided greater financial security.

Monson had every intention of remaining the coach at Gonzaga for many years when he returned home from three weeks in Spain and found a voicemail from Minnesota athletic director Mark Dienhart on his answering machine. Dienhart had fired disgraced coach Clem Haskins amid an academic fraud scandal the previous month and wanted to interview Monson as a potential replacement.

“As a courtesy, I returned the call to let him know I hadn’t been big-timing him or anything,” Monson said. “When I called, I said, ‘How are you doing?’ He said, ‘I’m doing a lot better now that I’ve gotten a hold of you.'”

Hearing back from Monson was a relief to Dienhart because his efforts to fill the job had so far been a bust. Rick Majerus and Virginia athletic director Terry Holland were among those to turn it down, citing concerns over potential looming NCAA sanctions.

Dienhart’s gusto in pursuing Monson led the Gonzaga coach to explore the job further. Monson agreed to board a flight to Minneapolis to chat in person, though he remained convinced the timing was wrong for him to leave Gonzaga.

[Fill out your NCAA tournament bracket here | Printable version]

Having led the Zags on an improbable run to the Elite Eight only four months earlier, Monson was a beloved figure in his hometown of Spokane. Many key players from the previous season were due back, his assistant coaches were some of his best friends and he was about to marry his fiancee in only two weeks.

Minnesota made Monson an offer that dwarfed his $100,000 salary at Gonzaga. Monson turned it down.

Minnesota came back with a couple hundred thousand more. Monson turned it down again, citing the distance from his loved ones in Spokane.

Minnesota countered with a friends and family travel budget that would cover flights to and from Minneapolis. Only then did Monson retreat to the solitude of his hotel room bathroom and weigh the pros and cons of leaving the comfort of Gonzaga to take a Big Ten job with more resources, greater risk and higher upside.

“It was going to take me 15 years to make the same amount of money at Gonzaga that I would make in two at Minnesota,” Monson said. “I asked myself in the mirror, ‘Does it really make sense to turn down the chance to set your family up for life just because you’re comfortable where you are?'”

To this day, it’s still a question with which Monson wrestles.

Gonzaga coach Dan Monson provides direction to his players during the Sweet 16 against Florida (AP)

* * * * *

Declaring Gonzaga a better job than Minnesota may seem obvious now with the Zags competing in their 19th consecutive NCAA tournament, but that’s only with the benefit of hindsight. In 1999, there were few signs Gonzaga’s out-of-nowhere Elite Eight run would be anything more than a one-hit wonder or that Monson would become known for launching a dynasty but leaving it all behind.

At that time, Gonzaga wasn’t yet Gonzaga. It had only reached the NCAA tournament twice in program history. It didn’t have charter flights, state-of-the-art facilities or a budget most power-conference programs can’t match. Heck, back then scrounging up enough money to pay for basic necessities was often a struggle.

When Monson became head coach in 1997, he recalls pleading with a wealthy donor for $10,000 to cover installing carpet and a TV in the locker room. There was no weight room for athletes, so Gonzaga players used the same aging equipment their fellow students did. There also weren’t meals provided after practice, so Gonzaga players sprinted to the cafeteria before it closed.

Whereas Nike now designs fresh jerseys specially for Gonzaga each year and sends boxfuls of new shoes and gear every couple weeks, the Zags players of 20 years ago didn’t have such luxuries. They would sign out sweats and jerseys at the beginning of the school year and turn them back in nine months later.

“I remember my sweatshirt said No. 2,” former Gonzaga guard Matt Santangelo said with a chuckle. “Well, I was No. 13. I’m surprised they spelled the name of the university correctly.”

Sneakers were the only gear Gonzaga players received new, but obtaining a fresh pair typically required some negotiation.

“We used to have to show that our shoes had a hole in them before we could get more,” former Gonzaga forward Casey Calvary said.

Gonzaga may have looked like a ragtag bunch under Monson, but the players wearing the hand-me-down jerseys were of a higher caliber than the program had previously attracted.

For years, longtime Gonzaga coach Dan Fitzgerald instructed his staff never to recruit a player with a Pac-10 scholarship offer because it was typically a waste of time and money. What player would turn down Stanford, Oregon or Washington to come to a small-conference program in frigid Spokane with outdated facilities and hardly any history of success?

The three brash, young assistants Fitzgerald hired midway through his tenure bristled at his recruiting philosophy. Monson, Bill Grier and especially Mark Few argued that the key to elevating the Gonzaga program was to only pursue players that Pac-10 programs were recruiting.

It was Few’s confidence and persistence that got Gonzaga into the living room of Santangelo, a hotshot point guard from Portland who held scholarship offers from Stanford, Oregon, Northwestern and Rice among others. When Stanford pulled its offer after another point guard committed, Santangelo became the centerpiece of Gonzaga’s 1995 recruiting class.

Sharp evaluations helped Monson and his assistants continue to increase the program’s talent level, whether by plucking Quentin Hall from the Bahamas, outdueling rival Portland for sharpshooter Richie Frahm or winning a battle with Colorado State for Calvary. Monson also upgraded Gonzaga’s non-league schedule when he succeeded Fitzgerald in 1997, going from facing mostly Big Sky and Big West schools one year to beating Clemson, Mississippi State and Tulsa to win the Top of the World Classic the next.

Gonzaga won a then-school-record 24 games in Monson’s debut season, but the Zags did not secure the victory that mattered most. They fell 80-67 to San Francisco in the 1998 WCC title game, a loss that cost them what would have been only the program’s second-ever NCAA tournament bid but also strengthened their resolve not to let the same thing happen the following year.

“We felt like we had done enough that year to get an at-large bid, but we didn’t get it,” Santangelo said. “The next year, our goal from the start of the season was to take it out of the committee’s hands. That was our motivation We worked for that all year long.”

Gonzaga’s Richie Frahm is held aloft by teammate Axel Dench after the Zags’ Sweet 16 win over Florida. (AP)

* * * * *

When Santangelo sank eight 3-pointers in a 91-66 rout of host Santa Clara in the 1999 WCC title game, it was the most satisfying victory any of the Zags had experienced before. Little did they know some higher-profile wins on a bigger stage were soon to come.

The NCAA tournament run that first propelled Gonzaga basketball into the national spotlight began in Seattle against a seventh-seeded Minnesota team that lost four players to suspension the day before the game. Wary that his players might become overconfident with the Gophers shorthanded, Monson delivered a pregame speech urging the Zags not to fall into that trap.

“They’re still going to put five guys out there who were recruited to play in the Big Ten,” Monson said. “How many of you guys got Big Ten scholarships? How many of those schools offered you?”

Employing a box-and-1 defense with the irrepressible Hall chasing Minnesota’s leading scorer Quincy Lewis all over the floor, Gonzaga bolted to a 21-point lead and held on for a 75-63 victory. The 5-foot-8 Hall harassed the 6-foot-7 Lewis into 3-for-19 shooting, all the while yammering at him that he wasn’t CBA material, let alone NBA-caliber.

Two days later, Gonzaga toppled second-seeded Stanford, a team that made the Final Four the previous year and spent the entire 1998-99 season in the AP top 10. The following week in Phoenix, Gonzaga edged sixth-seeded Florida on a late go-ahead tip-in from Calvary, leaving the Zags just one victory away from the Final Four.

In the exultant Gonzaga locker room minutes after the Florida win, Monson tried in vain to find the appropriate words to refocus his team.

“He goes, ‘We gotta … We gotta … We gotta … I don’t know what we gotta do. We’ll figure it out,'” Santangelo said with a laugh. “We were 40 minutes from the Final Four. There were no words for that. I love that moment because it was so genuine.”

Monson found his voice by the next night.

Driving back to their hotel after dinner on the eve of their Elite Eight matchup with top-seeded UConn, Monson and his assistants turned the car radio to a sports talk station. They were surprised to hear the host disparaging Gonzaga.

“The guy starts spouting off about how Gonzaga doesn’t have a chance against UConn and this and that,” Few said. “Dan pulls the car over, calls the radio show and starts talking to the guy who was talking smack on us. That’s how young and naive we all were. Who does that?”

Though Gonzaga did lose to the eventual national champions, the Zags put up a fight. They fell by only five despite their vaunted outside shooting deserting them. Frahm went 2-for-11 from the field and Santangelo shot 1-for-9.

The disappointment of falling just short of the Final Four lingered with Gonzaga, but the pain dissipated a bit once the Zags discovered the impact of their run in Spokane. So many people came to greet them when they returned from Phoenix that it took the team bus about 15 minutes just to park. Driving home from campus that night, Monson encountered house after house with a “Go Zags” sign hanging from its front window.

“Literally nine out of every 10 houses,” Monson said. “I hardly remember seeing a house that didn’t have one.”

A sea of Gonzaga basketball fans cheer on the Bulldogs during the 1999 NCAA Tournament (AP).

* * * * *

A handful of programs with coaching vacancies reached out to Monson after the Elite Eight run, but none tempted him to leave. Only after Dienhart left his fateful voicemail for Monson a few months later did he first consider departing Gonzaga.

When Monson finally made an agonizing decision in that Minneapolis hotel bathroom, his rationale appeared sound.

He thought Minnesota’s impending sanctions could benefit him if they guaranteed him more patience from administrators. He feared Gonzaga’s run of success could be short-lived the same way Santa Clara fell off after Steve Nash and Pepperdine dipped after Doug Christie. And he couldn’t resist the life-altering sum of money Minnesota was offering, enough to make sure his soon-to-be wife and future kids could afford everything they wanted.

“One hundred people out of 100 would have made that decision,” Few said. “He went from where he was making $100,000 to $800,000. He also went from having to win the league tournament here to knowing he could finish fifth, sixth, seventh and make the NCAA tournament there.'”

The challenge of overcoming Minnesota’s NCAA sanctions proved tougher than expected for Monson, especially after the athletic director and president who hired him were forced to resign a year later. Monson made one NCAA tournament in seven full seasons and accepted a buyout amid dwindling attendance early in his eighth.

The great irony of Monson’s departure for Minnesota is that it turned out better for Gonzaga than it did for him.

Having witnessed an unprecedented surge in applications and donations coinciding with the basketball team’s success, Gonzaga administrators became determined to do anything possible to help the program remain a consistent national presence. When Monson left for a more lucrative job, they recognized success on a shoestring budget would always be fleeting and began pumping money into the basketball program at a rate previously unfathomable in the WCC.

They opened the $25 million, 6,000-seat McCarthey Center in 2004 to replace their outdated high school-sized gymnasium. They began chartering direct flights for road games and recruiting trips by 2007. They broke ground this year on a state-of-the-art practice facility that will include a basketball-only strength-and-conditioning area and sections devoted to nutrition, academic support services and a hall of fame.

Those resources make it easier for Few to justify staying somewhere he’s happy despite frequent overtures from power-conference programs. It also doesn’t hurt that Monson’s difficult Minnesota tenure serves as a firsthand reminder that a bigger conference often doesn’t mean a better job.

“He saw me struggle and I absolutely think that’s a huge part of him staying at Gonzaga,” Monson said. “He was the brunt of so many phone calls when I was at Minnesota. I’d tell him, ‘This is hard. Don’t take for granted the community. Don’t focus on what you don’t have. Focus on what you do have.'”

As Few prepares for top-seeded Gonzaga’s opening-round NCAA tournament matchup against South Dakota State on Thursday afternoon, Monson isn’t regretful about leaving the program he helped build or resentful of all the success his former assistant has achieved without him. He swears he’s content at off-the-radar Long Beach State, where he has just completed his 10th season as coach.

A huge reason Monson has no lingering bitterness is because Few makes him feel included in Gonzaga’s greatest achievements. When the two close friends talk about Gonzaga making a run at an undefeated regular season or taking aim at an elusive Final Four, Monson always refers to the Zags as we, as though he’s still on the bench shouting out instructions alongside Few.

“He’ll say, ‘If we would have made that shot at the end …’ and he’ll be talking about my game,” Few said. “That’s pretty cool. He is the guy who got me into this profession. He has his hands on the foundation of this whole thing. So we want him to think like that because he’s a big part of this.”

Gonzaga’s Mike Leasure, left, and assistant coach Mark Few celebrate after they beat Stanford 82-74. (AP)

More March Madness coverage from Yahoo Sports: • March Madness: Yahoo experts pick NCAA tourney winners • Ranking the 68 best players in the 2017 NCAA tournament

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Jeff Eisenberg is the editor of The Dagger on Yahoo Sports. Have a tip? Email him at daggerblog@yahoo.com or follow him on Twitter!

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