By Jack McCallum, Jim Boeheim
Jim Boeheim walked onto the Syracuse campus as simply one other non-scholarship shield at the freshman basketball group in 1962 . . . and he nonetheless hasn’t walked off. In six a long time as a participant, assistant trainer and the pinnacle guy at the bench for Syracuse University’s basketball software, Boeheim is synonymous with the blood and thunder of East Coast hoops. In Bleeding Orange, Boeheim recounts for the 1st time the entire pleasures and perils of a occupation spent struggling with “The Beasts of the large East,” the NCAA and his personal worry of failure.
The son of a funeral director, trainer Boeheim has continuously been lively, and his combative nature helped ignite what was once arguably the main attention-grabbing and aggressive collage basketball convention ever—the significant East of the Eighties. Boeheim’s battles with fellow coaches colossal John Thompson of Georgetown, roly-poly Rollie Massimino of Villanova, feisty Jim Calhoun of Connecticut and liked Louie Carnesecca of St. John’s became the large East into the easiest convey in university basketball.
Combining a true time, inside-the-program account of the 2013–14 season—Syracuse’s first within the ACC—with a story of his so much adored stories of coming-of-age at the Syracuse campus and of training Olympic gold medal–winning groups, Bleeding Orange is a must-read either for Syracuse fanatics and somebody who calls himself or herself an aficionado of faculty basketball historical past.
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Additional resources for Bleeding Orange: Fifty Years of Blind Referees, Screaming Fans, Beasts of the East, and Syracuse Basketball
W hen the spring came tripping by from the south over the chaparral hills of Shasta, leaving flowers in every footprint as we passed, I set my face for Mount Shasta, the lightesthearted lad that ever mounted horse. A hard day's ride brought me to Portuguese Flat, the last new mining camp and the nearest town to my beloved Mount Shasta. Here I found my former partner in the Soda Springs property, Mountain Joe, and together we went up to Mount Shasta. The Indian chief, Blackbeard, gave me a beautiful little valley then known as Now-ow-wa, but now called by the euphonious name of Squaw Valley, and I built a cabin there.
His disease was consumption. I confidendy commend his experience to other skeletons. I superintended again, and as soon as we had eaten breakfast we got in the boat and skirted along the lake shore about three miles and disembarked. We liked the appearance of the place, and so we claimed some three hundred acres of it and stuck our "notices" on a tree. It was yellow-pine timberland-a dense forest of trees a hundred feet high and from one to five feet through at the butt. It was necessary to fence our property or we could not hold it.
I got Johnny to row-not because I mind exertion myself, but because it makes me sick to ride backward when I am at work. But I steered. A three-mile pull brought us to the camp just as the night fell, and we stepped ashore very tired and wolfishly hungry. In a "cache" among the rocks we found the provisions and the cooking utensils, and then, all fatigued as I was, I sat down on a boulder and superintended while Johnny gathered wood and cooked supper. Many a man who had gone through what I had would have wanted to rest.