ESPN Men's Basketball

Editor's Note: The following is an excerpt from Wisconsin Badgers men's basketball coach Bo Ryan's new book, "Another Hill To Climb."

Playing defense in high school was often a numbers game for me. I guarded players who later had their jerseys retired, and hanging from the rafters. That was a reflection of the competition we faced in southeast Pennsylvania.

Chester was a tradition-rich basketball school in a sports-friendly community -- 10 miles south of Philadelphia on the Delaware River.

Chester was the oldest city in the state and home to Joe Klecko, the old Jet; Danny Murtaugh, the old Pirate; and Bill Haley and the Comets, the old rockers.

I grew up listening to the Temptations, the Four Tops, Marvin Gaye, and Chubby Checker.

I grew up dancing the Twist, the Pony, the Mashed Potato, and the Bristol Stomp.

I grew up playing defense.

Playing for the Chester High Clippers, I drew the opponent's top gun, though I got help from my teammates, whether we were playing straight-up or a specialty defense. When we were in a box-and-one, I was the principal defender, man-to-man.

Our league schedule was challenging from that standpoint because of offensive threats like Upper Darby's Bobby Lloyd, who went on to have his college number retired. Lloyd was an All-American, and the all-time leading scorer at Rutgers University.

Outside our conference, I took on Geoff Petrie, who played at Springfield High School in Delaware County before moving on to Princeton. Petrie later had his number retired with the Portland Trail Blazers of the NBA.

(In case you're wondering, I wore No. 42 at home and No. 43 on the road, and the numbers are still available as far as I know. At least they didn't retire my jersey when I was still in it.)

When Chester played Cheltenham, a Philly suburb, their leading scorer demanded extra attention because he was so physically imposing. He was built like someone who had been bench-pressing all his life even though nobody was really lifting weights in the early '60s.

The guy was just chiseled, and he knew how to use his strength and athleticism to slash to the rim. He later had his number retired, too -- No. 44 with the New York Yankees.

Reggie Jackson was a natural.

I was a junior when Jackson was a senior. Besides his obvious physical skills, he had a decent jump shot and an undeniable presence on the court. But back then there was none of the hype and marketing that high-profile athletes have today.

So it wasn't like we went into the Cheltenham game thinking, "Oh, no, it's Reggie Jackson." We didn't know who he was going to become. This was long before he became Mr. October with the Yankees.

But you could tell he was destined for fame in baseball. Sometimes things can get fabricated as you get older and you put distance between yourself and the event or moment. The truth can get stretched.

But I know this for a fact: Reggie had prodigious power from the left side. He hit a ball against us at Cheltenham, and we all just turned and gawked at how far it traveled.

I don't know if it has come down yet.

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I was born in Upland, Pennsylvania, which geographically was to Philadelphia what Middleton is to Madison, only you would never confuse Middleton for Upland, best characterized by the post-World War II housing for vets -- the projects, the row houses and the "Pit."

Some called it a gym, but it was a pit. There were cinderblock walls and two baskets at each end of a concrete floor. They had to make sure the outside doors were latched in the winter, otherwise the wind would blow the snow inside. There wasn't any room for spectators. But there was a broken-down heater in a corner.

That's where my dad would put me. I'd sit on wooden planks above the heater during the pick-up games that he would play with his buddies. I was about four years old and my dad would lift me down from the heater between games, and I'd grab a basketball and start bouncing it and dribbling it around. I'd try to get it up to the rim.

When we moved to Chester, we lived in a row house, where the side walls linked a string of like structures, one next to the other. Cookie-cutter architecture.

Chester was your quintessential blue-collar town populated by hard-working, tough people. You might use the word "hard-scrabble" to describe it. My dad would take me everywhere, whether he was playing touch football, softball or basketball.

That exposed me to kids from different parts of the city and area. I never cared who I was playing with, either, and maybe that's where I learned to be aggressive.

"Hey, can I get a run?"

"Hey, can I play?"

That was a heckuva motivating factor for me.

In the neighborhood, the older guys would play and you would have to wait your turn. But who the hell wants to sit around? That was my attitude, so I always wound up playing, even if I was the youngest.

When I was 8, I was playing Little League baseball against 12-year-olds. In my first game, I was the lead-off hitter and during my first at-bat, I got beaned in the head with a pitch. It knocked me out. Thank goodness for helmets.

When I was that age, I'd hear it all the time, "Aw, kid, you're too small" or "Scram, you're too young to play." I wouldn't listen. All I needed was a chance.

I hated the alternative -- being a spectator. So, I figured out ways to get picked.

In elementary school, there were always arguments, especially if the 6th graders were on the court, and they wouldn't let the 5th graders play.

It was a jungle out there -- during recess.

As a result, it was not unusual to get into some fights on the playground.

Remember, though, getting into a scrap with a classmate was not that big of a deal in the mid-to-late '50s. You'd fight -- and I was rarely the biggest in the scraps -- the playground supervisor would break it up and you'd wind up in the principal's office.

On my Franklin Elementary School report card, I had straight A's and one D -- the D was in conduct, playground conduct. That turned out to be a topic of discussion during one particular family gathering at an uncle's house.

Everyone was in the living room watching the Friday Night Fights sponsored by Gillette razors. My uncle thought it was funny I got a D for essentially fighting, and he made a correlation with a Carl "Bobo" Olson who was boxing in the next televised bout. (Olson was from Hawaii and the world middleweight champion for a few years in the mid-'50s.)

Out of the blue, my uncle started calling me "Bobo."

Everybody else did, too, over time. Up until then, I was Billy Ryan, short for William Francis Ryan, Jr. From that point forward, I was Bobo -- later shortened to Bo. I'm grateful Sugar Ray Robinson wasn't fighting that Friday night.

There was nothing that could match the competition on 8th and Pennell Streets in Chester. That was the site of the Cage, a playground court with steel nets -- when they were up -- that was kind of a Mecca for ballers.

Word spread quickly the day that Lew Alcindor (Kareem Abdul Jabbar) showed up for some action at the Cage. I wasn't there, but my good friend, Mike Marshall, remembers beating Alcindor in a best two-out-of-three. Walt Hazzard and Wally Jones were known to play there, too.

That's where it all started for most of us.

You went to the Cage hoping that you could get into games with the older high school players. By the time I got into the 10th grade, I was one of the guys choosing sides. I had grown to the height I am now: 6-foot.

I may have been lacking in size, but I wasn't lacking in quickness. Plus, I had spent a lot of time working on my ball-handling skills. Some of my best teachers were the pros: Bob Cousy, Bill Sharman, Guy Rodgers and Paul Arizin. I loved watching Cousy.

During pickup games at the Cage, if you weren't on the winning team, you had to wait a minimum of a half-hour to play again. Nobody wanted to wait, especially me.

My only thought was, "Find a way to win."

I used to dive on the macadam without fear or hesitation, and I had scrapes all over my arms and legs. They probably thought I was crazy.

Guys were always lined up to play at the Cage, and it was a big hustle. When I would step out of the car, the first words out of my mouth were always, "Who's got next?" That became part of the tradition, too.

If you made the last shot, the game-winning shot, you'd go, "Next."

It was not a cocky thing, but it didn't sit well with the losing players as they were walking off the court.

You won, they lost.

You're staying, they're leaving.

Next.