The players huddled in a circle, hearts pacing, arms interlocking above their tired shoulders. Beads of sweat gathered around their foreheads. This was it -- this was the reason they poured their soul into practice. Why they woke up at 6 a.m. just to run calories off last night's salad and why they pushed themselves to run one more court length.

It was game time.

These individuals meshed so tightly it was difficult to tell where one player started and another began. It looked like they were one.

Identical blue shorts crept past their knees, matching shoes symbolized brotherhood and blue bracelets were inscribed with the word "family."

There was only one difference that permeated this scene -- one player who stood out.

No interlocking arms. No long shorts or matching shoes. No perspiration.

Instead, on this early November day, Penn State basketball player Danny Morrissey was dressed in a long-sleeved, powder-blue striped shirt. His khakis draped slightly over his shoes.

He couldn't pat his teammates on the back -- his armpits rested on crutches. He was told he'd be out for four months, if he were lucky, because of the dislocation of his left patella tendon.

If ever a man could play by sheer will, it would be Morrissey, but his injury betrayed that thinking. It's difficult to play without a left knee. Heck, it was difficult to stand up straight.

Morrissey's face strained in pain -- a pain to walk on the court with his team, mixed with the knowledge that he probably had half a year of rehab before he could do that.

It was an indescribable agony, said Morrissey, that of wanting something so bad you can taste it -- but never touch it. He was inches away from the court but could not play on it.

In a cookie-cutter world, Morrissey would not have doubted himself, would have said that the pain of not playing was worse than any physical pain and would deflect any notion of retirement.

But this was the real world.

In late October, Morrissey's spirits were far from bright. He said the pain felt like needles were being jabbed into his knee. He told himself one more surgery, and it would be over. He couldn't take this anymore. He had worked so hard, and for what? To sit on the bench?

He certainly couldn't stand -- he'd get lightheaded from all the blood rushing to his stitched-up leg. Worst of all, less than a year before, he had just returned from 10 months of rehabilitation.

Same injury. Different knee.

As a high school freshman, Morrissey dislocated the tendon in his right knee. He opted against surgery until his senior year and was forced to undergo a strenuous process to get his muscles on the same page again.

Morrissey said he knew what to expect this time. But that didn't lessen the disappointment -- especially after devoting his entire summer to improving at the sport he couldn't live without.

Like coals feeding a raging fire, frustration continued to heap itself upon Morrissey's life. He couldn't go to class; he was bed-ridden for a week after the surgery. He couldn't attend practice; he was supposed to rehab. He couldn't eat for two days; he lost his appetite.

He tried his best not to replay that fateful moment in practice over and over in his head. He didn't want it to haunt his dreams.

Fire-and-rotate drills. Sweat. Slipping. Sometimes it came in flashes, but other times it came in clear. Probably clearer than he would've liked.

"They were rotating the ball around on offense, and I was in the wrong position," he recalled. "I went to recover on defense, and I went to meet the guy who was gonna drive past me ... so I went to push off my left leg, and I pushed wrong.

"Right off the bat, I felt three pops and just went down. All of a sudden, there was an excruciating, sharp pain."

Morrissey grimaced while remembering the play that caused the tendon dislocation in his knee. He said he tries not to think of it too often.

But Morrissey's teammates didn't turn a deaf ear through all of these hardships. No, Morrissey said, they were one of the reasons he didn't remain in such a funk.

Miss class? Mike Walker would take notes for him. Need company? Brandon Hassell would stop by to play some video games. Hungry? Geary Claxton would grab him a sandwich from "The Mix."

Although Morrissey was no longer playing, he was still part of the Nittany Lions -- and his teammates helped him realize that.

They gave him a reason to attend practice. The Lions were a young, inexperienced team, and Morrissey was a vocal guy.

Put the two together, and Morrissey was in perfect position to share his experiences and offer advice. Sure, he was only a sophomore, but Coach Ed DeChellis said his intelligence on the court helped off it, too. Morrissey picked up on the defensive switch-outs and the offensive schemes and relayed some tips to his teammates.

"He's tried to help me out, and he's been really good with it," his teammate and roommate, Walker, said. "Some games he's said stuff that's really worked for me."

One month after the incident, Morrissey said he'd play through 10 more surgeries. He felt like part of the team again. He realized he didn't have to be on the court to contribute.

His teammates continued to support him, and, on the flip side, he gave them advice -- and a source for inspiration.

"Danny's been through so much, and he's always fought back -- and the kids see that," DeChellis said. "They saw what a hard worker he is. They've seen his scar, they see him in the strength room, they see him in the training room and all the pain and hardship he's gone through.

"And there's a high level of respect there."

Sure, the first month was hard. But after that, Morrissey started to find the good in life again -- it almost seemed as if he started to find the injury a blessing in some ways.

"It's been good because I realize my time is limited in terms of playing," he said. "My body's not gonna let me play as long as I would've liked to, and now that I realize that, it's easier to work harder because you don't have that much time. You cherish the days you have left to play.

"I have so much more passion to play right now."

Take a look at any Penn State home game, and that's evident. Morrissey may just be the most animated player -- injured or not -- on the team. He literally flexed his muscles after a 3-pointer vs. Ohio State, raised the roof against Minnesota and was all smiles before the start of Michigan.

It's different now and for the better. At present, he'll shoot around with his team during the pre-game.

While most players are stone-faced in preparation for the 40-minute contest, Morrissey's grinning from ear to ear. From the time he lined up behind Milos Bogetic to the time he drained a lay-up, Morrissey never stopped smiling before the Michigan game.

Clad in blue-and-white Nike shorts and matching shoes, it was even difficult to point out who the injured player was. Understandably, he wasn't always able to wear those shorts with his team -- but he did still have one thing.

"I haven't taken this off since the day they gave it to me," Morrissey said, inspecting the blue band tied around his wrist. "At first it was kinda corny, I was sort of like, 'What is this?' "

"But now it makes sense. We're so close, and it means something.

"We're like a family."