“Be careful,” he said. “They are your teammates, but they are your enemies, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are American and you are from Africa. You are different. You are also a better basketball player than them, so they will be jealous.”
I didn’t like hearing this, but inside I felt there might be some truth to it. Every team experiences some degree of infighting and envy, often directed at new players. I had been through it in the Congo. But this team seemed different, and I did not want to listen to Patrick’s toxic negativity.
“I am not worried,” I said. “They are my friends.”
“No,” Patrick said. “They are competing with you for playing time and exposure. Don’t trust them.” He paused. “Especially Donte. He was the best player on the team. Because of you, that is no longer true. Believe me—I have been here long enough to know the way Americans really are. He will try to trick you. He only cares about himself.”
I did not know what to say. I didn’t want to believe Patrick, but he was my guardian and my cousin; he was an African, like me. He was older and presumably wiser. He would know the truth . . . wouldn’t he?
For a few days after this conversation I withdrew somewhat from my friends and teammates, but they were not easily dissuaded. I think they probably just felt I was homesick and as a result they tried even harder to make me feel welcome. Donte taught me how to lift weights with proper technique (for someone 6-foot-8, I was very weak).
Then Coach Burcar introduced me to a man named Joe Ward, an African American former professional player who ran a local AAU club (AAU teams are like club teams and are not affiliated with a particular high school; they play games in the off-season and often provide the primary recruiting avenue for aspiring college athletes). Coach Ward held clinics for younger kids in the evening at Taylor Middle School, but when Coach Burcar told him about me, Coach Ward asked him to bring me along. I worked out for Coach Ward, not realizing at the time that it was basically a tryout for his AAU team.
I did not know what to think of Coach Ward. He pushed me hard, and he yelled a lot. It seemed like every other word out of his mouth was “motherfucker.” I did not know what this word meant. At some point during training, I approached Patrick on the side and asked him in Lingala, “What does ‘motherfucker’ mean?” He laughed and translated it for me. Now I got the meaning of this new word I had been hearing in the last few hours. Then I asked Patrick with a big smile on my face because I thought it was funny, “Am I a motherfucker?”
Patrick laughed harder. “No, no, no. Coach just likes to use the word.”
My cousin and Coach Burcar both attended that workout; afterward, Coach Ward asked me to practice with his AAU team. I played very well. I ran as hard as I could, blocked a ton of shots and grabbed almost every rebound that came close to me. When practice ended, Coach Ward came up to me, smiling and nodding his head. He tapped me affectionately in the chest.
“Motherfucker, you’re playing with us.”
“Okay,” I said with a laugh. I thought Coach Ward was the coolest person.
CHAPTER 13
* * *
Everything went pretty well, until it didn’t.
Patrick and I shared a room with two beds. I was thrilled to have a comfortable mattress, plenty of food to eat, and a legitimate chance to fulfill my dreams and aspirations. I went to school all day, practiced basketball in the afternoon, and worked hard to learn a new language and fit in. I suppose I was somewhat blind to what was actually happening around me.
From the first day of school, Terry and Laurie did their best to organize routines for everyone. This could not have been easy for them. They had settled into a comfortable and quiet life as empty nesters, and now suddenly they had two very large young men living in their home. There were massive cultural and language barriers, but all of these the Blitzes figured they could handle through patience and diligence, and by logically imposing accountability upon their guests. In other words, they expected from me the same things they had expected of their sons: hard work and good behavior. Patrick was in a slightly different category because of his age and the fact that he already had assimilated into American culture. Combined with his apparent easygoing manner and general likability, this led Terry and Laurie to assume that Patrick would need little oversight, and that indeed he would help his younger cousin adapt and adjust to life in America.
The focus of my schedule was school and basketball. I was supposed to get up at 7 a.m. and get to the bus stop, located a few blocks away. Terry and Laurie assigned Patrick the task of making sure that I was up on time, showered and dressed, and that I was ready to eat breakfast (which Laurie prepared for everyone). Patrick almost immediately balked at this assignment.
“Blondy is a big boy; he can take care of himself.”
He had a point. I was a big boy—literally and figuratively—and certainly I had faced far more daunting challenges than getting to school in the morning. But being in a new country, where I neither spoke the language nor understood customs and mores (to say nothing of geography), did make the first few weeks rather difficult. I could have used Patrick’s help. More importantly, the Blitzes had asked Patrick to be my mentor in this regard. It was hardly an unreasonable request, given that they were providing both of us with food and shelter and money. To me, Patrick’s obstinacy was both selfish and disrespectful (it was also a sign of things to come). Rather than depending on the bus, Laurie quickly assumed the responsibility for dropping me off at school every morning before she went to work. Terry would drive me home every afternoon.
My cousin had promised the Blitzes that he would contribute $40 a week to help with expenses, but even this meager amount went unpaid. Moreover, he failed to secure employment as he had promised, and after a while did not even seem to bother to look for work. Terry and Laurie resented his attitude, and tensions predictably arose between them. I would come home from school or practice and find them arguing, and immediately be caught in the middle. I did not yet understand how my cousin had manipulated his way into his role as my guardian, so when he began making claims about the integrity of our hosts, I wasn’t sure what to believe. It didn’t help that I barely spoke English and was unable to even track the course of their disagreements. I had to rely on my cousin’s interpretation of events, which proved to be self-serving and unreliable.
“Don’t trust these white people,” he would tell me. “Don’t think because they’re buying you food and clothes that means they love you. They don’t love you. They have an agenda. They’re writing down everything they do for you, so that whenever you make it to the NBA, they’re going to expect you to pay it back—with interest!”
In reality, it was Patrick who expected to be repaid. Eventually I began to feel that the relationship was mercenary. He did not love me or care about me, but for a while I was too scared and confused to do anything about it. Laurie would cook dinner for me and help me with my homework. Meanwhile, my cousin would just sit there and watch TV or go out and party. But he was family, right? And you don’t turn your back on family.
I tried to keep my head down and do what was expected of me. I went to school every day and worked hard to improve as a basketball player. After a month or so, Jared Blitz, one of Laurie and Terry’s sons, moved back into the house for a while. Like Brandon, he was a very nice young man who even offered to help me with my homework and to tutor me in English. I noticed that as I became more comfortable and independent, my cousin grew increasingly irritable. If Brandon wanted to take me out to the mall or to get something to eat, Patrick would ask to tag along, so that he could listen to our conversations. In time, I felt that he was worried about losing control.
With the help of the Blitzes, Patrick was twice able to secure employment, but neither time did the job last very long. He worked with a construction crew and quit after the first day. His job was menial and simple: tossing tree branches into a shredder. Patrick came home exhausted and
angry and announced that he would not be going back the next day.
“It’s too dangerous,” he said.
Laurie then got him a job picking up trash at Arizona State University after football games, but Patrick somehow managed to fail a written safety test that was a requirement of the job. The Blitzes found it rather astonishing that a twenty-six-year-old man who had been in the U.S. for seven years could not pass a rudimentary exam to ensure that he was capable of picking up trash without getting hurt. They suspected that Patrick had deliberately failed the exam to avoid getting the job, and they were probably right. I mean, it wasn’t like Patrick was unintelligent.
Patrick was ineligible for a great many jobs because he said he did not have a driver’s license, so Terry took it upon himself to help Patrick learn how to drive. They bought him manuals so he could study and practice taking the written test. Three times he attempted the test, and three times he failed. Terry would take my cousin to an empty parking lot on weekend mornings so that he could practice driving in safety and seclusion. He would notice that Patrick appeared comfortable behind the wheel—like someone who wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with how to operate a vehicle; in fact, he was almost too comfortable. Patrick would slump down in the front seat and drive with one hand on the wheel, or with only a thumb on the bottom, like someone who had been driving for years. This both perplexed and infuriated Terry, who assured Patrick that exhibiting such nonchalance during a road test would result in immediate failure. It all seemed so strange.
It also made perfect sense, as the Blitzes learned, when they were introduced to Sam Greer. Terry told Greer of his frustration with my cousin, and of how he had tried to teach him how to drive. Greer, who had known my cousin for years and in fact had helped him come to America, as well, seemed surprised.
“Really?” Greer had said. “When I first brought Patrick here he worked as a cab driver in Philadelphia.”
There was so much more to the story. My cousin had graduated from a high school in Pennsylvania, where he also played basketball, before attending a junior college in Texas on a basketball scholarship. Patrick had told Terry and Laurie that he had quit the team because he was unhappy with his lack of playing time. He had subsequently quit school. Greer explained that Patrick had only modest skill as a player, but that he had secured him a place on the team as a favor to Patrick’s father, who was a family friend. Greer hoped that Patrick would make the most of this opportunity for a free education, regardless of whether he received any playing time. Unfortunately, Patrick grew disgruntled and wound up leaving school. I cannot attest to whether my cousin applied any effort to his academic effort; I can only say that I saw no ambition when we lived together with the Blitz family, and that he certainly was not much of a basketball player (we worked out together many times).
Patrick’s increasingly antagonistic behavior weighed heavily on all of us. At night, he would keep me up by listening to music or talking on his phone, and sometimes complaining about Terry and Laurie. I did not know how to handle any of this. I just wanted to go to school and play basketball. I had come to like my new life in America, and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my standing, or to disappoint my new family. At the same time, I was constricted by tradition and culture. In the Congo, a young man is expected to be respectful and obedient to his elders, especially if one of those elders is a family member. Patrick was only nine years older than me, but he was still family, and he was my legal guardian, so I felt compelled to be obedient and respectful toward him, even if he did not deserve it.
I don’t mean to imply that my behavior was perfect. It was not. Sometimes homesickness would set in, which affected both my mood and focus. Sometimes I would get frustrated with my inability to speak or understand the language clearly. In general, these were internal issues that I tried to handle on my own, but sometimes they led to problematic interactions with a teacher or coach. Coach Burcar called Terry Blitz after a workout session in which I did not follow instructions properly and then walked away when Coach confronted me. This was my fault entirely; I had been immature and self-pitying, and Coach Burcar was right to report this behavior. There was just one problem: Terry Blitz wasn’t my guardian (though he was certainly better suited for the job).
“Why are you telling me this?” Terry asked Coach Burcar.
“Because you’re kind of like his dad now, and maybe you can do something about it.”
“I’ve known Blondy less than a month and we don’t even speak the same language,” Terry said. “And I am not his legal guardian.”
All of this was true, so Terry did the only thing he could do: he spoke to Patrick and asked him to intervene. Patrick subsequently did nothing, except to reiterate his opinion that I should be wary of the white people in my life, and to remind me that I could trust only him.
A few weeks later I felt a sharp pain in the bottom of my foot while playing ball. I thought nothing of it at first, as the pain went away quickly. But then it returned. Again and again. It became relentless, interfering not just with my ability to practice, but to walk or even sleep. Laurie insisted I visit a podiatrist. The doctor pressed his hand into the ball of my foot, which hurt so much that I let out a loud yelp.
“Let’s get an X-ray,” he said. “He could have a fracture.”
There was no fracture. Instead, the X-ray revealed something embedded beneath the skin in the bottom of my foot. Whatever it was, it needed to come out, the doctor explained. It was a very minor surgical procedure, but it was surgery nonetheless. I did not have proper health insurance, so the bill would be close to a thousand dollars. Terry and Laurie naturally felt this was Patrick’s responsibility, since he was my guardian, but of course he did not have the money to pay for the procedure. So the Blitzes agreed to pay for the surgery, with the understanding that Patrick would repay them when he got a job. For his part, Patrick seemed unconcerned about my health. He just wanted to know how quickly I’d be back on the basketball court.
There were no complications with the surgery, although the doctor did seem surprised at what he discovered: a large piece of plastic—shaped like a toothpick—buried in my foot. In all likelihood, he said, it had been there for some time, perhaps even years. Why it suddenly began to cause problems was anyone’s guess. As was the reason for its existence. It could have happened during one of my barefoot pickup basketball games in the Congo; it could even have happened years earlier, when I was trekking through the jungle. There was just no way of knowing. For whatever reason, it had made itself at home in my body. But now the eviction notice had been served.
The doctor advised against playing basketball or any other activity involving heavy impact for at least two months, but I ignored his advice. How many miles had I walked barefoot in the Congo? How many times had I played basketball shoeless or with shoes that were falling apart? Was I going to let surgery stop me from playing basketball? No way! I was back on the court within a couple weeks. Yes, I returned with some pain in my foot, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it seemed like a minor nuisance compared to what I had experienced as a boy. By comparison, this was not a big deal. I’d put on my Nikes and feel like my feet were wrapped in pillows.
Laurie was worried that I would cause lasting damage to my foot, but she also understood that playing basketball was important to my happiness and my attempt to feel comfortable in America. I was just starting to get back in shape when another long-ignored issue began to cause problems, this one involving my teeth.
Like most poor children in the Congo, I had received virtually no professional dental care while growing up. I did not consume much sugar and tried to clean my teeth often, but this was not a substitute for the sort of dental hygiene that is customary in the U.S. At dinner one evening I noticed a vague pain in the back of my mouth. It grew worse over a period of days, exacerbated by cold or hot substances, or if I happened to chew on something hard. After a week or so I stopped eating altogether. My friends and teammates
noticed I was only sipping juice at lunch and asked me what was wrong.
“I don’t have money for lunch,” I lied.
They offered to buy lunch for me, but I declined. Eventually my face began to swell; it looked like someone had punched me in the jaw. Unable to hide the problem any longer, I revealed my condition to Laurie. As usual, she was sympathetic and motherly, and insisted on taking me to a dentist right away. There were more X-rays, which revealed an abscess, followed by oral surgery, which immediately relieved the pain but which further depleted the Blitzes’ savings account. Again, they told my cousin that they would cover expenses for which they should not have been responsible, and again he agreed to repay them as soon as he found employment.
Neither of these things ever happened.
Slowly and without expressing to me any of the resentment they naturally felt toward Patrick, the Blitz family began assuming more and more responsibility for me, and treating me like their son. Although Patrick might have been my official guardian, it was Terry and Laurie who stepped in to fill that role. They gave me five dollars every day so that I could buy lunch at school. Often when Terry would pick me up after classes, he would take me to Burger King and let me order whatever I wanted. In the evening, Laurie and Jared would both help me with my homework. At the evening dinner table, we would all sit together and try our best to communicate. Sometimes the conversations would devolve hopelessly into laughter as we conversed with a mix of English, French, and impromptu sign language. I loved these meals and the way we connected. I felt at home.
One night after I told the Blitzes another of the sad stories about my youth in the Congo, Terry smiled. I don’t remember exactly which story it was, as I did this quite often. The stories usually reflected my happiness at having escaped the Congo, but also betrayed the homesickness I sometimes felt, and the distance from my family.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 13