The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti

by Blondy Baruti

  Understandably, the athletic director became concerned that a violent confrontation was about to commence. He got between me and Patrick and tried to pull me out of the office, but I refused to leave.

  “Yes, Blondy, you are leaving this school!” Patrick yelled. “I am your guardian here in the U.S. I brought you here. I paid your ticket to get here.” He said it with a smile on his face, too. Patrick did not know that I had been told the whole story. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, his arrogance and selfishness was repulsive to me, and it made my blood boil.

  With perhaps ten feet separating us, I rushed at Patrick, prepared to do great bodily damage. I am lucky (and Patrick is even luckier) that Coach Brandon and one of the school security officers held me back.

  “Let me go, I want to knock his ass out!” I yelled as they dragged me out of the office. Everyone at the office stared at me. They knew me as a happy and lighthearted boy. But right then, I was out of control. “You are not my father or mother. I will kill you!”

  WHILE THAT WAS THE end of the custody battle, it was far from the end of my tribulations, as Patrick, like a jilted lover, devoted extraordinary time and energy to exacting a measure of revenge, and to controlling my life from afar.

  A few days before my eighteenth birthday, in the middle of my junior year, Patrick told a newspaper reporter inaccurately that Coach Burcar had actively recruited me, before my coming to America, which would have been a violation of rules set forth by the organization that oversees high school athletics. This led to an investigation by the Arizona Interscholastic Association (AIA), the results of which hinged largely on the fact that I was living with the parents of my assistant basketball coach. Now, this was not a surprise to anyone, and in fact I had already been granted a hardship waiver by the AIA. But because of the story that appeared in the newspaper, my case was reevaluated, and in the end, it was determined that Mesa’s handling of the situation could be interpreted as a recruiting violation.

  I received the news on January 12, 2009: the day before my birthday. I was shooting around before practice, joking with my teammates, talking about the big game against Mountain View the following night. I was turning eighteen and we were playing our biggest rival, so I was excited and happy on both counts. Everyone had been talking about Mountain View since the day I arrived in Mesa, so I couldn’t wait for this game. On my first night in the Blitzes’ home, Coach Brandon had played some tape of the previous year’s game between the two teams, just to show me how exciting it was. The gym was packed and the fans were wild. It was so intense! And now, finally, I was going to play in that game, in that kind of atmosphere.

  Suddenly the principal and athletic director walked into the gym. They summoned Coach Burcar to the end of the court, and the three of them began talking. I suspected right away that something was wrong, as they all wore grave expressions. The principal and athletic director did most of the talking; Coach Burcar mostly just nodded grimly. A few minutes later the two administrators left the gym. Coach Burcar went straight to the middle of the court and called everyone to join him. We did. Everyone was happy. Until he started talking.

  “Guys, I have some bad news.” He looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry, but Blondy, you can’t play tomorrow.” Everyone was shocked. Some of my teammates thought it was a joke. “Unfortunately, I’m serious,” Coach went on. “I just heard from the school principal that based on the newspaper story about Blondy and his cousin, the AIA has decided to suspend Blondy. He is no longer eligible to play high school basketball in the state of Arizona.”

  That was only part of it, and in a strange way, maybe not even the worst of it. Additionally, since I was now considered an ineligible player, the AIA ruled that Mesa would have to forfeit every game in which I had appeared. So we became, at this point, a winless team; and a team that had just lost one of its best players. It was a crushing blow not just to me, but to the entire program, one that dashed our hopes for a state championship and caused embarrassment to the whole team; to the whole school!

  This news hit everyone hard. Some of my teammates collapsed on the floor. They just couldn’t believe this was happening the night before our big game. I was in shock. I began to cry without saying a single word. I just stood there in front of everyone, shaking and crying.

  “I’m sorry,” Coach Burcar said, and while I know he meant it, the words did nothing to ease the pain. I walked toward the locker room with my head down, reluctant to make eye contact with any of my teammates, although I could feel them all staring at me. At the edge of the court I grabbed a cage filled with basketballs and flipped it over, sending balls all over the gym. Once in the locker room, my anger spilled forth like a raging river. I cried and yelled. I cursed at the top of my lungs, and began punching lockers until my knuckles started to bleed.

  “Patrick!” I shouted to no one in particular. “Why, Patrick?” I kept pounding at the lockers, screaming my cousin’s name in anger. Over and over. “Patrick! Patrick! Patrick! Go to hell, my cousin!” In that moment, to me, my cousin seemed as evil as the rebels back home who had killed so indiscriminately.

  Coach Burcar followed me into the locker room. After watching me act out for a few minutes, he walked over and wrapped his arms around me. I could feel him crying against my shoulder as I slumped to the floor.

  “I know it’s not fair, Blondy,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  I didn’t want to hear any of it. I was inconsolable. What had I done wrong? What had Mesa High School done wrong? Or Coach Burcar? Or the Blitz family? It seemed cruel that everyone was being punished for simply trying to help a refugee who was trying to make a new life for himself by playing a game that he loved.

  In retrospect, I understand the rules that are in place, and how they are intended to protect both the integrity of the educational process, and to prevent the exploitation of unwitting and often desperate student athletes. At this moment, however, I saw only the flaws in a system that had arbitrarily taken basketball away from me.

  I pulled away from Coach Burcar and ran out of the locker room and into the gym, where Terry and Laurie were now waiting to take me home. It was one of the saddest days of my life, and the pain was compounded by the fact that its source had been my flesh and blood. I had fallen in love with basketball and was actually quite good at it, but now, just halfway through my first season, I had apparently been banned from ever playing high school basketball again in the state of Arizona; it felt like a lifetime sentence. How could I fulfill my dream of playing in college (let alone the NBA) if I did not even play high school ball? At that moment I was too sad and overwhelmed to even consider the possibility of playing somewhere else. And I didn’t want to leave, anyway. I loved my new home and my new family.

  That night I cried until deep into the early morning hours. A young man’s eighteenth birthday is supposed to be one of the most important days of his life: a celebration of impending adulthood, and the freedom and responsibility that comes with it. But for me it was a nightmare. I just wanted to be happy and play basketball; I couldn’t understand how things had gone so very wrong. At a little after three in the morning, Laurie came into my bedroom; she had heard me crying and was worried. Laurie talked to me for a while and told me everything would be okay.

  “Try to get some sleep,” she said.

  It wasn’t possible. And while I know she meant well, Laurie’s words provided little solace. I didn’t want to hear that everything would be okay. I wanted to play basketball. Now! I had struggled most of my life and I thought that coming to America would bring peace and joy; but it was beginning to feel like just another jungle to endure.

  The following night, before the game against Mountain View, I stayed at my house, still crying in my room, feeling sorry for myself. I did not want to go to the game. I simply wanted to drown in my own misery.

  At around 5 p.m. I heard a chorus of horns honking outside the house. I jumped off my bed and looked out my bedroom window. To my amaze
ment, there were more than a dozen cars lined up outside, filled with friends and classmates and teammates, all calling for me. Some of our neighbors had come out of their homes to see what was going on. I threw on some clothes and walked out of the house. My friends began shouting even louder. A few ran over and they all began crowding around me, giving me hugs and high fives. It was overwhelming. Their support and friendship cut through the sadness and made me smile.

  “Let’s go!” they shouted. “Jump in!”

  They insisted that I join them and drive to the game, even if I would be only a fan. What could I say? Their love made me realize that I was being selfish and immature. I had been through worse. Somehow, I would survive this. And anyway, I owed it to my teammates to be there with them, helping in any way possible.

  The parking lot was packed when we arrived. I walked through the lobby and could hear the music playing during pregame warmups. I went into Coach Burcar’s office to wish him luck. He seemed to be more concerned about me than he was about the game.

  “Are you okay, Blondy?” he asked.

  “Yes, Coach. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I know it’s not fair. But you are still a part of this team, and we need you on the bench. Things will work out.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Coach.”

  When I walked into the gym in street clothes, the most amazing thing happened: the entire crowd started chanting.

  “BLON-DY!”

  “BLON-DY!”

  “BLON-DY!”

  The chorus echoed over the whole gymnasium.

  Nearly overcome with emotion, my eyes filled with tears, I walked toward my teammates on the other side of the court and started high-fiving each one of them. I knew at that moment it wasn’t about me anymore. It was about my team, and they needed my support. I could see on their faces that some of them didn’t want to play that game without me. Like me, they were disappointed and angry, but none of us could do anything to change the situation.

  It was an ugly, painful game to watch, especially for me. I squirmed on the bench. I peeked nervously through my fingers, overwhelmed by the helplessness that comes with seeing your teammates fall behind by as many as twenty-five points. I stood and cheered. I tried to offer encouragement, but mostly I just felt sad and useless. I felt like I had let my team down in some way. I wanted to be out there with them, fighting and sweating against our rival. Instead, all I could do was watch them lose.

  But then something miraculous happened, and it had nothing to do with the score of the game. As I followed my teammates into the locker room at halftime, a group of kids from the Mesa student section stopped me at the edge of the court and pulled me aside.

  “We have something for you, Blondy,” one of them said.

  They led me to the center of the court as the crowd stood and cheered. Then they presented me with a bunch of balloons and a huge birthday card, as the whole student section led the crowd in a spirited rendition version of “Happy Birthday.” Afterward, as the crowd applauded, I broke into tears once again. It seemed like I spent a lot of my time in those days crying. But at least on this occasion, they were tears of happiness, for I could not believe my good fortune. To have so many friends and so many people who cared about me, even in my darkest moments, was truly a blessing.

  The next day at school, during lunch with my friends and teammates, I decided to call Patrick from a different number, because I knew he would probably ignore a call from my number. He picked up the phone.

  “This is Blondy,” I said. “I just wanted to thank you for the trouble you have brought to my life. You have ruined my dreams—something that I have worked so hard for my entire life.” I paused for a moment and thought about the lessons I had learned while growing up—the faith that had been instilled in me by my mother and grandmother. What would they have wanted me to do in this situation? What would God have wanted?

  “I am angry with you, Patrick,” I continued. “But I forgive you.”

  This was an incredibly difficult and emotional thing for me to do, but it felt right. I don’t know what sort of response I expected, but the one that came should not have surprised me.

  “Blondy, I told you to listen to me,” he said. “But you chose to listen to these white people.” He laughed into the phone. “This is what you get, Blondy. Remember—I am your king here.”

  Even for Patrick this seemed extreme. I was so shocked that I did not know what to say. After a moment’s silence, I said “Thank you” and ended the call.

  These were the last words I ever said to him.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Although I missed basketball, I decided to move on from the situation and try to be happy. I asked our school volleyball coach if I could participate in some of their practices. He was more than happy to give me a chance—after all, we didn’t have a lot of 6-foot-8 guys on the volleyball team. Unfortunately, I was a rather terrible volleyball player. And I didn’t improve much with practice. Still, it was kind of fun to give it a try.

  One morning in late February, a school security officer summoned me from class.

  “Blondy is needed in the main office,” he explained. The teacher let me go, and I followed the officer through the hallways. He did not say why I had been called. As soon as I entered the office, I got a bad feeling. Terry was there waiting for me.

  “Come on, Blondy,” he said. “We’re going home.”

  At the house, Terry and Laurie sat me down and said they had some news to share. By the looks on their faces, I knew that it was not good news. I began to panic. My heart started racing and I broke out in a cold sweat.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” Terry said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But there is a problem that we have to address.”

  He proceeded to tell me that representatives from Golding Academy, the school that had originally recruited me, had inquired about my whereabouts. They were surprised to learn that I was in Arizona, when they were the ones who had recruited me, and Patrick had told them I had never left the Congo. So, naturally, they were upset to learn otherwise. They said that my visa had been written specifically for me to attend Golding, so technically I was in the country illegally.

  “They want you there within twenty-four hours,” Terry explained. “Or they will call immigration and you will be deported.”

  “Deported?” I said, repeating a word that was among the most frightening in my limited English vocabulary. “For real?”

  Terry nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  The thought of going back to the Congo was terrifying. In my mind, I would rather have been sent to jail than return to the Congo. At least in jail I would be fed and clothed. In the Congo there was no guarantee of either of these things.

  “It will be okay,” Terry said, trying to sound reassuring. “The coach says you’ll be able to finish your junior year up there, and they will take good care of you.”

  Terry also said that if my visa issues were straightened out, then maybe I could return to Arizona for my senior year. As it turned out, only some of this story was true. Terry and Laurie had massaged some of it in order to make it more palatable to me, and to protect me from some of the scarier parts. In fact, here is what actually happened.

  I couldn’t play basketball at Mesa High and I needed to play basketball to get a scholarship to attend college because I only had one more year left of high school. Terry and Laurie felt terrible for me, and wanted to help, so they reached out to Golding Academy to investigate the possibility of my going to school there. It was a logical choice, since Golding had recruited me. But in contacting the school, Terry and Laurie inadvertently set in motion the wheels of immigration protocol. They quickly found out that Golding had no idea I was still in the U.S., and that in fact I was deemed an illegal immigrant. Not only that, but school officials threatened Terry and Laurie for essentially harboring someone
who had broken the law. Now we all were in trouble.

  As I said, though, Terry and Laurie did not tell me all of this at that time. They tried to put a positive spin on the story, so that I would be more willing to go. I was far from eager, but I also realized I had no other option. My bags had already been packed and a plane ticket purchased. I did not even have time to say goodbye to my friends in person; I had to catch the next available flight to the Northeast.

  Less than an hour after I got home, I was on my way to the airport. I cried all the way there.

  Although I was sad to be leaving, on some level I felt relieved that Golding still wanted me, and that I would have a chance to play basketball. But the fact that the school’s offer was shaded by threats of deportation (there was anger, not entirely unjustified, about my having landed in Arizona when my cousin had lied and informed the school that I had remained in Africa) made me feel uncomfortable and apprehensive. As much as I missed basketball, I still loved Mesa High School and my home with the Blitzes. You see, I was no longer just a basketball player at Mesa. I was a friend and teammate, regardless of whether I wore the uniform. I was so happy and comfortable in Mesa that I might have stayed even without basketball—if that had been a possibility. But it wasn’t. My choice, it seemed, was simple: enroll at Golding Academy, or return to the Congo.

  It wasn’t really a choice at all.

  Before leaving I called Donte and told him what was happening. We talked about how maybe someday we would still play against each other in college. Maybe going to Golding would make that possible.

  “We will see each other again, my brother,” I said to Donte.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Be strong, Blondy.”