After we moved into my dorm, Laurie and I went straight to the athletic offices to meet with Coach Wojcik. Athletes often tell horror stories about coaches who have split personalities—sweet and sensitive during the recruiting process, and then angry and abusive once you begin playing for them. I still did not know Coach Wojcik well enough to have an opinion on this subject, but the man who greeted us that day seemed no different from the one who had offered me a scholarship.
“Tell Terry not to worry,” he said to Laurie. “I’m going to be Blondy’s dad for the next four years; we’ll take good care of him.”
My roommate was a 6-foot-5 freshman guard named Jordan Clarkson. He was smart and funny, and he was easy to talk to, so I liked him right away. We became close friends from day one. That first night in the dorm we stayed up for hours, just lying in our beds, in the dark, talking about school and basketball and life. Obviously, we had grown up under very different circumstances—Jordan was from San Antonio, while I was from the Congo—but still we connected like brothers.
The next day, during my first basketball workout at Tulsa, I felt slow and weak and out of shape compared to everyone else; it was instantly apparent that missing the summer session had put me at a deficit; I would have to work twice as hard as my teammates to show that I fit in. I didn’t mind; hard work did not scare me in the least. But Jordan? Oh, my! He looked like a superstar from the moment he laced up his sneakers.
The interesting thing about Jordan was that he was so quiet and unassuming on the court. He led by example, not by words. The coaching staff would sometimes push Jordan to be more vocal, but it simply wasn’t his style. He was the hardest-working player I had ever been around, and everyone on the team respected him and admired him. As players, we understood what Jordan brought to the game; we didn’t care if he ever said a word. Coach Wojcik wanted him to be loud and demonstrative, to get in our faces and push us to be better, but it simply wasn’t in Jordan’s nature to behave that way.
I was the more animated half of our duo; unfortunately, I wasn’t nearly the player that Jordan was, in part due to natural ability and in part because I hadn’t played enough basketball yet, nor received the type of coaching afforded the best high school players in America. I had a steeper learning curve than my teammates, and having missed summer training it made the climb even harder.
But there was no shortage of teammates who set a good example, and whose work ethic made it clear that college basketball would be much more demanding than high school basketball. People like Jordan Clarkson and my good friend Donte Medder. Donte had torn his ACL, his anterior cruciate ligament, as a freshman, and was now working hard to get healthy and back into the lineup. I looked at Donte, whom I had always admired, and I realized: there are no guarantees.
I worked hard every day in practice; I worked hard in the classroom. Despite the fact that I still had some language issues, I became a strong student. Progress was slower on the basketball court. Although I was as athletic as anyone on the team, my game was less refined. And I was so skinny! Every night I would go to the dining hall and eat until I could barely move; still, I could not gain any muscle. I spent hours in the weight room, working with our strength and conditioning coaches, but gains were slow to come.
“Keep up the good work,” Coach Wojcik told me a few weeks before the season started. “You’re doing great. Just be patient.”
I wasn’t so sure.
In late October, as basketball season drew near, I decided to redshirt. In the world of Division I sports, redshirting means that a player will not be eligible for competition, but will continue to train with his teammates and take a full load of courses. This practice, common in college athletics, allows the student athlete to physically mature and remain in good academic standing, while preserving a year of eligibility. In most cases, it is the coaching staff that determines whether an athlete should redshirt. Sometimes, however, it is the player who makes the decision. Most athletes do not choose to redshirt because they view it as a setback of some sort—a determination that the player is not prepared for the challenges of college athletics. I did not view it this way. I looked at a redshirt year as a great opportunity to get bigger, stronger, and better, and to get ahead in the classroom. At the end of my freshman year I would have fifteen credits under my belt, I’d be a better basketball player from having worked with my teammates and coaches, and I’d still have four years of eligibility.
It all made perfect sense.
There was just one problem: the coaches weren’t convinced that I should redshirt, as I was playing well in practices. Coach Wojcik even called my parents and told them how well I was doing. I knew that I was unlikely to get much playing time, so I remained committed to the idea of redshirting. Coach Wojcik eventually agreed, told me to keep working hard, and predicted that by the following year I would be a valuable and productive member of the team. Not that I wasn’t a part of the team while redshirting; in fact, even though I played on the scout team during practices (the scout team mimics the plays and style of an upcoming opponent so the starters can adequately prepare), I was having a lot of fun. Being part of the scout team is an important, if somewhat thankless, role, but I embraced it fully, as I loved helping my teammates and knew that someday I would get my chance.
I treated every practice as though it was a game. I held nothing back, not even when playing against my best friends, like Jordan or Donte. If either of them drove into the lane, I would do my best to make sure they regretted it. I became known for my rebounding and shot-blocking prowess, just as I had been in the Congo and at Mesa High. Every day, I was among the most exuberant players in the gym—cheering on my teammates, talking a little good-natured trash, trying to win every sprint at the end of practice. Even if I wasn’t suiting up on game nights, I was still a part of the team, and I wanted everyone to know it.
In fact, I was playing so well that the coaching staff started talking about pulling my redshirt and declaring me eligible for the remainder of the season. I protested and Coach Wojcik backed off, but only temporarily. When a couple of players got injured, and we started losing some games, Coach Wojcik had second thoughts. He called Terry and Laurie again (Coach Wojcik was always very good about maintaining communication with my parents, just as he promised) and explained that the team could no longer afford the luxury of having me redshirt.
“Blondy is playing so well in practice,” he explained. “We need him on the floor.”
I had already missed part of the season and was therefore reluctant to give up my redshirt, but I understood Coach Wojcik’s position. And, of course, I wanted to play. If the team needed me, and the coaches thought I was ready to contribute, then I had no business withholding my services. That would have been selfish and weak.
“Okay, Coach,” I said. “I am ready.”
I made my collegiate debut on December 8, 2010, against a strong Oklahoma State team. Midway through the second half, as we fell more than twenty points behind, Coach Wojcik called my name.
“Let’s go, Blondy.”
I jumped from the bench and peeled off my warmups so quickly that I almost tripped and fell. Even though we were getting killed, Coach Wojcik smiled.
“Give us some energy out there,” he said.
I nodded and walked toward the scorer’s table; I was nervous and excited. As I entered the game I thought about what Terry had said to me before I left.
Always remember where you come from.
It was oddly comforting, the notion that nothing compared to the challenges of my past; this was just a basketball game. It was not a matter of life and death. It was supposed to be fun.
Less than a minute after I entered the game I scored my first basket—on a thunderous dunk, no less! It had no bearing on the outcome of the game, but it felt tremendous nonetheless. I played seven minutes in that game, scored three points, and had one blocked shot and one rebound. Not a bad debut for someone who was supposed to redshirt. But any happiness I might
have felt was tempered by the fact that we were badly beaten, and destroyed entirely by the sight of my good friend Donte going down with another knee injury just a couple minutes after I entered the game.
This was a crushing thing to see, and it happened just a few feet away from me. I had thought often about how much fun it would be to play basketball with Donte again, for the first time since we were high school teammates. Like me, this was his first appearance of the season in a Tulsa basketball game. When he grabbed his knee and fell to the floor, I could not believe my eyes. Sometimes you can tell right away when an injury is serious; this was one of those times. Donte was in an extraordinary amount of pain; he also seemed keenly aware of exactly what had happened, as he pounded the floor and cried, “No, no, no!”
Within a day or two the diagnosis was confirmed: Donte had reinjured his reconstructed ACL. There would be more surgery, more rehabilitation, and many more missed games. I felt terrible for him; he had been through so much already, and he had fought so hard to overcome such a devastating injury. It seemed terribly unfair that he should have to go through it all over again. But I urged him to be strong, and I tried to be supportive, just as he had done for me when I first arrived at Mesa.
“You will be back,” I said. “Have faith.”
THE REST OF MY freshman season was a roller coaster. Some games I would play quite a bit; sometimes I would not play at all, or only play a couple of minutes. This type of scenario is among the most challenging for any athlete: there is insecurity in the unknown. If you are the last player on the bench, and you know there is no chance of getting into the game, you accept it and adapt. You might not like it, but you learn to live with it. Similarly, if you are a starter or one of the top reserves, you know that you will play a significant portion of the game, and this allows you to perform with a degree of comfort and confidence. But if you have no idea how much you are going to play—or if indeed you will play at all—every game is filled with tension and anxiety.
What if I make a mistake? What if I turn the ball over or take a bad shot? Will he pull me out of the game?
The truth is, uncertainty is a part of the athletic experience. Division I basketball is a business; careers are made and broken based on the performance of teenagers. It is a challenge, to be sure, and every player must learn to adapt to the whims of a coach who hears the wolf at his door on a nightly basis. If you find yourself sitting when you think you should be playing, you cannot take it personally. You just have to work harder and maintain a positive attitude. I will acknowledge that in the latter regard, I stumbled a bit as my playing time fluctuated. I became frustrated and angry with the coaching staff because I felt that I should have redshirted if I wasn’t going to get a lot of playing time. But there are no guarantees for anyone; our roster had been depleted by injuries and the coaches needed me in uniform. Beyond that, there were no promises; nor should there have been. I had to earn every minute. From both an emotional and physical standpoint, it was endlessly challenging.
It was also a valuable experience in terms of understanding that life is a never-ending struggle—a series of tests and obstacles that must be met and overcome. The moment you start taking things for granted is the moment you get knocked off your feet.
In mid-January, we played at Arizona State University, a game scheduled by Coach Wojcik as a homecoming for Donte and me. Arizona State is located in Tempe, which is only about ten miles from Mesa, so my whole family and many of my high school friends came to the game. Donte sat on the bench in street clothes, which was incredibly hard for him, while I got a chance to show off for my buddies back home. Unfortunately, it was one of the worst games I played all year. Coach Wojcik put me in relatively early, and I responded with a tepid defensive performance. I don’t know whether I was nervous or disoriented; regardless, I got dunked on twice in the first minute after I entered the game. Shortly thereafter, I was pulled from the lineup and took a seat at the end of the bench, where I remained most of the night. We lost the game and I played poorly, which was disappointing, but at least I got to see my friends and family.
My freshman season was a valuable learning experience, one that forced me to gain both emotional and physical strength as I learned to juggle the demands of school and sports, while trying to maintain a positive outlook during a season that was often frustrating. I played in thirteen games and averaged less than seven minutes per game. It’s hard to show what you can do in such a small window of time, but I did my best. The coaching staff told me after the season that I had exceeded their expectations and they had big plans for me the next year. I was excited and eager to validate their confidence.
CHAPTER 20
* * *
What is a happy ending? Is it the expected completion of a journey, exactly as it has been mapped out? Or is it something else entirely? I do not have the answer for this, but I do know that life is full of surprises, and that one must never accept defeat.
I arrived at the University of Tulsa in the fall of 2010 filled with hope and ambition. I dared to dream about a career in professional basketball. So what happened? I discovered that despite my physical talents, I was quite a raw basketball player and had a great deal of catching up to do if I was going to be an effective college athlete. But I wasn’t discouraged. Instead, I vowed to work hard in the off-season and do better the next year. Unfortunately, there was no “next year.”
Just three days after the season ended I walked into the gym to play some pickup ball. A lot of guys take time off after the season to give themselves a chance to recuperate, both mentally and physically. This is understandable—the season is long and hard, and by March you are sore and exhausted; you need a break.
But I didn’t want to take any time off. I wanted to use every possible moment to get ready for the next season. So I went to the weight room the day after the season ended; I ran sprints on my own. I worked on my conditioning and my shooting form. And on the third day I jumped into a pickup game with players of disparate size and skill. Some of them were my teammates, but some were just regular students looking for a good run. You might think that it would be hard to get excited about playing pickup ball in an empty gym, with no clock or scoreboard or referees, after you’ve spent the entire winter playing in front of thousands of screaming fans.
But you would be wrong.
If you truly love the game of basketball (as I do), then it really doesn’t matter when or where you play. Sure, there is something special about playing in front of a packed house, but most of us first learn the game in solitude, just shooting and dribbling in the quiet of an empty court. It was that way for me, dating back to my introduction to basketball, when I was a little kid shooting around at Foyer Social, aching for a chance to get into a game. I embraced any opportunity to play, to compete, and to improve. So, as I peeled off my shirt that day for a simple game of full-court five-on-five, my heart beat a little faster. There were no coaches or spectators, but I was pumped about playing!
About five minutes into the game I took a pass from a teammate and made a sharp move to the basket, beating my defender by a step. Without hesitation I rose to the hoop and threw down a two-fisted dunk. It felt great—so smooth and powerful. But as I descended, I could sense something beneath me, a presence moving suddenly into my landing space. I tried to adjust at the last second, but it was too late. My right foot came down on top of a defender’s foot. My ankle rolled sharply to the outside, sending a wave of intense pain through my body.
This is the unpredictability and randomness of life: never before had I suffered any sort of serious athletic injury. For goodness’ sake—I had grown up playing in sandals or even bare feet! I survived a year and a half in the jungle without being injured. But there I was, rolling around on the gym floor, clutching my broken ankle, writhing in pain and cursing at the top of my lungs.
“FUCK! NO! NO! NO!”
All because I had inadvertently stepped on another player’s foot while coming down after a dunk i
n a pickup game. It was the most common of basketball injuries . . . and among the most potentially devastating.
Even with surgery that summer and the insertion of a variety of hardware designed to strengthen my ankle, the injury never healed properly. For months, I endured rehabilitation and therapy, but by the time the next season began I was out of shape and, once again, woefully far behind my teammates. So, I took a redshirt year, which allowed me to continue rehab while enrolled in classes (so that I wouldn’t fall behind academically), but without exhausting a year of athletic eligibility. In the end, it did not matter.
There is a difference between being merely “healthy” and being fit enough to play basketball at the highest level of intercollegiate competition. Pain was a constant partner as I tried to return to the program, and it dramatically impeded my progress.
By the end of the 2011–12 season, I began to have serious doubts about whether I would ever again play at Tulsa. This was mainly but not exclusively because of my physical issues. We had a mediocre season, with a 17–14 overall record and a 10–6 record in Conference USA. Had Coach Wojcik been in the first or second year of his contract, this might have been deemed an acceptable part of the rebuilding process. But he was in his seventh year and we were expected to challenge for the conference title and make the NCAA tournament. Neither of those things happened, and shortly after the season ended, following a four-overtime loss to Marshall in the quarterfinals of the conference tournament, Coach Wojcik was fired. He left the school with a career record of 140–92, which is quite respectable. In fact, Doug Wojcik remains the school’s leader in career victories. This just further illustrates how competitive and cutthroat a business Division I college basketball can be. You can win more than 60 percent of your games—more than any other coach in the program’s history—and still lose your job.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 21