The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti

by Blondy Baruti

  I knew the reality of the situation and wasn’t shocked to hear of Coach Wojcik’s dismissal. But I did find it disappointing. Despite my frustration over playing time as a freshman, and my injury as a sophomore, I liked Coach Wojcik and thought he would give me a fair shot if I could recover. He had been honest and thoughtful with me from the first time we met, and I appreciated the way he kept in touch with my parents through good times and bad. I was sad to see him go, and of course apprehensive about what his departure might mean for my career.

  There was a lot of anxiety surrounding the basketball program at this time. Donte Medder had quit the team after just six games, unhappy with his lack of playing time following recovery from the second ACL tear. I thought Donte behaved rashly, and I told him as much when he announced that he was leaving school and transferring to another program.

  “You are making a mistake,” I said. “Give it time.”

  But Donte was impatient and frustrated, and by Christmas of that season he was gone. I had lost not only a teammate, but one of my best friends. Donte wound up at Cal State San Bernardino, where he eventually ruptured his ACL a third time, which not only ended his career, but also led to him withdrawing from school. He never did complete his degree.

  Donte wasn’t the only friend I lost that year. Jordan Clarkson, my roommate and the team’s leading scorer, decided to transfer to the University of Missouri after Coach Wojcik’s firing. With so many people leaving (we also lost three seniors to graduation, and another starter, Eric McClellan, transferred to Vanderbilt), I couldn’t help but wonder whether I belonged at Tulsa. There was so much uncertainty surrounding the program.

  The hiring of Danny Manning to replace Coach Wojcik less than a month after the season ended got my attention. Manning was the all-time leading scorer at the University of Kansas, and the No. 1 pick in the 1988 NBA Draft. To say the least, he had pedigree. And patience. After a long playing career, he had joined the basketball staff at his alma mater in 2003, and had spent eight years learning the job—first as team manager and director of student-athlete development, and then as an assistant coach. Now, finally, he was ready to become a head coach.

  While Coach Manning had never run a program before, it was impossible not to be impressed by his résumé. And after meeting him for the first time, I couldn’t help but like him, as well; he was personable and friendly. Still, he hadn’t recruited me, worked with me, or even seen me play one second of basketball. He wasn’t my coach, and I think a lot of the guys on the team felt that way. This is a pretty common response to the upheaval that comes with a change in coaching staff. Rather than making this decision in a vacuum, I called Terry and Laurie and told them I was feeling discouraged about everything that was happening at Tulsa—my injury, so many friends leaving, Coach Wojcik getting fired—and that I was thinking about transferring. They did not pressure me, but they did help me consider more clearly the benefits of staying: I was nearly halfway to a degree at Tulsa. I was comfortable. True, basketball had been a disappointment, but there was no guarantee that I would get more playing time elsewhere, especially considering my uncertain physical condition. My parents encouraged me to see the big picture, to remember why I was in college in the first place. It was fine to have a dream of playing in the NBA, but the important thing was to get a degree. Maybe everything would turn out well at Tulsa. Maybe Danny Manning would be a tremendous coach who saw value in my skill set. Maybe, with a few more months of therapy and treatment, my ankle would finally heal.

  Maybe.

  I decided to stay. To become part of the solution, rather than part of the problem.

  Unfortunately, my ankle did not cooperate. Throughout the spring I experienced periods where I felt a return to full health was possible. Then there would be a setback of some sort—a workout followed by swelling and pain and three or four days in which I could barely walk. Sometimes I would have to use crutches. And it wasn’t like I twisted the ankle or took a bad step. I’d be playing and feeling okay, and then I’d wake up in the middle of the night with my ankle on fire. It was baffling and immensely frustrating.

  There were more appointments with doctors and surgeons, more X-rays and MRIs. None of the scans offered conclusive evidence, and certainly no answers. Over the summer, our team made a trip to Canada for a series of exhibition games. I hardly played at all, and when I did play, I was ineffective, hobbled by a lack of fitness and persistent pain in the ankle. It was a vicious cycle: the ankle felt better only when I rested, and yet the constant rest resulted in diminished conditioning. Simply put, I was out of shape, at least by the standards of Division I basketball.

  After that trip, I met with the doctor who had performed the surgery on my ankle. He was not encouraging.

  “It’s been more than a year since the surgery,” he said. “You should be better by now. If you’re still having this much pain, then it’s possible you’re not going to have a full recovery.”

  I suggested another operation, but the doctor was reluctant. The ligaments had been badly stretched and weakened.

  “At this point, I wouldn’t recommend surgery,” he said.

  “What would you recommend?”

  He paused and glanced at the floor.

  “I would recommend that you consider not playing competitive basketball anymore. You’re risking long-term damage.”

  These words should not have come as a shock—after all, I had been sidelined for nearly eighteen months—but for some reason they took my breath away. I had assumed that eventually I would be healthy, that my body, which had withstood so much discomfort and abuse over the years, would win this battle as well. The evidence strongly indicated otherwise, and to hear such a grim prognosis from the man who knew my injury best was sobering, to say the least.

  “But . . .” I began, and yet the words would not come out. My chest began to hurt.

  I thought about how hard I had worked to get to this point—the beating I took back home at Foyer Social and on my club team, Molokai; the endless miles I had walked to get to basketball practices in which I nearly fainted in the 110-degree heat. How could it end like this? I had barely even played college basketball—and now my dream of playing in the NBA was over? Just like that? It felt like a cruel joke.

  “No, no, no,” I cried. “I’m going to recover and get back out there. I have a goal that I have to reach, and nothing will stop me!”

  “I’m sorry, Blondy,” the doctor said, shaking his head pitiably. “I wish I had better news, but I honestly think it’s time for you to move on.”

  SHORTLY AFTER THE FALL semester began, I met with Coach Manning. He seemed legitimately sensitive to my plight, perhaps because he knew what it was like to experience a devastating injury. Coach Manning was one of the greatest college players of his generation. He led Kansas to a national title in 1988 and received both the Naismith and Wooden Awards as the the national player of the year. But he ruptured his ACL as a rookie with the Los Angeles Clippers, and while he spent many years playing in the NBA, injuries prevented him from ever achieving the kind of success most people had predicted. Like me, he spent a lot of time in doctors’ offices and training rooms, struggling to recapture the strength and fitness that had been robbed from him. Along the way he learned that the end of a playing career did not signify the end of life; it simply meant that it was time to chart a new course. In Manning’s case, that course was coaching. I had no backup plan. I was going to be a professional basketball player, either in the NBA or overseas. Of that I was one hundred percent certain.

  “I know this is hard,” Coach Manning said. “And I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m just trying to get an idea of how you feel, and what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Coach. I’ve tried everything. My ankle just isn’t getting better, and the doctors say it’s not going to get better.”

  Coach Manning nodded. He had already consulted with the medical and training staff.

  “There is no shame in any
of this,” he said. “It can happen to anyone. And even if you can’t play, that doesn’t mean you can’t still be a part of the program.”

  Coach Manning offered me two options: first, the opportunity to be a manager, which might sound demeaning, but is actually a fairly common training ground for aspiring coaches; second, I could take a medical retirement, which would relieve me of all basketball responsibilities, but I would get to keep my scholarship.

  “Can I have a few days to think about it?” I asked.

  Coach Manning smiled. “Sure, Blondy. Take your time.”

  Both of these scenarios were fair to me and beneficial to the team, as in either case I would continue to get a free education, and my scholarship would no longer count against the NCAA limit of thirteen scholarships per team. My spot would be taken by a healthy body. If I stayed on the team, in a state of perpetual recovery, then my scholarship would remain on the books and my presence would be a liability. This was the reality of the situation.

  Before making a decision, I turned again to Terry and Laurie, for I knew I could count on them to offer advice based on nothing more than love.

  “What do you want to do?” Laurie asked.

  “I want to play basketball, but if I can’t play, then I don’t think I can be around the program,” I explained. “It’s just too painful.”

  Terry and Laurie understood this completely, and so did Coach Manning. When I told him that I was going to take a medical retirement, he shook my hand and wished me well. There would be other opportunities, he said. Other ways to channel my energy.

  The doctor’s words too kept echoing in my head: It’s time for you to move on.

  But where to? And how would I get there?

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  The answer came through prayer.

  For weeks after my medical retirement became official, I was despondent. I could not even walk past the gym without feeling as though I was going to break down in tears. I missed playing the sport I loved, the game that had sustained me for so many years and through so many hard times. But I did not regret the decision, for I knew with each stinging step that my body had nothing left to give. While I grieved for the loss of my basketball career, I knew I had made the right decision. I just needed another outlet for my creativity and passion.

  “Please, God,” I said each night. “Help me find the way.”

  And just like that, like a bolt out of the blue, it came to me.

  Acting!

  Before basketball, there had been soccer. Before soccer there had been theater. I had been involved in a very good program while in middle school, and I had shown promise as a young actor. And I had loved it. What if I were to rekindle that interest? What if I were to allow myself to be bitten by the acting bug all over again? It isn’t so different from sports, after all. Athletes and actors are both performers, plying their trade in front of an audience. And both are part of a team, reliant not just on their own skill, but on the camaraderie and support of those who share the stage or court with them.

  It seemed not just plausible, but logical.

  I leaped immediately into the deep end of the pool, starting with a meeting with the director of the theater program at Tulsa. It is not unusual for college students to dabble in drama, taking either an elective class or even helping out backstage with a production. My plans were somewhat more . . . ambitious.

  “I’d like to major in theater,” I explained.

  He looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I thought you were a business major.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I want a double major.”

  Practically speaking, this was almost impossible. I had just started my junior year and had not taken any theater courses. I would have to rework my schedule, and take extra classes in theater, while also maintaining a rigorous load of business courses. When I told my friends what I was doing, they could only laugh.

  “Dude, you must be nuts,” one of my former teammates said. “You’re going to be even busier than when you were playing basketball.”

  Tulsa is a demanding school academically. Majoring in one discipline is hard enough, but adding a second major? To my teammates, this seemed crazy, but in my eyes it was simply another challenge, and one that was far from insurmountable. I figured if I could survive civil war and the hardship of the Congo, I could handle a heavy academic load. It also felt logical to me: a business degree was practical in the outside world; a theater degree was more about pursuing something I loved. With basketball gone, I needed something that provoked passion.

  Sure, I’d be busy, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To fill each day with work and fun and ambition, to strive for something glorious and seemingly unachievable. In the same way that playing professional basketball is out of reach for all but the fortunate few, so, too, is the world of professional acting. That was my goal, you see—not merely getting a degree in theater, and learning the craft of acting, but using that degree as a calling card.

  While once I dreamed of being in the NBA, now I dreamed of being a movie star, and I was determined to do everything possible to make that dream come true. It was a massive commitment, but one that helped ease the pain of losing basketball. While there were times I missed playing, and I certainly envied my teammates on game nights (sometimes I attended as a spectator), most of the time I was too busy and tired and immersed in the fantastic world of drama to give it much thought. Overnight, it seemed, my life had been transformed.

  There were many wonderful teachers in the Theater Department at Tulsa, in particular Professor Steven Marzolf, who was himself an experienced stage and film actor. In both the classroom and onstage, Professor Marzolf pushed me and challenged me; like any great mentor, he gave generously of himself but also held me to a high standard.

  “You can make a living at this, Blondy,” he told me. “But you have to work harder.”

  Professor Marzolf had performed with the prestigious Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago; he had appeared in a couple of movies. He was at once practical and ambitious. Like any great teacher (or coach), he constantly raised the bar of expectations, imploring his students to never settle for mediocrity. He told me that I had talent and charisma; he also told me that if I didn’t reduce my accent, the challenge of finding roles in Hollywood might be insurmountable. This was a harsh reality of the business, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

  Like anyone else in the Tulsa Theatre Department, I had to pay my dues before earning a role in a legitimate production. In fact, it wasn’t until June of 2013, shortly after the end of my junior year, that I made my debut, in an ambitious production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. Part of Tulsa Shakespeare in the Park, the free production ran for more than a week and drew big crowds every night. Updated to the 1940s and set in Tulsa, our version of Much Ado About Nothing retained the play’s trademark humor and language, but updated for a modern and local audience. I had a modest but not insignificant part as a guard, and each night when I first appeared onstage, the crowd would gasp and applaud; I guess I did not look like the typical Shakespearean actor! I had quite a few scenes and lines, and felt I performed well. My castmates said so, anyway. A few people told me afterward that they were surprised by my performance. Performing Shakespeare is almost like performing in a different language; since English was already my third language, I guess you could say Shakespeare was my fourth. In a strange way, maybe that made things easier.

  Regardless, on closing night, as we all stood together onstage and took our final bows, I felt both sadness and excitement. I did not want the magic to end; indeed, I would have happily performed Much Ado About Nothing every night for the rest of the year. It was an odd feeling, knowing that for many of my castmates, this was not only the end of their college theater careers, but the end of college, as well. I was fortunate. I had another year of school, and yet already I felt no ambivalence or confusion about the future. I knew exactly where I was going and what I wanted to
do.

  MY SENIOR YEAR WAS exhausting and rewarding and filled with more work and fun than I ever could have imagined. I took public speaking classes, spent endless hours in the library, and continued to work on the craft of acting. I also worked on a draft of my autobiography that eventually stretched out to more than three hundred pages (forming the backbone of the story you are reading now). I wrote out of a sense of obligation, not just for a creative outlet. You see, I felt like I had a story worth telling; a story that might one day inspire others, especially young kids living in poverty or trying to survive in a war-torn country. There is hope, I wanted to say.

  I spent a lot of time in my car as well. Sometimes I would drive six hours in the snow to Missouri to watch my friend Jordan Clarkson play basketball; then we would hang out afterward and talk about our plans. Jordan still hoped to play in the NBA; I was going to be an actor. We believed in each other and supported each other.

  Dream big, my brother.

  But the person with whom I was closest at this time was Serge Ibaka. After playing for two years in Spain in the European professional leagues, he had been drafted by the Seattle SuperSonics. We had kept in touch throughout my time in America, and when the SuperSonics relocated to Oklahoma City in 2010, the same year that I enrolled at the University of Tulsa, it was a wonderful and unexpected twist of fate. Here we were, old basketball buddies from the Congo, now both living in Oklahoma, and separated by only a hundred miles of interstate.

  We spent a lot of time together, especially once I got my first car, a beat-up Suzuki unfit for someone my size, but surprisingly resilient given its age and odometer reading. Serge was a warm and generous man; his door was always open to friends and family, the ranks of which seemed to swell with each passing year in Oklahoma City. Serge liked having me around, and I will admit to enjoying the perks that came with being a good friend of an NBA star. I could get passes to any Oklahoma City Thunder game, with great seats and VIP access. I hung out with Serge and his teammates after games, went out to some of the best clubs in town, and ate at the finest restaurants. Beautiful women would routinely find their way to our table, and always Serge would introduce me in this way: