by Dan Doyle
Jim nodded, masking a flick of sadness over the reference to Edna.
“Your career path has been different from most. You started strong in your career then encountered great difficulty. It’s always hard for a person who achieves success at a young age to deal with anything short of that success at a later age. And so you think that those footprints I just mentioned have been washed away—a point of view I do not share.
“In fact, I still see a man who has much to contribute. You’re healthy and, despite the depression, you’re still mentally sharp, something that’s not always the case with the clinically depressed. And you’ve even said yourself how well you remember being in great condition and, now, how much better you feel when you walk.”
Dr. Rotella paused for a moment to frame his final thoughts.
“I hate to say it, Coach, but some in our profession rely too much on medication. Somehow, we’ve got to get you off the medication or at least reduce the dosage. Once that’s been done, we need you to continue on the track to greater physical activity. Most importantly, we need to find something that will get that respect back. And Jim, I know there’s something out there.”
Dr. Rotella paused to let his words take seed and then continued, “You remember those pep talks that you gave your teams, the ones about overcoming adversity? You need to give yourself that same pep talk, because I’m certain you can still leave some more footprints.”
Yet despite Rotella’s entreaty, Jim could not extricate himself from the anti-depressants the New Jersey psychiatrist had prescribed for him after Edna’s death. The months continued to idle by without purpose, and Jim’s contact with the outside world remained limited to Mass, a stop at the coffee shop, his weekly consultation, and an occasional chat with an old friend. He harbored no amorous thoughts, enmeshed as he was in mourning and dampened by Prozac. And as for his once courted services as a molder of young men, there were no inquiries.
But then one morning, upon returning home from Alice’s, he was annoyed to find his phone ringing. He tried to ignore it, but the caller was resolute and the ringing continued. He finally answered and was stunned to hear the voice of a person who had played a starring role in his wondrous Worcester youth.
“You may be the best player to ever come out of Worcester,” said the caller in a prankish tone, “but I can still take you to the hoop!”
“Barry . . . Barry Sklar?” stammered Jim, utterly stunned.
Using the nickname he had bestowed on Jim some fifty years ago, Sklar said, “Yeah, General Jim, it’s me, and I’m glad you answered. Christ, I’ve been calling for days.”
Jim did not excuse his failure to answer his phone and felt a surge of excitement over hearing the voice of a guy who had been such an integral part of his boyhood.
13
Jim Keating had first met Barry Sklar in the eighth grade at St. Peter’s Grammar School, an odd happenstance to begin with, for Barry and his family were Jewish, and the only other Jew with whom St. Peter’s School had a relationship had died on a cross. The Sklars had wisely departed Poland four years before the Nazi invasion of ‘39. They had wended their way to Scotland, stopped for six months, and then spent all of their savings on a freight trip to America and a flat in Brooklyn.
While in Brooklyn, Jacob Sklar had died of cancer, and Helen Sklar, a bold-spirited and resourceful woman, decided that a smaller city would be a more suitable place to raise her children. When the Sklars arrived in Worcester, she determined that her youngest son, Barry, who excelled in the classroom, would attend a school where discipline and diligence were the norm. The sisters at St. Peter’s had not only assured her of such rigor, but, while pointing out that her son would have to take part in religious training, they also promised that his faith “would be respected.” Barry’s older brother, Ben, was skeptical: “This may be America, but we’re still Jews.”
Barry enrolled in the eighth grade at St. Peter’s, and despite the nuns’ best intentions, Ben’s misgivings proved accurate: Barry’s Judaism made an impact on many in the school, especially the hooligans.
Undeterred by the nuns’ frequent admonitions, a few of the roughnecks in particular savaged the “little Jew.” Jim Keating, the school’s phenom, was in the other eighth grade class. He had taken little notice of the new boy until one cold winter afternoon when, on his walk home, he saw two older neighborhood thugs grab Barry and thrust his face into the frigid snow. Barry fought bravely despite his small size, but the two ruffians overpowered him. Jim sensed dead-sure danger and quickly bellowed a demanding, “Let him up!” He spoke in the robust voice that would later play a considerable role in his coaching career.
The yelling startled the two muggers, one of whom looked up at the intruder and growled, “F--k off, Keating. This is none of your business.”
At age fourteen, having been reared in an Irish Catholic neighborhood where few outsiders called, Jim Keating had not been forced to consider the inequities brought on by prejudice. However, he recognized that the act before him was well below the belt and quickly yanked the two bullies off Barry and administered a beating to both, which Barry told him several years later looked like a scene stolen from a Jimmy Cagney movie.
“Don’t come near this kid again,” was the vocal end to a message begun by fists.
Jim pulled Barry up from the snow, looked at the boy’s frightened eyes, and concluded that he clearly had some experience with such terror. Jim walked the shaky, disoriented Barry home. Upon answering the door, Helen correctly assumed he had come to the aid of her son, and her appreciation was immediate. She gave Jim a glass of milk and some cookies and quietly thanked him. As she walked him to the door, he could see tears welling in her eyes. For the first time in his life, he began to comprehend the pain of prejudice.
From that day on, the two boys were best friends. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that no one could touch Barry Sklar without reprisal from Jim Keating . . . and no one did.
As often comes about in close friendships, the virtues of the two soon harmonized. Barry admired Jim’s athletic prowess and street-wise ways, and Jim enjoyed Barry’s sophisticated and ironic sense of humor and appreciated his friend’s unswerving loyalty.
They stayed in touch through college. But after graduation, Barry enrolled in a two-year master’s program at the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts and then joined the Foreign Service. Contact between the old friends was limited to holiday cards.
Now here was Barry on the phone, and his tone seemed upbeat.
“A few months ago, I was reassigned to Washington after spending the better part of thirty years in various African and South American posts,” said Barry to Jim, who was still recovering from his surprise. “I’m calling to offer belated condolences about Edna. Jim, I didn’t know and I’m so sorry. . . . She was a wonderful person.”
“That she was, Barry. I miss her greatly.”
“And I hope Sarah is doing well.”
“Thank you. She’s doing very well.”
Barry made no mention of New Jersey State, and there was an awkward pause that he quickly broke. “I know we have to catch up on a lot of lost years, but I wanted to ask you a favor.”
Jim Keating did not consider himself capable of dispensing favors but he replied without deliberation. “Sure, Barry.” Barry then pressed to the point.
“My last African post was in a small country called Burundi. Ever hear of it?”
“I have, but only recently. Isn’t that the country with all the trouble—the one next to Rwanda?”
“That’s the one, and like you, most people had never heard of either Rwanda or Burundi until the last couple of months. It’s a small, land-locked country—Zaire and Tanzania are the other bordering countries,” said Barry, his voice beginning to resonate with excitement.
“As you’ve probably read,” he continued, “two tribes make up most of the population in Burundi, the Hutus and the Tutsis. While the Hutus make up about 85 percent of the populat
ion, they’ve traditionally been in the minority as far as governance is concerned, and the Tutsis have often ruled in a very violent and oppressive manner over the centuries. About two years ago, the Hutus gained power in the country’s first democratic election. Naturally, the Tutsis were not in favor of such change, and, as you’ve read, violence unlike most of us have ever observed anywhere in the world has broken out in the last several months.”
Barry added, “While it’s not as bad in Burundi as it is in Rwanda, several hundred thousand people from both tribes in Burundi are now dead and several hundred thousand more Hutus have fled to Kenya.”
Jim listened intently, but was perplexed by Barry’s detailed explanation of a country he knew little about.
“Jim, the point of all of this is to tell you that I’ve been asked to develop some programs that would, at least in some small way, help the situation and, in the process, hopefully develop better relations between America and Burundi. Our government is now concerned about what’s going on over there, at least as concerned as we get about anything on that continent, which is generally not very concerned at all. But I’ve been pushed to come up with something—so let me tell you my thoughts.
“I may not be a great sports expert, but when I was there, I was always amazed at the natural athleticism I saw in both tribes. The Hutus are small—a big Hutu might be no more than six feet—but they’re very strong and quick. The Tutsis are another story. Their average height is about six-foot-seven, and it’s not unusual to see a group of seven-footers walking down the street together. What’s remarkable to me is how uncannily agile many of them are. Now, here’s my idea.”
Barry’s suspenseful pause caused Jim to press his ear closer to the phone; the diplomat had set the hook.
“The big sport is soccer, but basketball is coming along. And Jim, I’ve a hunch that if we organize a basketball development program, we might make some headway, however limited it might be, in bringing the two tribes together. It’s heady stuff because the implications go far beyond the game. To pull it off, I need a damned good coach.”
“Then you haven’t followed my career lately!” said Jim. An actual laugh accompanied the statement—the first in a very long time.
“I’ve followed it, and I know that, in spite of all the nonsense you’ve been through, you’re a great coach. And more to the point, Jim, my ass is on the line to move forward and I need the right guy. For whatever reason, the State Department is excited about this idea and I’m convinced that you’re the person for this job.”
Barry’s offer seized Jim’s mind. The coach needed a timeout to deliberate, but his old friend kept on shooting:
“It’d be one year; then we evaluate and hopefully go on with the project, but no promises at this point. The salary would be pretty good, $4,500 a month, plus the normal government benefits package, including insurance. Also, you’d stay in an apartment connected to the home of our ambassador’s top assistant, so the living quarters would be fine—actually more than fine. We own several homes—mansions really—that were built in the ‘20s and ‘30s by the Belgians when they colonized Burundi.
“Jim, I’m not asking you to make a decision today, but I am asking you to give it serious thought. It’s an important and noble position; probably more important, and certainly more noble, than most coaches have ever taken on, simply because the project could actually save some lives.”
They continued to speak for several more minutes. Barry provided more details on Burundi. Jim tried to process the many facets of the proposal.
When the two hung up, Barry pulled from his drawer the letter that had been the real basis for the call. Another old friend from the neighborhood had written to Barry, relating the news of Edna’s death, Jim’s dismissal, and that “Jimmy could use some help. Here’s his unlisted number.”
Barry Sklar had no trouble recalling what Jim’s friendship had meant to him in his beginnings. As editor of the high school yearbook, he also remembered the phrase he had made sure appeared under Jim Keating’s picture, a phrase Barry had learned from his own mother:
“When a friend is in need, there is no tomorrow.”
14
Jim Keating had accepted the notion that no one would ever again solicit his basketball services. But in one brief conversation, an old friend had dissolved that feeling, leaving Jim in a quandary. Barry’s presentation had come at the coach like a well-executed fast break, confronting him with options with which he was not quite ready to cope.
Jim had always recognized that Edna’s analytical skills surpassed his, and he had constantly sought her opinion on important decisions. In many instances during their life together, he wished he had followed her advice, particularly when he chose to leave St. Thomas for the Pistons.
Since her death, his only major decision had been to relocate to his hometown. And while his financial state played a major role in his move, he had also recalled reading a sports column in which the journalist quoted Robert Frost: “Home is a place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
And Worcester had taken him in. The town bowed properly at his return, but also left him space to navigate the ill winds of his despair.
Jim Keating had grown comfortable in his new milieu and was thus uncomfortable with the thought of another defeat. Yet there still lingered within him a desire for greater achievement.
“What would Edna have told me to do?” he wondered to himself, quickly realizing that she would have told him to follow the path of careful analysis.
So Jim tried to follow in Edna’s cautionary wake, stepping back to dissect the situation. The fact that there was a salary, and a good one at that, was no small incentive, for he was in dire need of money. But he had also gotten quite used to his apartment and, although he was at most times despondent, he felt increasingly at ease in his old neighborhood—always in sight of a good memory. Yet surely the salary would allow him to keep the apartment while away.
Jim spoke with Dr. Rotella, who was unequivocal in his advice:
“Help people through basketball? And get paid for it? This is the one—do it!”
Then there was his beloved Sarah, more strong-willed than ever. Edna’s illness had brought Jim even closer to Sarah, but after Edna’s death, Sarah grew concerned over her father’s idleness, and Jim became upset with his daughter’s recent change of address.
Due in large measure to Edna’s maternal skills, especially when Jim was on his overseas sojourn, Sarah Keating had been raised with great affection and indulged by her parents to a degree just shy of spoiling. Bright and diligent, she attended the College of William and Mary, majored in English literature, and graduated cum laude. She then enrolled in a master’s program in Creative Writing at Princeton. While there, she fell in love with a fellow graduate student.
Sarah had been devastated over the cruel, lingering demise of her mother. The searing deathwatch had prompted her to seek intimacy to hold steady. In a phone conversation several weeks after Edna’s death, she drew a deep breath and then revealed to her father that she had moved in with her male companion. Since this announcement, dad and daughter, both fiercely stubborn though brimming with love for each other, had been on chilly terms. Jim knew that the time was not right for a rift with Sarah and that he needed his daughter’s affection and support in this anguished period of his life. He also knew that his rigid position on her relationship was out of step with the masses. Nonetheless, he viewed her cohabitation as living in sin.
“You’re too Catholic, Daddy,” she had protested. “It’s like Mummy used to say, ‘You need doctrine, Jim. Your daughter does not.’”
“Maybe so,” he had countered, “but I’m also sick of a society that takes no responsibility for its actions. And in this case, it’s not about being too Catholic. You know that I love you more than anything on this planet. But the love between a man and a woman is an incremental process, Sarah. It’s about going from the temporary to the permanent in steps. In my v
iew—and I’m not alone in this view—these steps help you go from short-term desire to long-term commitment. To me, and I’m being blunt because I love you so much, by moving in with this guy, you’re skipping critical steps.”
In some measure, she felt that his comments were her dad’s way of romanticizing the past. Dad, she thought to herself, sexual relationships of people my age are not much different from what went on in your youth, and they are certainly not as promiscuous as the ‘60s. And by the way, that bygone era to which you are so attached had a whole lot of domestic violence and other not-so-nice activities related to marriage.
But given Jim’s state of mind, she refrained from saying these things and even admitted to herself that his words had struck a chord.
When Jim finally called his daughter to discuss Barry Sklar’s offer, he decided to make no mention of her residence, and she bubbled with enthusiasm over his new opportunity.
“Daddy, you’ve spent your whole life helping people and you still have so much to offer. You should do this! And if you do, I want to see you before you leave.”
“Me too!” said Jim.
It had been the first positive conversation between the two since Sarah had told Jim of her new living quarters. And while the thought of being thousands of miles away from her caused him great concern, he now realized that the distance might bring them closer together.
Buoyed by his conversations with his daughter and Dr. Rotella, Jim decided to go to the library to do more reading about Burundi. His research corroborated what Barry had said about the problems.