by Dan Doyle
“It has taken the blood of my family and my friends and has set our democratic process back decades. But Jim, do not let my dreary outlook affect you. What you are doing is important and could bring hope to Burundi,” he said, without a trace of hope in his voice.
After his lunch, Jim received an extensive briefing from a team of Health Department officials, including a physician who provided him with a twelve-month supply of pills.
“ Take two a day and you’ll have a good shot of staying away from malaria,” the doctor said in a monotone that Jim found irksome.
“What about your personal health; are you taking any medication?”
“Yes, my doctor has prescribed some things,” Jim answered vaguely.
“Do you have enough? You won’t easily be able to get prescriptions filled in Burundi,” the doctor prodded.
“I’ll be fine,” said Jim firmly. He hoped the doctor would not continue his probe, and, surprisingly, he did not.
Jim’s dinner meeting with Roger Peterson filled in many of the gaps in the briefing material about the Tutsi-Hutu conflict. Peterson emphasized the extent of US involvement and the importance of initiatives like Jim’s. Early the next morning, he would call Barry to tell him he and Jim talked until midnight.
“I like this guy,” Peterson told Barry. “He listens and you can tell he’s got his teeth into this thing.”
When Jim returned to his hotel room, he took a Prozac and fell into bed. Despite a restless sleep (he seemed to wake up every half hour thinking about some Burundi fact), he awoke energized. Another lively discussion with Barry at breakfast further hot-wired his drive.
“Are you ready?” asked Barry.
“I am, Barry,” said Jim.
Barry heard an echo of the assurance he had found in his friend so many years ago when Jim added, “And I’m determined to get the job done.”
The forty-five-minute drive to Dulles Airport brought forth more nostalgia and further galvanized their relationship. It also gave Barry the opportunity to tell Jim more about Ambassador Foster.
“She’s a treasure, Jim. Cynthia grew up in the poorest section of Indianapolis. With as much intellect, grace, and diligence as I’ve seen in this business, she’s become one of our most respected diplomats. And her husband, Bill, is, to use a Yiddish term my mom used to apply to you, a mensch. You know, they’ve never had children. Instead, they’ve men-tored countless young people at every diplomatic stop. If there was ever a marital dream team, you’re about to meet them in Burundi.”
“Oh, and by the way,” he added, “they both love basketball! And knowing that balls are pretty scarce in Burundi, I brought along eight deflated rubber balls that you can take with you.”
At the airport, Barry parked his car in Short Term then helped check Jim’s bags.
After Jim received his boarding pass, he looked at Barry for a long moment. He surprised himself by embracing his boyhood brother.
Playing aggressive defense against his brimming eyes, Jim pivoted and hustled off to the plane.
At the gate, Jim Keating stopped at a trash bin, opened his carry-on, and discarded his supply of antidepressants.
16
As Jim had suspected, any chance for sleep on the plane had been eliminated by his hasty, probably rash decision to discard his Prozac. The one early advantage of his impulsiveness was that the long and decidedly uncomfortable flight would give him ample time to reflect on the wagon-train life he had chosen—and on his new opportunity. The downside was that withdrawal symptoms had quickly kicked in. He remembered Dr. Rotella warning him that sudden withdrawal from Prozac could cause serious side effects ranging from nausea to panic attacks. Jim had already missed one dose amid the briefings in DC, so the drug was probably out of his system, and he was starting to sweat heavily and feel nauseous.
The flight route from Dulles would include a two-hour wait at JFK, a seven-hour flight to Brussels, an eight-hour layover, and then seven more hours in the air to Bujumbura, Burundi.
After the brief New York stopover, Jim did his best to settle his thick-set body into the unaccommodating coach-class seat. In an attempt to neutralize his distress, he recalled one of Edna’s many admirable traits (and one he dearly missed): her honesty.
In fact, Edna’s devotion to the truth had now and then veered toward the inflexible, which, in turn, had caused an occasional quarrel. But her scruples had also forced Jim, sometimes reluctantly, to confront the truth about his own strengths and weaknesses, making him a better person and nourishing their relationship.
A good example was a frank discussion he’d had with Edna many years earlier while at St. Thomas about his direction and the state of his profession.
“I’ve always felt, and still feel, that your rise in the coaching ranks has been based on your teaching ability, your concern about your players, and your work ethic,” began Edna. “But lately, I’ve seen others in your field who aren’t necessarily the best teachers. They may work hard, but they also seem more focused on fluffing up their egos and lining their purses than on the well-being of their players. It seems to me that the biggest criterion for success now is raw aggression—combined with guile.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, look at where college basketball is going,” responded Edna. “Look at the point-shaving scandals, the recruiting violations. Jim, some coaches have abandoned whatever ethical guidelines they had in favor of their ambition. Now, I understand that, to a degree, aggressiveness in any profession can be admirable—and quite necessary—but when it dominates the overall success pattern, isn’t there a real danger of it becoming an end in itself?”
Jim had given a reluctant nod and Edna continued.
“Remember when we were at the Final Four last year? I was sitting at a table where you were discussing different issues with various coaches?”
“Yeah, I sort of remember,” Jim had said, somewhat defensively.
“Well, I recall an argument that two of the coaches had about the Vietnam War. The coach who seemed to gain the upper hand, and to have the last word, did it more by asserting his self-will rather than by offering any reasoned points. In fact, he knew very little about the key issues. Winning the argument seemed more important to him than reasoning through civil or logical discourse. The entire discussion centered not on who had developed a well-thought-out opinion, but who was most assertive in getting his opinion heard. To me, it was a small but telling factor about coaching—and athletics in general.”
“Vietnam aside, Edna, assertiveness is important to winning, and, I might add, winning is important.”
“Jim . . . now, you’ve said yourself that one of the great things about sports is teaching people how to deal with success and failure. If playing a sport is supposed to have educational value, then what’s wrong with losing from time to time? Look at your own players. Many of your best athletes have surely not made their mark in life. In fact, I don’t see that being a good player and getting ahead in a career correlate at all. So why not use the entire experience of winning and losing as teaching tools?”
“Well, we do.”
“Do you, now?” asked Edna in a mocking tone softened by a smile. “Then why is it that any time a Division I coach has a losing season or two, he’s fired?”
Jim stood up for a moment and massaged the back of his neck with his right hand. Then he sat back down and said, “Can we take a timeout? . . . Please?”
“No,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “Let me finish . . .”
Jim shook his head and smiled, knowing that his wife would not be deterred.
“On the matter of raw aggression and that Vietnam issue,” Edna continued, “there are ethicists who propose that a person who forces an unreasoned opinion on others is unethical, simply because forcing others to follow that line of reasoning can be harmful on a whole variety of levels. There’s even a further school of ethical thought that proposes that in many fields, incompetence is unethical.”
“How so?”
“Well,” said Edna, “certain people—because of their aggression or ego—propose that they have far more expertise than they really do. The results can be devastating. Think of politicians who’ve been elected based on their confidence or swagger or money, but who, in reality, lack the requisite skills to handle the complexities of the job. Think of the damage that such a politician can do to a community, if not a nation. And think of coaches who deliver undeveloped, half-baked opinions to kids—on issues ranging from violence to games-manship—and think of how harmful an effect it can have on kids.”
“Then are you saying that all people in positions of influence must be smart?”
“I’m saying that all people in positions of importance must be competent—and should spend the time to develop a coherent philosophy.”
After a brief pause, Edna went on. “So many decisions in coaching are made with bluster and swagger, Jim, and that approach should not be the dominating factor in a credible profession. I mean, in what other job could someone like an Al McGuire get to the absolute top by a completely seat-of-the-pants approach?”
Jim was upset that his wife should choose Marquette’s old coach, whom he had always liked and thought of as a smart man, an original thinker. When he stubbornly refused to answer, she smiled and then gently offered her own reply.
“None!”
At the time, Jim had not entirely agreed with Edna about the shortcomings of his profession. But now, on a plane headed for a ravaged country where winning was more about surviving the day than playing a game, the validity of her points became even more pronounced.
Even though Jim’s body felt lousy, remembering Edna’s candor made him feel a bit upbeat. He was leaving behind a bad situation, flushing both the medicine and Jersey State out of his system, and heading for circumstances he hoped were clean and fresh and positive. In the midst of unimaginable violence and chaos, he might make a difference—do something positive other than simply win games.
As Jim Keating had grown older and watched people take on more intricate, multi-layered projects than coaching, he realized that careful planning, reasoned thought, civil discourse, and working with people in a team-like environment all seemed prerequisites to success. He also admitted to himself that many coaches, including some of the biggest winners, lacked some of those qualities and were not critical thinkers in the way Edna was. Rather than examining an idea from all sides and coming to a thoughtful solution, many approached predicaments by simply climbing over people and using aggressive, even childish tactics. “Few other professions would tolerate that kind of conduct—or misconduct,” he recalled Edna saying.
Hours after that conversation had ended, but only moments after the heat of reconciliation had ebbed, Edna had made one of her many keen observations, one that had brought a smile to his face.
“You know, Mr. Keating, marriage is not always pretty— but it is profound!”
17
That vivid flashback to 1968, and the distraction of watching Out of Africa, helped suppress Jim’s nausea and got him to Brussels, where he was to look for Frank Schwalba-Hoth at the terminal. Schwalba-Hoth was a Belgian diplomat whom Barry had asked to take Jim for a tour of the capital of the European Union during the eight-hour layover.
As Jim headed unsteadily into the arrivals area in the Brussels airport, he caught sight of a dapper man with a corona of white hair atop a smiling face who was yelling, “Coach! Coach!”
“I’m Frank Schwalba-Hoth,” he said with an accent that reminded Jim of Agatha Christie’s Monsieur Poirot. “And you’re a tall, broad-shouldered man with a brush cut who has to be Jim Keating.”
Jim smiled and nodded as they shook hands. The raccoon circles around Jim’s eyes made it clear to Schwalba-Hoth that the American lacked sleep, but the diplomat had no idea of the real reason for Jim’s haggard look. “Rough trip?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Jim, without offering any hint of the reasons for his uncomfortable flight. In fact, Jim was exhausted and wobbly. Although he had at times gone off his medication in Worcester and was familiar with withdrawal symptoms, this was cold turkey. He couldn’t remember feeling this bad since he’d had a severe bout with dysentery in the Pacific.
The two took a cab into Brussels and Schwalba-Hoth quickly proved to be a gracious host who, despite the predawn hour, talked enthusiastically about his home. “It’s a great city— the most alive in all of Europe. As you can see, I don’t own a car—don’t need one because it’s so easy to make your way around here.” He shepherded Jim through several landmarks of the European Union capital, ending with a walk around the Grand Place with its spectacular thirteenth-century gothic town hall.
After a brief stop for breakfast, where Jim cautiously stuck to toast and tea, Schwalba-Hoth surprised his guest by purchasing two boxes of famous Belgian chocolates—a mix of pralines—at an outdoor kiosk on the Avenue Louise, a popular pedestrian street.
“I knew Ambassador Foster years ago,” he explained. “As a young diplomat, she served here for about fourteen months. Loved our chocolates. One box is for you and the other for Cynthia. You’ll be well received when you present it to her!”
As they continued along Avenue Louise, looking for a shop where he could buy a gift for Sarah, Jim suffered another bout of nausea and began retching violently. Schwalba-Hoth sat Jim down at an outdoor table. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll get a cab to take you to the hospital.”
But Jim protested, coming forth with some minimal information.
“Frank, thank you, but please don’t do that. I’m trying to force myself off medication—sleeping pills and the rest,” he said vaguely. “That, plus the overnight flight, has put me a bit under the weather. But I’ll be okay.”
Schwalba-Hoth, though, was concerned enough to hail a cab and get Jim back to the airport. Jim watched his host shift from amiable escort to efficient bureaucrat. Using his contacts with Sabena, the Belgian airline that would fly Jim from Brussels to Bujumbura, he arranged for Jim to relax in the first-class lounge and was also able to have his seat upgraded to first class.
Jim thanked Schwalba-Hoth for his kindness. The Belgian was an interesting man whom Jim would have enjoyed getting to know better. But at this stage, Jim was so nauseous that he found solitude a more appealing companion than a new and indulgent acquaintance. He kept one of the State Department briefing books on his lap to discourage conversation and opened it to “Kirundi—The Language of Burundi.” Jim practiced a few words, watched a few minutes of Belgian TV off and on, and even slept for a short while.
Four hours later, he was back on a plane. While still woozy, a concoction of apple cider vinegar, ginger root, and hot water served to him in the lounge by an obliging Sabena employee had lessened the nausea.
After takeoff, now in the more comfortable surroundings of first class, Jim was trying to ward off the anxiety attacks that came with withdrawal. Dr. Rotella had warned him that he could slip into depression if he stopped taking his medication. I’ll think about the various aspects of my new job, he decided. But it didn’t work. Instead, his thoughts turned to a frequent retrospection—the fallout over his dismissal at New Jersey State. He focused on two letters he had previ-ously blocked from memory in an attempt to sober his senses. One was from a self-described “hoop junkie” who also identified himself as an African American.
“I’ve followed your career, and I doubt you’re a racist. Unfortunately, though, a dismissal like yours, even when it appears, on the surface at least, to be unjust, is sometimes necessary to level the field. A firing like yours tells African Americans that, in a show-down between Blacks and Caucasians, whitey sometimes gets his, too. It’s called the law of equivalent retaliation. It might seem unfair, but so is the racism that has overrun our society for hundreds of years.”
Jim’s initial reaction to the letter was anger, and even after he had composed himself, he’d still felt that the author was wrong. Yet now, many m
onths after he had first read the letter, he reluctantly found himself respecting the man’s forthright-ness and guessing that his points were an accurate reflection of the views of some, if not most, African Americans.
On the plane, Jim also recalled a speech that Edna’s frequent target of criticism, Al McGuire, had given at a coach’s clinic in the late ‘60s. Jim’s assistant, Joe Winters, a black man, had accompanied Jim to the clinic. At the time, McGuire’s Marquette clubs were, in many ways, the antithesis of other predominantly African American teams. The Warriors seldom ran, they kept scores in the 50s and 60s, and their disciplined approach was the envy of the majority of college coaches—white and black.
When McGuire had finished his speech, he said to his audience, “Okay, how ‘bout some Q and A?”
A young African American assistant coach raised his hand and boldly asked the question that many in the audience sought an answer to.
“How do you get black kids to play with such discipline?”
“I first let ‘em know that I’m not holdin’ myself responsible for what my forefathers did,” McGuire began. “Then I tell ‘em that the star of Marquette basketball is Al McGuire and that next in line come the seniors. The seniors are rewarded with the ball—the underclassmen have to wait their turn. I tell ‘em if they want to run, they can look for a new school. But I also tell ‘em that if they play within our system, they got a good shot at turnin’ pro. And if an underclassman says: ‘Coach—I want to go pro early,’ I look in his icebox. If it’s not as full as mine, I tell him to take the money!”
The typically glib reply had been a case of the tin god preaching to the converted. The coaches, including most of the handful of African Americans present, had roared with admiring laughter. But Jim noticed that his young assistant had not been similarly impressed. Jim regarded Winters as a perceptive judge of issues, especially those related to race.