by Dan Doyle
“Don’t you agree with Coach Al about not being responsible for past sins?”
“I’m not sure I do,” Winters had replied.
“Hmm . . . what he said seemed fair enough to me,” said Jim.
“Well, I guess I look at it in a different way.”
Winters paused.
“Jim, Coach McGuire is basically saying that there should be no such thing as affirmative action, that we should start fresh—wipe the slate clean. But let me ask you this: If you and I were playing a Monopoly game, would it be fair if you started with two times the amount of money as me?”
More than two decades later, Jim Keating still found himself torn between the disparate views of Winters and McGuire. They both seemed right, yet they both also seemed wrong.
While the first letter had caused considerable deliberation on Jim’s part, the second had brought on real anguish.
“The decline of this great country can be traced directly to the coddling of n——s and other so-called minorities. Thank God for men like you who have the courage to stand up against the left-wing welfare-staters who are running our great land into the ground. If you ever decide to sue the school, or better still, sue those n——s players who slandered you, assistance from our legal fund will be at your disposal.”
The letter had been signed by the “president” of an organization called FFWA, which Jim later found out meant Freedom for White Americans. He had been sickened to think that such a perverse group would look upon him as a hero. Though most others in the first-class section were now asleep, Jim remained wide awake, posing an all too familiar question to himself that had haunted him since the Jersey State debacle: Is it possible that I am somehow, in some way, a racist?
While his answer continued to be a firm “no,” he hoped that if somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he harbored a trace of those malignant sentiments, it would be absolved by the success of his pilgrimage to Burundi.
Hours into the flight, Jim was drawn from his deep thought by an announcement from the captain.
“We’ve hit some headwinds on our way down here. Caused us to reroute slightly and use a little extra petrol. We’re going to stop for a quick refuel at the Kigali Airport in Rwanda. We’ll still have you in Bujumbura within minutes of our scheduled arrival. As a precaution, and so we can refuel quickly, passengers will be asked to stay on the plane.”
As the plane taxied toward a row of gasoline tanks situated about two hundred yards from the terminal, Jim’s nausea resurfaced and he vomited into the air-sickness bag. When two first-class stewardesses rushed to attend to him, his discomfort was exceeded only by his embarrassment.
Moments later, the passenger hatch was opened for two crew members to disembark to sign landing papers. Needing a dose of fresh air, Jim rose from his seat and walked gingerly to the open hatch. Looking out on the runway, he wondered if the captain’s order that all passengers remain on the plane had more to do with their safety than with a speedy refueling, for within fifty yards of the 727, a large group of soldiers— maybe sixty or seventy—were hunkered down in foxholes, their rifles at the ready.
During his coaching career, Jim had traveled abroad extensively, once delivering a clinic in Prague in 1968 only months after Soviet tanks had roared into Wenceslas Square. At no time in Prague, or on any other trip, had Jim Keating felt any genuine concern for his safety until now. Hostility itself seemed engraved on the young raven-black faces before him.
A stewardess standing directly behind the coach saw the line of riflemen and Jim’s look of concern. She nervously explained that the soldiers were positioned there to guard against the violent attacks at the airport that had become commonplace during the rebel uprising against the Rwandan government.
Jim feared that the eerie scene was a grim foreshadowing of the atmosphere he would face in Burundi.
18
Jim Keating was grateful the unexpected delay in Rwanda had been brief. When the plane landed in Bujumbura, he was even more grateful that the airport was not circled by armed soldiers. Realizing his long journey was over, he felt a surge of relief that soothed his weariness. His nausea had eased, so his symptoms were now like a bad attack of the flu. He could deal with that. Drained from dysentery, huddled under a poncho, mortar fire falling as relentlessly as the rain, Jim had learned as a young soldier what deep reservoirs of resolve he could draw from. He had also coached more games than he cared to remember while fighting the flu, refusing to yield the reins to an assistant. As he was approached by a man he guessed to be a US Embassy representative, Jim was determined to mask whatever withdrawal symptoms remained.
“Welcome to Burundi, Jim,” said Jesse Abbot, who looked like Pete Dawkins, the West Point football star, and who identified himself as the Deputy Chief of Mission at the US Embassy. “Sorry for the informal reception. Ambassador Foster had planned to be here, but she was called to an urgent meeting with the Burundian president, Peter Buyoya.”
“Nice to meet you, Jesse,” said Jim.
Abbot appeared to be in his mid-forties and was a shade over six feet. His trim, muscular physique suggested time spent on the football field, perhaps even in a boxing ring. An upright carriage, clean-shaven face, and blonde crewcut made Jim think that a military academy might appear on his résumé. Jim would soon learn that it was West Point, but nothing in Abbot’s demeanor suggested he was the least bit stiff or regimented. Dressed in a tan linen suit, beige polo shirt, and loafers, he struck Jim as casual but confident. He smiled inwardly when Abbot shook his hand, at the same time grasping Jim’s forearm with his left hand. I think I like this guy, Jim thought.
Abbot grabbed Jim’s carry-on bags and strode, a bit more briskly than Jim might have liked, toward the airport entrance marked for VIPs, all the while reciting a list of details that challenged Jim’s concentration.
“As Barry Sklar probably told you, you’ll be staying in a private apartment attached to my house. You’ll like it. It’s clean, quiet, and there’s a spectacular view of Lake Tanganyika from your front window. You’ll have a domestic lady. Her name is Josiane Kakunze. She’s a real treasure, a Hutu who lost her husband and several of her sons to the violence, yet who comes to work each day with a smile as big as Bujumbura.”
“Josiane sounds great . . . and so does the apartment,” said Jim. Undoubtedly an improvement from the walk-up in Worcester.
“The US Embassy employs a number of domestic workers, all of whom are assigned to the various homes of Embassy employees,” explained Abbot. “Our government pays them wages which, on the surface, might appear low, but are actually far better than anything they would be paid in any other job they might be able to get here. To give you an example, a single US dollar equals 500 Burundi francs. An average worker in Burundi might make only 5,000 Burundi francs, or 10 US dollars, a month. We pay our workers 10,000 Burundi francs, or 20 dollars per month. As a result, we get the best—and Josiane is right at the top of the group. Also, while 20 dollars a month doesn’t seem like a lot of money, it does provide a person with a reasonably comfortable lifestyle in Burundi.”
He added, “By the way, Jim, any of those rumors you might have heard about how folks in the US Foreign Service have it made—they’re all true!”
Jim did like Jesse Abbot. He was particularly struck by his upbeat attitude in a place Jim guessed would not bring much cheer to anyone.
“Jack Casey, our public diplomacy officer and self-appointed basketball expert, will join us in a moment. You’ll like Jack, a great guy. Unfortunately, he’s being reassigned to a post in Kenya next month. We’ll miss him,” Abbot said. “After we pick up your bags, and before we take you to the apartment, do you feel up to a quick tour and lunch?”
“Sure,” replied Jim. Abbot’s spirited greeting and jocular banter reminded Jim of locker rooms and gymnasiums. He was beginning to feel better.
Baggage claim was a row of tables set off in the corner of a large, modestly decorated room. Within several feet of the
tables was a sizable and unevenly cut hole in the wall. Stationed behind the wall were four very tall, very lean men who began to manually remove the bags from a pushcart and carefully place them through the large hole and into the hands of three other, equally tall, men, who placed the bags onto tables directly adjacent to the hole.
“This ain’t JFK,” Abbot cracked as he handed his American guest a typed itinerary. While Jim reviewed it, Abbot said, “We’re really excited you’re here, Jim. As you’ll see in the itinerary, the ambassador is hosting a big welcoming dinner in your honor tonight at the Embassy. Many of the top basketball people in the country will be there. We also invited Tutsis and Hutus who have past relationships through basketball. There haven’t been many occasions of late for them to get together. So, you see, you’re already a peacemaker!”
As Jim and Abbot moved forward to pick up the bags, Jack Casey joined them. Casey was dressed more formally than Abbot in a blue linen suit, white shirt, and bright red bowtie. At 5’ 10”, he was a stocky, solidly built man with a high forehead, receding hairline, and auburn hair. Yet his muscle-flexing look was offset by an engaging grin.
“I’m Jack Casey, Coach Keating. Welcome. Sorry I wasn’t at the gate to greet you. Been on the phone with the Embassy checking on the status of the ambassador’s meeting.”
“Any word?” asked Abbot.
“No, she’s not back yet,” replied Casey.
Noticing the curious look on Jim’s face, Abbot said, “No need for concern, Coach. As I’m sure you know, the last two years, and particularly the last six months, have been horrible, beyond anything we could have imagined when we were posted here a few years ago. Today’s meeting relates to a massacre of 126 Hutu refugees trying to break out of a refugee camp on the northeast border—up by Rwanda. What’s interesting is that the army, which of course is controlled by the Tutsis, has actually placed seven soldiers under house arrest for the slayings. Usually, the army doesn’t even acknowledge these kinds of incidents, so our assumption is that these soldiers went way too far in their brutality.”
Abbot went on to tell Jim that Ambassador Foster was often called to such personal meetings with President Buyoya to be updated on the violence.
“That’s not just because of the force of her personality, Coach. In Third World countries, US ambassadors often take on even more prominent roles in the country’s affairs than our ambassadors in more affluent nations. Here in Burundi, President Buyoya has great faith in Ambassador Foster. He relies heavily on her advice.”
I can’t wait to meet this woman, Jim thought to himself.
“So,” Abbot continued, “like I said, don’t be overly concerned. We feel safe here. We have a Marine security force, and they keep a close eye on us. In fact, there’ll be two Marines out in the parking lot waiting to escort us into the city and on to your living quarters. You should know that last week’s situation you were informed about has improved in Bujumbura. It was a bit scary for a few days, but the mood, at least in the city, is better now.”
While Jim’s apprehension was not completely eased by Abbot’s words, his state of mind changed quickly with an unusual sighting. As the trio exited the airport and were met by the hot, blistering sun of Burundi, two skyscraping Burundian soldiers walked hand in hand only yards away, both smiling broadly. The sight caught Jim unawares, and his look of surprise showed it.
Jack Casey noticed Jim staring at the soldiers. “It’s not uncommon to see men holding hands,” said Casey. “It’s merely a sign of friendship in many African countries, including Burundi.”
A jeep sat parked in a cordoned-off area that had a VIP sign attached. Two sturdy-looking Marines, each of whom looked to be no more than thirty years old, stepped from the jeep and warmly greeted the American coach.
“Coach Keating, on behalf of the Marine Corps, welcome to Burundi. I’m Sergeant Clive Rush, and this is Corporal Jim Roberts. I want you to know, sir, that my dad is a high school coach in Williamstown, Kentucky. When I wrote to him to say you were coming, he wrote back right away to ask that you teach me the combination defense, which, as he said, ‘Jim Keating made famous!’”
Rush’s comment was like an embrace. The sergeant’s effusiveness was genuine and added to a sense of well-being in Jim that was slowly replacing the anxiety that had been central to his depression. Jim responded to Rush with the enthusiasm he always brought to his lectures at hoop clinics.
“Sergeant Rush, please tell your dad how much I appreciate his thoughts. To tell you the truth, though, I first saw the combination defense when I was in college. One Christmas holiday, I was able to get home to Worcester for a couple of days. I went to a high school game to see my alma mater, St. Peter’s High, play our arch rival, St. John’s High. This was way back in ‘49, and the St. John’s coach was a guy named Bob Devlin. As I watched the game, I noticed that the St. John’s defense was really a combination. There was man-to-man coverage on the ball, but zone defensive principles were used away from the ball.”
Jim continued, “I later heard that Devlin thought up this defense while taking a shower. Since the Shower Defense didn’t have much of a ring to it, Devlin called it the Bathtub Defense! By the way, when Bob Cousy took the Boston College job in ‘63, he went to Devlin to ask that he help Cousy put in the Bathtub at BC. I remember there was an article in Sports Illustrated about this.”
Rush smiled. “A great story, Coach, and I’m looking forward to more of them. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to give you a brief report on security for Americans, both Embassy officials and guests.”
“Sure,” said Jim, and the five men quickly gathered around the hood of the jeep as Sergeant Rush unfolded a map.
“This war is between the Hutus and the Tutsis. The Marines are here, not as peacekeepers, but as security forces for American personnel. With the exception of a Peace Corps worker who was killed out in the country—right there in the Mutumba region—there’s not been one attack on an American, and we don’t expect that will change. Neither side looks on the Americans as enemies, but our job, Coach, is to make sure that nothing happens to you or any other visitors. Believe me, sir, we’ll make certain of that.”
In a clipped, matter-of-fact tone, Rush outlined the current military situation, pointing to the map several times to show Jim danger areas.
When Rush finished, Abbot and Casey loaded Jim’s bags into the back of the jeep, and the group headed for the capital.
19
The ride from the airport to Bujumbura was six miles long and only slightly more comfortable than the coach-class plane rides. But for Jim, sandwiched in the back seat between Abbot and Casey, the short trip was enlightening.
Abbot nudged Jim and pointed to a row of mud-brick dwellings on the side of the road. “About 95 percent of the people in Burundi—both Hutus and Tutsis—live in that type of house,” said Abbot. Jim scanned the unusual homes, shaped like beehives with high, cone-shaped roofs made of split bamboo.
“Coach, it’s just as you probably read about,” continued Abbot. “No running water or electricity—and a communal outhouse. Many people can control their bowels to relieve themselves only once a day—obviously unhealthy, and just one of the many factors that contribute to an average life span of only forty or so years.”
“And,” added Casey, “they get their water from fountains fed by wells. There’s usually one fountain for every thirty or forty huts, and when people draw water from the fountain, they must boil it right away.” “Dysentery?” asked Jim.
“Right. Dysentery is a real—and I mean real—problem in Burundi,” replied Casey.
As Casey spoke, Jim noticed several women standing outside their huts, cooking in large cast-iron pots over an open fire. He leaned toward Abbot and motioned in their direction.
“No such thing as a stove or refrigerator,” said Abbot. “Cooking’s all done outdoors. But what you see on this road-side—all of these huts running one next to another—is actually unusual.”
Abb
ot continued. “Only place you’d see this is on the outskirts of Bujumbura. Once you get out into the country, there’s almost no such thing as a village or communal row of huts. Families live on hills, and they’re often known, not for their village or community, but for the hill they live on. In other words, Jim, in some places it would be Jim High Hill or Lily Low Hill.”
Jim looked ahead and saw two very short men holding a string across the road. Abbot broke into a wide grin.
“Each province has regions, Coach,” said Abbot, chuckling. “When you cross a region within a province, you pay a fee. It’s like a toll in our country, only the method of collection is a little different.”
Corporal Roberts stopped the jeep and a Hutu, who appeared to be no more than 5’4”, approached the Marine. Roberts cheerfully handed the toll collector five Burundi francs.
“It’s about a penny. They call it a communal tax. It’s used to repair roads in the region,” explained Abbot.
The road continued to grind at Jim’s tailbone, but though the drive was uncomfortable, he was at ease with these Embassy staffers. Jim felt he was being treated with genuine admiration. He was grateful that his hosts were giving him such special attention. It reminded him of his trip to Prague back in ‘68 and his early days in Spain. American basketball coaches are given near-celebrity status in many foreign countries, and Jim got the feeling that this kind of homage might well be accorded him in Burundi.
It was also clear that they simply enjoyed telling him all about his new environs. Corporal Roberts turned his head slightly toward the back seat, smiled, and said, “One thing you’ll get a kick out of, Coach Keating, is that a family of ten might have ten last names.”
“What?!” exclaimed Jim.
“Well, sir, you’ve got to understand that this is a very Christian country——about 65 percent Catholic. In certain regions of Burundi, families choose their surnames to signify their love of God. As a result, common last names are almost non-existent in those regions.”