by Dan Doyle
“One last thing,” she added. “I followed your career closely, and Barry sent me many clippings, including those regarding the situation at New Jersey State. When we get to know each other better, I’ll give you my views about racial discrimination and all things related. I’d like to hear your views, as well. But for now, I want you to know that I admire you—I know what a gifted coach you are—and I’m absolutely thrilled that you’re here.”
Her sincerity was evident. There was no doubt in Jim’s mind that this woman was not only a leader, but also a very genuine person. He found himself giving fleeting but potent thought to what such a race-themed conversation with a woman of color would be like.
“Ambassador Foster, I’m truly thrilled to be here,” he said, doing his best to keep his excitement in check.
“Well,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “before we go out and meet our guests, we’ve got to come up with a name for this program. Now, being from Indianapolis, how about the name Project Oscar?”
“For the Big O?”
“For the Big O!” echoed the ambassador.
“Then Project Oscar it is,” said Jim Keating, recalling the many times he saw Oscar Robertson make the improbable seem the norm.
Ambassador Foster had invited thirty-five people—seventeen Hutus, seventeen Tutsis, and one Pygmy—to the welcoming dinner in Jim Keating’s honor. These were an assemblage of basketball players, coaches, and administrators.
Due to the significance of the dinner, the ambassador, along with two representatives of Burundi basketball (whose importance Jim would soon come to know), had spent considerable time developing the invitation list. Special care was given to identifying people who could help move Project Oscar forward. All thirty-five accepted the invitation.
While most of the invitees lived in or near Bujumbura, eight had traveled from outlying regions. Because night travel was severely restricted, Ambassador Foster asked all eight to stay over at the Embassy. No US ambassador had ever extended this kind of hospitality. Yet in Ambassador Foster’s humanitarian term of service, the practice had become commonplace, and was both well known and appreciated by many Burundians.
Following diplomatic protocol, Ambassador Foster decided that the cuisine would be a combination of American and Burundian food. With Thanksgiving coming soon, the ambassador had arranged for ten frozen turkeys to be flown in from Brussels. Before introducing Project Oscar to the guests, she would use the turkeys to offer a brief history lesson about American Thanksgiving. The Burundian food would be rice and cassava and a banana-and-bean stew, which were regularly eaten by both tribes and thus were considered, in the words of Audace Bugaza, the ambassador’s Hutu chef, “safe choices.”
Ambassador and Bill Foster, Jim, and Jesse Abbot formed the reception line and greeted the guests. Jim took note that they were all male.
A moment later, Ambassador Foster seemed to have read Jim’s mind. She leaned toward him and whispered, “One of my goals is to introduce the game to women. But tradition at a dinner like this calls for only men to be invited. I’m not too happy about the tradition, but one battle at a time. I promise, Coach, I’m not losing sight of my goal of getting women involved in Project Oscar.”
During a brief break in the line, Jim noted that while some of the Hutus were dressed in the Western attire of shirt and tie, none wore sport coats. Abbot nodded, “Few people in Burundi can afford such a luxury.” The other Hutus, and all the Tutsis, wore colorful, toga-style garb that hung loosely from their shoulders.
At first, Jim thought that many of the guests seemed intimidated by the grandeur of the affair. One man was so nervous that he perspired profusely as he walked through the reception line. But Ambassador Foster’s friendly demeanor quickly made this man, as well as the other guests, feel at ease. Most importantly, she let each person know his presence was vital to the success of the mission.
After most of the guests had been greeted, Jim saw two distinguished men, both well into their sixties, arrive together. One was a Hutu, the other a Tutsi. Ambassador Foster greeted them warmly and, in their presence, said to Jim, “Mathias Bizimana and Terrence Ndayisaba have been friends for many years. They are the founding fathers of basketball in this country. Despite many obstacles, the game has kept their friendship alive. They helped me assemble tonight’s invitation list, Jim. Both will be key contributors to our work.”
The two men, both of whom spoke clear English, smiled at Jim. “We are glad to be here, Coach Keating,” said Terrence, the Hutu. “We plan to be your most loyal supporters.”
After the two friends headed off for hors d’oeuvres, Ambassador Foster said quietly, “They are the most respected men in basketball in this country. What I just said in front of them is true—they will be crucial to the success of this project.”
The dinner, a four-course extravaganza that concluded with a pineapple trifle made specially by the chef, was a big hit with all the guests, most of whom had never dined in such splendor—nor eaten turkey.
As coffee was being served, the ambassador gently tapped her glass. In flawless French, she began with brief remarks about the history of Thanksgiving in the United States and “the role of poor Tom Turkey.” She then addressed the main point of the gathering.
“How many of you have ever heard the name Oscar Robertson?”
Five of the thirty-five Burundian guests, including Mathias and Terrence, raised their hands.
“Well, my husband, Bill, and I grew up in Indianapolis, Indiana, right in the middle of the United States and a hotbed of basketball. We both had the chance—indeed the pleasure—to watch one of the greatest basketball players in history develop: Oscar Robertson. We followed his career as a youngster, through his time at Crispus Attucks High School in Indianapolis, then on to the University of Cincinnati in Ohio, then to the 1960 Olympics, and then to the NBA. And was it ever a thrill!”
She continued, “What Oscar did for Bill and me—and so many others of our generation—was unite us in our love for this game. Because Oscar was such an inspiration—he was so smart, so disciplined, such a great player—well, if it’s alright with everyone here, we’d like to name the program in his honor.”
“A grand idea,” said Mathias Bizimana, and the others all nodded in accord.
“Wonderful,” said the ambassador. “I know that Oscar would feel very good about this. . . . Gentlemen, my husband Bill, Jesse, Jack Casey, and I, along with a great American coach—who will address you in just a moment—feel that there may be some potentially outstanding players right here in Burundi. More importantly, we feel that a love of basketball is one thing that everyone in this room shares. We’d like to use that common thread to weave friendships and to create, in a small way, a sports quilt, if you will, to counteract violence. And we’ve asked you here tonight because we believe that you can help us braid that quilt.
“Now, I’m going to call on a man who is a great coach— a man who is here to help us start braiding that quilt. As you know from my letter of invitation, this man came all the way from America. His background includes coaching at the high school, college, and professional levels—both in the NBA and in the European League. He has a well-deserved reputation as a brilliant teacher of the game. Fellow lovers of basketball, it is my pleasure to introduce Coach Jim Keating.”
In his days as a coach, Jim had delivered hundreds of speeches, yet none since his dismissal from New Jersey State. Abbot had told him at the airport, “Be ready to say a few words tonight.” Despite being forewarned, as he began his address, he felt nervous, especially because he planned to add something untried. Having a translator—Jesse Abbot, in this case—added to his stage-fright. He stopped-started awkwardly, until he and Abbot eventually achieved a kind of cross-rhythm of English and French. Yet once he was several sentences into his speech, he felt a semblance of his old eloquence returning—and an overpowering sense of meaning in his words.
“As Ambassador Foster said, we’re all here because we believ
e in the power of basketball as a force of goodwill. My job is to simply ask for your help. I need your help in identifying the right players to be on the National Team, because a good national team is one of our objectives. We’d like to put this National Team together and train for a period of several months. Then, due to Ambassador Foster’s great vision, we’d like to host a game against Rwanda. And, if all goes well, we’d like to continue with the development of the team, possibly working it into the African Championships—even another trip to America.
“We’d like to develop a youth program, and I’ll need your help there, too. You’ll need to show me where the best athletes are. Also, we want the game to be open to young players who are not necessarily great, but who would enjoy the participation. Earlier today, Jesse Abbot quoted to me the words of Ambassador Foster: ‘Let’s use basketball as a chipping effect.’
“Well, I like that—I really like that. So let’s develop Project Oscar to, in a small way, chip away at the violence, at the hatred.
“Ambassador Foster and gentlemen, it’s no different in my country. I’ve coached this game for four decades.” Jim leaned forward and added with emphasis, “At its very best, the sport of basketball can be a bridge, a source of great friendships, a profound learning process among people, a wellspring of lessons, of teamwork, of fair play—not to mention an appreciation for people’s differences. In my best days as a coach, I would see, in a pregame meeting, the hands of a black player, a white player, a Catholic, a Protestant, and a Jew all come together as one. On the court, I would see a black player pass to a white player, or an Asian American set a pick for an Italian American. That is the essence of the game—brotherhood and teamwork.
“Let me read a short poem written by an American coach. I believe this poem catches the essence of Project Oscar.”
Here goes, thought Jim, as he readied to embark on untrodden oratorical turf.
“When we put our hands together
Before the game, in prayer
Black hands, white hands, Christians, Jews
United by how much we care
Our coach would bellow
‘We are one,
And there is room for every fellow.’”
The coach looked out into the eager faces of his audience as Abbot finished the translation. “Gentlemen,” Jim said, his voice rising, “I’d like to use the concepts of this poem—of teamwork and brotherhood—to make a difference here. And I’ll need your help. Today is Monday. As I understand it, our first practice is Friday. So please get the word out. On Friday, tuzopina intango nzizo—we’ll get off to a great start.”
When Jim was finished, there was a spontaneous burst of applause that quickly gave rise to a standing ovation—his first in a long time. The coach felt buoyed and wished the Friday practice could come sooner.
Ambassador Foster leaned over to her husband and whispered, “I’m glad Barry Sklar pushed so hard for this. And he even likes poetry!”
23
Next morning, Jim Keating and Jesse Abbot sat on Jesse’s veranda, sipped hot red bush tea, and began to set the game plan. They agreed that the Friday gathering of the Burundi National Team, the first such get-together in many months, would be as much a tryout as a practice.
“Jim,” said Jesse, “some of the players who went to America are now in their late twenties or early thirties. So the ambassador and I felt that the fairest thing to do would be to open this first session to that group, as well as to younger guys who would like to try out.”
Knowing that less than 1 percent of the population had phone service, Jim raised an important issue. “At last night’s dinner, I encouraged the guests to get the word out. Then it dawned on me just how difficult that might be.”
“Don’t worry, Coach,” Abbot assured him. “First, most of the guys who play basketball are from the Bujumbura area. So, we’re relying on word of mouth from those at the dinner. In this country, that kind of communication is generally effective, although it takes several days to plan something. Also, Sergeant Rush and five other Marines will head out to the country today.”
Handing Jim a copy of a flyer, Abbot continued. “They’ll post these on bulletin boards and hand them out to anyone who looks like a player. By giving, several days’ notice, we feel it’ll be plenty of time for the word to spread.”
“My guess is that no one has done much playing lately,” said Jim.
“You’re right,” replied Abbot. “Because of the violence, all sports have really suffered. But based on the great reaction at the dinner—thanks, by the way, to two fine speeches— we’re optimistic about a good turnout. Now, bear in mind, the younger players who attend will have had virtually no coaching.”
“How many of the players will know any English?”
“Very few.” The response caused Jim to decide on the first phase of his foreign language program.
“Barry told me that he thought all of the players would know French. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then there are certain words, certain phrases, I’m going to need to learn. Certain things every coach says to his team, like ‘move the ball,’ ‘box out,’ ‘good pass’—you know, things that players need to hear.”
“I know what you mean. Good point.”
“So, I’m going to make a list. I’m wondering if you’ll help me with the French translation.”
“Absolutely!”
“Now, you’re sure that French will be okay, as opposed to Kirundi?”
“Definitely okay,” replied Abbot.
Jim made his list, included every phrase he could think of that related to teaching the game, and presented it to Abbot.
“Phew . . . that’s quite an undertaking for you before Friday!”
“Well, I’m not going to say that I can learn all of them, but I’ll learn most of them. I became proficient in Spanish and Italian when I coached in Barcelona. In the coming months, I plan to become well versed in French and learn as much Kirundi as I can. Plus,” Jim said with a smile, “we can bring a sheet of paper with the translations, can’t we?”
“Sure,” said Abbot, returning the smile.
When Jim received the translations from Abbot, he sequestered himself in his apartment. With the sliding glass door open to the majestic view of Lake Tanganyika and a chorus of chirping birds, he worked without interruption for the better part of two days. On both evenings, he was joined on the veranda by Abbot, who quizzed him and helped him with accents. Josiane supplied Jim with her special blend of lemonade. She also kept a bowl filled with French fries. Jim had laughed when Josiane asked if he wanted some chips and then put down the bowl of fries. I should have known—fish ‘n chips’.
As Jim found during his experience in Spain, where he had intensified his love of knowledge, his pace of learning accelerated dramatically when he was motivated.
“Coach, you’re a regular Berlitz course!” marveled Abbot as Jim rattled off translation after correct translation.
“By the way, the ambassador is going to stop by tonight. She’s got an idea that I think you’ll like.”
Thirty minutes later, Sergeant Rush’s jeep pulled through the gates with Ambassador Foster looking very much at ease in the front seat.
When Jim and Abbot approached the jeep, she hooked her arm over the back of the seat. “Now, gentlemen, I hope I’m not interrupting you. But my reason for stopping by is that, as I’m sure you agree, an important part of Project Oscar will be to develop good coaches. So, how would you feel about two assistants—a Hutu and a Tutsi? Both are passionate about basketball and both speak near-fluent English!”
“I’d love to have ‘em!” Jim said enthusiastically.
“I thought you would,” she said. “They were hand-picked by Mathias and Terrence, and, as I said, they have a love affair with the game. They’re both former players who, despite the violence, have tried to develop basketball programs in their communities. Déo Ndvwayo is a Hutu who lives about twenty miles out of Bujumbu
ra, and Gilbert Hatungimana is a Tutsi who lives on the outskirts of the city. Both men were at the dinner and both are anxious to get involved.”
“How will Déo get here?”
“Same as many of the players,” said the ambassador. “He has a bicycle. He’ll cycle in.”
Jim nodded and smiled, “Thanks, Ambassador. Much appreciated. I look forward to meeting both of them.”
Jim remembered the last time an assistant coach was assigned to him. He had a sense, a hope anyway, that this experience would be far different.
On Friday evening, the night of the first practice, Ambassador Foster invited Jim Keating and Jesse Abbot to an early dinner, after which she and her husband would accompany Jim and Abbot to the workout. When he and Abbot arrived, Jim was pleased to see the ambassador and Bill decked out in Indiana State warm-ups.
“We’re ready, Coach!” she said with an adventurous air. Cynthia Foster’s enthusiasm was infectious. On the way over, Jim and Abbot had talked intensely about the practice. Jim was a bit anxious, but as he walked into the house, whatever concerns he might have had dissolved at the sight of a US Ambassador dressed for dinner in the sky blue of the ISU Sycamores.
During a delicious meal of stir-fried vegetables, wild rice, braised chicken, and an avocado and banana salad, along with a Bordeaux wine flown in from Belgium—which the coach politely passed on—Jim explained his practice agenda.
“It’s a bit hard to develop a complete plan when I’m not sure how many guys will show up. But I thought I’d check out each player’s skills and conditioning. As part of this, I’ll show them some skill development drills they can practice on their own. We’ll scrimmage at the end, and I’ll probably put in a simple passing game offense so that we have some structure.”
“I love that offense,” said Bill. “Saw Bobby Knight lecture on it once at a clinic in Indianapolis.”