by Dan Doyle
“Bobby is a master at teaching it, as is Larry Brown,” said Jim. “And, as you know, Bill, there’s a lot of nuance to the passing game. For tonight, though, we’ll just teach the basics.”
“Jim, one slight problem about the drills, which Barry may have told you about,” said the ambassador. “Basketballs, and other equipment, are in very short supply here. I’d be surprised if any player actually owns a ball, and we’ll have but four balls at the practice.”
Jim nodded. “Four balls will be fine for tonight. Plus, Barry gave me eight rubber balls. I thought we’d give them out a few at a time to the players who seem most serious, especially if one ball can be shared by several players in a certain area.”
“Great! And through the Peace Corps, I’ve requested that some other balls be flown in, but the request is still tied up on someone’s desk. Also, there aren’t many hoops in Burundi. We’ve succeeded in getting four half-moon backboards with rims flown in from Brussels. I was able to get a Belgian company that still owns a small plant here to donate them. Just like your plan with the balls, perhaps we can use the hoops out in the country in areas where there are none. But as far as players working on their skills on off days, it might not be that easy.”
“Barry had mentioned a general lack of equipment, Ambassador. I’ve got a plan for that,” said Jim.
“Oh? Tell us!”
“Well, Barry thought that if we could get equipment donated in the States, we could perhaps ship it here through the daily Embassy mail out of DC. Is that a possibility?”
The ambassador actually pumped her fist in the air and said, “It’s more than a possibility. It can be done!”
“Then what I’ll do is survey the equipment needs—not only with the National Team, but with the younger kids in Bujumbura and out in the country. If you can get me some secretarial help, I’ll prepare a letter to every college coach in the States. Barry said that if we ship the letters to him, he’ll get them mailed from his department.”
Jim continued, “You may know this, but most every coach, especially the Division I’s, have all kinds of stuff lying around their offices. Balls, sneakers, nets—you name it!”
“How so?” asked Abbot.
“Because the sneaker contracts that many of these coaches have gives them access to a whole lot of equipment of various sorts. Heck, stuff they toss or give away could be used here.”
“Jim, it sounds like a terrific idea and we’ll definitely provide the secretarial help. But do you think it will work?” the ambassador asked.
“To what extent, I can’t tell. But yeah, most college coaches are pretty good about this kind of thing.”
When dinner ended, and using Jesse as his translator, Jim made sure to thank Audace the chef for “a tremendous meal . . . totally delicious.”
Audace’s expression confirmed how much the compliment meant to him.
On the ride over to the workout, Jim fidgeted in his seat. He felt nervous—and excited. It had been more than two years since he’d run a practice and part of his trepidation was that he had absolutely no idea what to expect.
The asphalt surface on which the Burundi National Team tryout would take place was called Nimbona Court. In the heart of Bujumbura, only a five-minute drive from the ambassador’s home, it was named in honor of Gospard Nimbona, a National Team player who had traveled to the States as part of the historic tour and then died of AIDS nine months later.
Awaiting the arrival of the American contingent were a group of twenty-two players and a gaggle of chickens owned by a family whose mud hut rested fifty meters from the court. A group of onlookers was also present, there out of curiosity more than any real interest in the game. Mathias and Terrence, the Hutu and Tutsi founders of Burundian basketball, walked over to welcome Jim’s group.
“A good turnout, Coach Keating,” said Mathias. “And I know of others who are coming today and will be a bit late.”
The court surface was cracked in various places, and the court had white wooden backboards at both ends. The top of each backboard carried an unusual sign, inscribed in black:
“NE SMASHANTl”
“We have a scarcity of hoops and backboards,” said Terrence. “Even though many players love the dunk, it bends the rims and sometimes even breaks the backboards, which, you will note, are wooden and not very strong. Thus, the ‘no dunking’ sign.”
Jim also noticed that neither rim had a net, a situation the coach would quickly address with Barry.
The court was parallel to several sections of bleacher seats on the north side and plenty of space for spectators to stand.
“This is where I’d like to play my dream game,” the ambassador said. “I can envision people lined up on the hills.” As she spoke, she motioned to a knoll shaped like a theater-in-the-round, which sloped down on three of the four sides of the court.
“As you can see, Jim, there are no lights. But because it doesn’t get dark until ten or so, we can play the game in the early evening—around six—and finish in plenty of time. Also, we can accommodate several thousand spectators.”
“Ambassador, I think you may be a sports promoter at heart!”
“She is!” agreed Bill. “Stay tuned, Coach.”
Jim had done some reading about another sports entrepreneur, Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the modern Olympic Games. Coubertin’s principal goal was to use sport as a global unifying force—a dream the Frenchman had successfully executed in Athens back in 1896. Ever since the first phone call from Barry Sklar, the coach had found inspiration in the vision of bringing the two sides together, using basketball as the magnet—a vision similar to, albeit more modest than, Coubertin’s.
“Coach Keating,” said Mathias, “meet Déo Ndvwayo and Gilbert Hatungimana, your two new assistants.”
Gilbert, the Tutsi, stood 6’7”. He had the reed-like frame of a marathoner and a gaunt, thoughtful countenance intensified by his shaved head. But his seemingly doleful appearance was brightened by hazel eyes, a wide smile, and a boisterous laugh. Déo, the Hutu, was about 5’8”. He, too, had a shaved head—which rested atop a strong, fullback-like build—and a finely chiseled face full of strength—full lips, large ink-black eyes, and a ready smile that revealed ivory-white teeth, a common trait in Burundi. He reminded Jim of Marvelous Marvin Hagler, the middleweight champion from Brockton, Mass.
Both greeted Jim warmly, shaking hands, but—to Jim’s relief—foregoing the French “three cheek kiss” he had seen them exchange with Cynthia and Bill. Jim had never been a hugger and kisser when greeting people. In heavily accented but near-perfect English, Déo said, “Thank you for letting us to work with you. We are your trusted aides!”
Jim had an immediate sense that the loyalty problem he’d experienced with Robert Frazier back at New Jersey State would not exist in Bujumbura, Burundi.
After welcoming the two assistants, Jim looked out at the court and saw many examples of the equipment problem addressed earlier by Ambassador Foster. The four rubber balls appeared to be the only thing new on the hot asphalt surface. More than half the players wore sandals strapped tightly around their ankles, two wore sneakers that were old and tattered, and six were barefoot. Jim wondered how many American coaches ever imagined running a practice with athletes who had no footwear.
As the players nervously warmed up in front of this American they knew nothing about, Jim followed a common practice among basketball coaches by first taking note of the tallest men in the group. He was immediately struck by their grace and agility, and he also noticed that the Tutsis seemed to commune easily with the Hutus. Had he not been so aware of the strife between the two tribes, he would have never thought that a problem existed.
“Anyone have an air pin to deflate the balls a bit?” Jim asked.
“There’s probably one back at the Marine headquarters,” replied Sergeant Rush.
“Possible to get it, Sarge? These balls have too much air. They’re what we used to call Spaldeens—which means they b
ounce too high. Be hard for the players to dribble ‘em, plus the balls will get ruined if they’re not deflated.”
“You got it, Coach,” said Rush, impressed with the detail that Jim picked up on right away.”I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The head coach turned to his two assistants. “As soon as Sergeant Rush gets back with the pin, I’m going to call the players over. But before I do, I want you both to know that I’ll be asking you to help teach specific skills. I always try to make good use of my assistants. So, after I introduce each skill, I’ll ask both of you to work with a small group of players to reinforce what I’ve taught. Sound okay?”
“Sounds a-okay,” replied Gilbert with a grin.
Jim knew that one of the most critical elements of the team concept was to put the assistants to work and not have them be mere onlookers. He also wanted to develop Déo and Gilbert as coaches.
Despite the obvious athleticism of several of the Hutus and Tutsis, Jim could readily see that all the players had poor shooting technique. He also noticed something far more important, which caused him to think back many years.
In his high school coaching days and also during his early success at St. Thomas, Jim Keating’s wit had played a considerable role in his overall coaching approach. But in the latter stages of his career, faced with the unnerving pressure to merely hold on to his job, the burden to win had overshadowed his humorous side.
Yet on this weather-beaten asphalt court, a continent away from his home—and with the help of Mathias’s expert translation—Jim could see by the players’ exuberance that this break from the acrimony that enveloped their lives was cathartic. He would not dampen their high spirits by being too rigid. Instead, he would make sure these players got a full dose of his humor . . . and his humanity.
Rush’s jeep fishtailed into the dirt parking area, scattering chickens amid clouds of dust. As soon as the four balls were deflated to the proper weight, Jim blew his whistle. The players, a few of whom he guessed must have engaged in acts of violence, all trotted eagerly in his direction, and Ambassador Foster emerged from the stands to formally introduce the new coach.
In fluent French, she began, “We’ve decided to name this basketball program in honor of one of the greatest players of all time. Oscar Robertson is a name that many of you have probably never heard. The Big O, as we called him, grew up in my American hometown of Indianapolis in the State of Indiana. My husband, Bill, that handsome man sitting right over there . . . ,” she stopped, smiled broadly, and motioned in Bill’s direction. He raised his hand and the players all laughed and applauded.
“I’ll hear about this when we get home,” she said. “But seriously, Bill and I had the pleasure of watching The Big O from the time he was in junior high right up through his brilliant career in the NBA. As we move forward, you’ll all learn more about the great Oscar Robertson. For now, please know that he was one of the best players of all time. He also had a love for the game that I believe some of you already have, and, hopefully, some others in this group will develop.”
She continued, “You see, I believe that a love of the game will also bring about a love of the teamwork so essential to good basketball. And as passionate as I am about the sport, I am even more passionate in my hope that Project Oscar, as we will call it, will have—in some small way—a positive impact on ending the violence and creating friendships.”
She paused, then said, “Ending the violence that has taken so many lives and caused so much pain.”
The ambassador spoke with the eloquence of a seasoned politician and the intense sincerity of a missionary, and her message visibly affected the players.
“We want to use basketball as a means to promote friendship,” she continued. “And we are fortunate that an outstanding coach has traveled all the way from America to be with us. He was a very successful coach at the high school, college, and professional levels. This man is a highly respected teacher of the game, and he is the perfect person to lead this important project.”
She extended her hand out to Jim and motioned him to take her spot in front of the group. “Gentlemen,” she said, “it is my great pleasure to introduce Coach Jim Keating.”
24
Ambassador Foster’s introduction evoked spontaneous applause from the players, and their reaction pleased Jim. Encouraged by their response, he went straight to his gym bag and pulled out several gifts.
With Mathias at his side, Jim began. “Okay, before we start the workout, I brought a few things from the States, including this Chicago Bulls World Championship hat.”
As Jim waved the hat, the facial expressions of the players left no doubt about their designs on it.
“Let’s find out who the real basketball historian is in this group! I’m going to name certain famous players and coaches from the United States. If you know which team they’re with, raise your hand. If you give me a wrong answer, you’re out. First guy to give three correct answers wins the hat. I’ll do my best to see whose hand goes up first. . . . Ready?”
The players all nodded.
“Which team does Phil Jackson coach?”
Five hands went up, and Jim pointed to the one he felt was the first.
“Chicago Bulls!” said a slender, shoeless Tutsi.
“You’ve got one point!” said Jim. “Okay . . . who does Larry Bird play for?”
About twice as many hands were raised, and Jim pointed to a Hutu.
“The Celtics!”
“You’ve got a point,” he told the Hutu. “Okay, who did Bill Russell play for?”
Not one hand went up, and Jim laughed heartily.
“My heavens, you know about the famous players around now. But not one of you guys knows the man who’s probably the greatest team player of all time. Bill Russell played for the Boston Celtics. In his thirteen-year career, he led the Celtics to eleven world titles!”
The players all nodded at this new morsel of basketball history and then laughed when Gervais Bagaza, a 5’11” Hutu guard, said loudly, “Billl Rooosell!”
Pleased with the enthusiastic reaction, Jim continued, “Okay, this one is a matter of opinion, but I’ll ask it anyway. As of today, who’s the best coach in the NBA?”
“Phil Jackson!” yelled a Tutsi.
“Close, but not yet,” roared Jim.
“Larry Brown,” said another Tutsi.
“Brilliant, but he needs to stay in one place a bit longer,” said Jim.
“Pat Riley,” a Hutu blurted out without raising his hand.
“Okay, I’m with you. You get a point.”
The lighthearted interchange went on for about five minutes, until finally Venuste Nsabimana, a Hutu, won the hat by correctly stating that Bobby Knight was the coach of Indiana. As Jim hoped, the contest did create humor and camaraderie between the players and the American, to whom they took an immediate liking.
Jim then spoke from the heart.
“Gentlemen, I’m a coach, and I’m your friend. I’m here for a couple of reasons, and one is to help you guys have some fun. I know it’s hard for some of you to make each practice, so my first rule is that practice is optional. You come when you can, and it’ll be my job to make it an enjoyable experience so that you’ll want to come back.”
As he spoke, Jim noticed that his call for brotherhood was returned by the players through their expressions of accord. He also detected in their innocent eyes a trust in their new mentor, even after only a few minutes with him.
“Another reason I’m here is that basketball, in its best form, does not discriminate. Before and after each practice and game, we’ll put our hands together as one. And every hand, Hutu or Tutsi, is welcome. So let’s do that now. Let’s come together before we actually start practice, with our hands as one. And then let’s go out and have a good workout.”
Everyone, players and coaches alike, moved quickly into the huddle, all reaching toward Jim’s hands. They echoed Jim’s shout of “TEAM!” Then the players eagerly broke out of
the huddle in groups of two or three. Standing next to Jim, Bill Foster said, “You’ve got ‘em, Jim. They’re excited.”
Jim nodded slowly. The veteran coach felt ready to run his first practice in Burundi, Africa.
After two years in coaching hibernation, Jim Keating stretched his vocal cords and found himself teaching this simple game with a fire he’d not felt since his days as a young high school coach. He taught fundamental after fundamental, encouraged his two assistants to reinforce each point, and reveled in watching the players absorb his every tip. And when a player did something wrong, the coach often used humor to make his case.
“Good thing the backboard is there, or that ball would be in Rwanda,” he cracked after a powerfully built Hutu had launched a jumper that nearly broke the sound barrier. Upon hearing Mathias’s translation, even the errant shooter joined in the laughter, and Jim seized on the missed shot to talk about acquiring a soft touch.
“Shooting is about rhythm and follow-through. It all starts with bending the knees and keeping your elbows in and your hands positioned properly. Now, in the last few minutes, I’ve noticed that many of you are holding the ball incorrectly. Starting today, and over the next few weeks, I’d like to meet with each of you near where you live and just work on your shot.”
“But Coach Keating, many of us don’t have hoops where we live,” a player said through Mathias.
“No worries. Ambassador Foster has gotten us several hoops that we plan to put up at convenient places out in the country. Besides, in the early stages we won’t need a hoop anyway. Matter of fact, it’s sometimes better to learn to shoot without a hoop—to get rid of the hoop as a distraction and get the proper technique down,” he said. “So, for those of you who live within a few miles of this court, we’ll meet here. For those of you who live out in the country, I’ll travel there. Is that okay, Ambassador Foster?”
The ambassador and Bill were sitting in the front row of the bleachers, able to hear every word.
“Sure is!” she beamed.
Jim broke the group into layup lines, which he used to introduce simple concepts like pick and roll (“Hey big guy, set that pick on an angle and make your body wide”) and back door (“It’s simple, when you’re overplayed you reverse cut to the basket—that’s what we mean by back door”). He could see they didn’t understand the fundamentals, but the layup lines reinforced his earlier observation that there were some remarkable athletes on the Nimbona Court.