An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “Okay, enough of the layup line. Now let’s work on some ball-handling skills. The way I’ll teach ‘em is to break each skill into its parts. And when I teach you some of these skills, I’ll also tell you about the players who popularized them. Ever hear of Earl Monroe?”

  Silence. Then Terrence, the Hutu who helped introduce and establish the game in Burundi, said from his front-row bleacher seat: “The Pearl!”

  “You win a hat!” shouted Jim. He then turned to the players.

  “Gentlemen,” the coach continued, “Earl ‘The Pearl’ Monroe came up with this move called the spin dribble back in 1966 or ‘67, when he was playing at Winston State College down in North Carolina in the United States. At first, the referees called him for palming the ball. But when the refs began to realize the ball control required to execute the move, they stopped calling it a palm. And when rival coaches saw how The Pearl was beating their defenders off the dribble, they began to figure out how to teach the move.”

  Jim was impressed by Mathias’s translation, guessing that his skill matched any simultaneous translation at the United Nations. His basketball savvy also allowed him to mimic Jim’s demonstrations, like palming.

  “Now, let’s put the balls down and break the spin dribble into its parts. First, in order to do it properly, you have to learn the footwork. As we go forward, you’ll find that the essence of a great player is footwork. This is especially so for the tallest players. More on this later.”

  Jim showed the players the proper footwork, including the pivot, an essential element in the change of direction required to execute the move. After the group got the footwork down, and still without using the ball, Jim walked the players through the hand movements of the skill.

  “Okay, now we’re going to go to three stations. The first station will be to review the footwork, including the pivot.

  Déo will run that station. The second station will be to review the hand movements, and Gilbert’ll run that station. I’ll be at the third station, where we’ll put everything together.”

  He turned to the bleachers and said,” Bill and Ambassador, would you like to come out and help with the stations?”

  While the two Americans were initially surprised by the invitation, within seconds they were eagerly heading to their new assignments.

  “You have to hook the ball like The Pearl did,” Jim yelled, and then showed them what he meant. He had not touched a basketball since his final days at New Jersey State. But when he was a coach he had practiced this move to teach it properly to his own team, as well as at summer camps and coaches’ clinics. At sixty-six, he could still execute it, and when he did, his timeless know-how impressed the players and observers— including Ambassador Foster.

  For her part, the ambassador completely deferred to Jim’s leadership. This was his domain, and her role was to act as a supporting team member. And while it was an unusual part for Cynthia Foster to play, it was one she found herself enjoying.

  After thirty minutes of work on the spin dribble, with every player making progress, and several executing the move with surprising control, Jim called the group to center court.

  With Mathias translating, the coach said, “That was good—very good. At each practice, I’ll try to teach you four or five skills. On the days in-between practices, I hope you’ll find the time to work on these skills. Now, I realize that a problem we have is a lack of basketballs and hoops. Leave it with me for now. I’ll be working on that.”

  Jim then organized a shooting contest. “Winners get Chicago Bulls hats and some New Jersey State basketball camp t-shirts. I have plenty!”

  The shirts were left over from the camp Jim never ran in the summer following his dismissal. Until now, he’d been unable to bring himself to speak publicly about anything related to New Jersey State. The wry comment about his surplus of camp t-shirts was, he knew, a small but important step in dealing with the dismissal—and moving on.

  “Best out of ten from the foul line!” he yelled. “Take five shots at a time, then go to the end of the line and wait your turn for five more. Déo and Gilbert, you work at each hoop. Guys, keep your own score—you’re all on the honor system. Meanwhile, I’m going to call some of you over to work on shot technique.”

  Jim had found that the honor system was an effective way of promoting responsible behavior among team members. Letting his players know that he trusted them sent an important message.

  “Okay, how ‘bout if Venuste, Albert, Richard, and Claude come over with me!” he said.

  As the four players—two Hutus and two Tutsis—jogged purposefully toward Jim, Ambassador Foster leaned over to Bill and said, “I’m still wondering how he’s going to teach shooting without a hoop?”

  “For a camp t-shirt,” Jim said to the four players, “anyone know who the coach of the University of North Carolina is? Hint: As of now, he’s won more games than any coach in the history of college basketball.”

  After several moments of silence, Bill Foster could not hold his tongue.

  “Dean Smith!”

  “Sycamores are ineligible!” roared Jim and turned back to his players.

  “Bill is right; Dean Smith is his name, and, like I said, he’s won more college basketball games than anyone in history. What’s important for you to know is that Coach Smith has always taught that corrective work on a player’s shot is best accomplished without a hoop. Remove the hoop and you remove an important distraction.”

  Working patiently with the four players, Jim first showed them the proper stance. “Balance is very important in any athletic skill. In shooting, balance means getting into a comfortable position, with your feet about shoulder-width apart. If you’re a right-handed shooter, your right foot should be slightly in front of your left.” After Jim demonstrated the correct stance, he walked in a stooped position from player to player—at times even resting one knee on the asphalt surface— to adjust their feet.

  The coach then focused on the upper body. “Elbows in. Right handers—tuck that right elbow into your rib cage; left handers—tuck the left elbow into your rib cage. Remember, shooting is all about fundamentals. You guys not using the right fundamentals would be like me trying to speak to you in French without using nouns and verbs.”

  The moment Mathias translated, the four players laughed and clapped, and Jim continued.

  “Now, imagine a ball in your hands, bend your knees and make believe you’re shooting. Okay, follow me.”

  Placing his left hand behind the imaginary ball, he said, “This is your guide hand.” He bent his knees and, from his crouched position, raised his body and fluidly arched his right hand into the air, finishing with a cupping motion of his right hand to demonstrate proper follow-through.

  “Let’s get the rhythm of the shot down,” he kept saying. Soon, the players—two small and two tall—were executing the imaginary shot with good, if not perfect, form.

  “Okay, now we’re going to put a ball in your hands. Along with the proper positioning of your feet, there are six other things I’m looking for—elbows in, knees bent, arc, back spin, follow-through, and rhythm. When I say rhythm, make the shot look pretty! Let me show you.”

  While his body was slightly stiff with early-stage arthritis, he still had the smooth, sure-handed skill of a premier athlete. As his hoop-less shot was lofted high in the air, the seams of the ball spiraled inversely in perfect back-spin. The ball hit the ground several feet in front of Jim and, with the back spin taking effect, bounced straight back into his hands. The four players, along with Ambassador Foster and Bill, all applauded the graceful agility of the veteran instructor.

  “Okay, everyone,” the coach bellowed, “let’s hold on the shot contest for a moment and pay attention over here.”

  With all eyes trained on him, Jim continued, “At my camp back home in the United States, we developed what we called ‘the shot equation.’ It’s a simple but fun equation all of you can learn. So, here’s my question: Who’s good at math?�
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  Only one player, Mats Coulibaly, a Tutsi, raised his hand—and everyone looked at him with broad smiles.

  “Okay, Mats, here’s the Project Oscar shot equation: arc, plus back spin, plus follow-through, equals . . . what?” At this point, Jim placed his right hand at his ear and, grinning, leaned forward toward Mats.

  When Mats did not answer, Jim roared “SWISHf The coach’s cry was greeted by hearty applause and laughter, with Mats displaying particular glee.

  “The shot equation,” repeated Didier Kwizera, a Hutu. “We will all remember . . . including Mats!” The young men again broke up in laughter, and Ambassador Foster smiled with delight at this small demonstration of Hutu-Tutsi bonding.

  One by one, Jim adjusted the hands of each player on the ball. “Remember, your left hand is your guide hand.” In years past, he would have drawn the analogy of the left hand or guide hand as the one that would hold a rifle, and the right hand or shooting hand as the one that would pull the trigger. But in Bujumbura, Burundi, that analogy seemed inappropriate.

  Jim finished his shot instruction by calling the four players over to one of the hoops and asking everyone else to gather and observe. “These guys will now demonstrate good shooting fundamentals for you.”

  At first, they were a bit timid trying their newly learned techniques at a hoop. But Jim patiently reviewed each step, then demonstrated his own soft one-hander—this time with a target.

  “Automatic!” Bill Foster hollered as the coach nailed a foul shot.

  The four pupils each took their turn. Two of them, one Hutu and one Tutsi, actually “got it,” a fact not unnoticed by the clapping onlookers and appreciated by Jim. And while the other two showed good progress, Jim knew that breaking old habits would take time.

  “Okay, let’s scrimmage!” he yelled.

  There was a look of puzzlement on the faces of most players. Even Mathias seemed unsure of the correct translation.

  “You know, let’s play full court!”

  Mathias grinned as he translated. As recognition graced their faces, excited chatter hummed through the group. The players then smiled and clapped—their standard response to things they understood and that made them happy.

  “I was going to show you an offense called the passing game. But because it’s a bit late, we’ll do that at our next practice. For this first full-court game, just try to push the ball up the court and play good defense and also . . .”

  He paused for a moment.

  “Hold on here, let me check my notes.”

  Jim pulled from his pocket his written translations.

  “Oh yeah—let’s also transmettre à l’homme libre—pass to the open man.”

  The players burst into laughter at the sight of Jim’s crib notes, a reaction welcomed by Jim. In most of his years as a coach, he’d felt such intense pressure to win that he seldom was able to laugh at himself. But seeing the response to his crib notes, Jim found himself chuckling as well.

  Assigning Déo and Gilbert to shuffle guys in and out and give everyone an equal chance, Jim used the next twenty minutes to survey his talent. What he observed, even more vividly than in the drills, was a complete lack of fundamentals. Yet he also saw five or six Tutsis, and at least two Hutus, who were clearly Division I college athletes—not real basketball players yet, but surely young men with top-notch athletic ability. Most of all, he observed a group of players who were enjoying themselves and who, to a man, took to heart any suggestions he made.

  “No attitudes on this court, Ambassador Foster,” he said.

  “Not a one!” she agreed.

  When the scrimmage ended, Jim called the team to center court.

  “I’ve had fun today, and let me tell you, there’s some real potential here. Now, as I mentioned at the beginning, we’ll have one full group practice every Friday at 6:00 PM. Remember now, the practice is optional, but I hope you’ll keep coming because I think we can learn from each other.”

  . . . because I think we can learn from each other. Ambassador Foster was touched by the statement.

  “Now, I’ll also be here on Monday and Tuesday at 6:00 PM for any of you Bujumbura-area players who’d like to work on skills. On Wednesday and Thursday, I’ll head out into the country, and Déo and Gilbert will accompany me. On that issue, those of you who travel in from a distance, please stay for a few minutes after practice. Mathias, Terrence, and Sergeant Rush will discuss where you live. We’ll pick out some places we can meet up that won’t be too far for you,” he said. “Okay, everyone get a hand in.”

  Twenty-nine hands—twenty-eight black and one white— some Hutu, some Tutsi, some Catholic, and some Muslim, all clasped as one.

  Moments later, Jim Keating walked off the court, keenly aware of the worth of his mission. It was the best feeling a coach could have.

  25

  Nine players remained after practice to arrange for private shooting sessions with Jim. With the help of a map, Déo, Gilbert, and Jim picked out the locations for the following Wednesday and Thursday clinics. After the players left, Mathias approached Jim.

  “Coach Jim, in your speech at the dinner, you asked us to help you find players.”

  “That’s right, Mathias.”

  “Well, for the last forty years, I have lived in Bujumbura— mostly because I feel it is safer for my family. But before that, I lived here.”

  Mathias pointed to a place on the map called Kayanza, which appeared to be at least forty kilometers from Bujumbura—and twenty kilometers beyond Bukeye, the furthest point the group would travel to the next week.

  “As you see, Kayanza is near the Rwandan border. It is known as a region of high violence, and I have not been back to my home for many years.” His voice trailing off in sadness, he said, “I lost two brothers to brutal murders. . . . But when I lived in the Kayanza region, there was a group of families—all linked by marriage and heredity—that were the finest physical specimens I have ever seen. The fathers and grandfathers will probably all be dead now. Most had been Tutsi warriors—so fearless and powerful that everyone stood in awe of them.”

  He continued, “Since I learned about Project Oscar, I wondered if I should go back there, to my old home, to see about the children or grandchildren of that large extended family joining in this basketball movement of peace. And just now, as we looked at the map, I was thinking that when we travel to Bukeye, since we will be under the protection of the Marines, perhaps we should travel out further to see if any of those family members are still around.”

  Jim nodded. “Mathias, it’s a good idea, but let me run it by Sergeant Rush and Jesse first.”

  Jim was honestly intrigued, but he knew the closer they got to the border, the more likely they might encounter roving militia. His briefings on the civil war and accusations of genocide made him wary, to say the least.

  Monday night, when Jim showed up at the Nimbona Court to work on individual skills, he was pleasantly surprised. Word of his coaching savvy had spread in Burundian basketball circles, and thirty-two players were waiting, already working on spin moves and shooting. When the number increased to thirty-six on Tuesday night, Jim decided that all future individual instructional workouts would be offered in two shifts: 5:30-7 PM and 7-8:30 PM. To his delight, Jim would soon find that some players participated in both sessions.

  Despite the limited equipment, Jim felt both sessions were successful. Before the workouts, he had held extensive meetings with Déo, Gilbert, and Mathias to review the fundamentals he’d teach. The three men caught on quickly, and Déo and Gilbert worked well at the instructional stations. And while Ambassador Foster could only make the Monday session, Bill Foster attended both workouts. At Jim’s request, he helped at the stations and did so with enthusiasm and surprising skill.

  During a break, Jim approached him. “For someone who’s never coached, you’re a real natural.”

  “Thanks, Jim. By the way, I’d like to come out to the country with you on Wednesday, if it’s okay.”<
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  “Be fine,” said Jim. He was pleased; he enjoyed Foster’s company, and, aside from his basketball acumen, Bill spoke some French and a bit of Kirundi.

  On Wednesday morning, before setting out, Jim, Mathias, Terrence, and Bill met with Sergeant Rush.

  “Even though it stays light ‘til nine-thirty or ten, we don’t feel it’s safe to be driving after dark,” said Rush. “Coach, you really got into it the last two nights and kept going ‘til nearly nine. If that’s the case tonight and tomorrow, it’ll mean driving home in the dark. So, first question—do you think you’ll go as late?”

  “Would you prefer that I not?”

  “Up to you. But if you feel you’re gonna go much past eight, our option is to bring along some tents and camp out in the public campground. Ever since the violence broke out, with the exception of certain border areas, the campgrounds have been pretty safe. Also, Corporal Roberts and I will alternate on night watch,” Rush said. “The other option is to finish by eight, which will get us to the outskirts of Bujumbura before dark.”

  “Well,” said Jim, “I don’t want to cause everybody a lot of hassle . . . but if it’s okay with everyone, how ‘bout if we bring the tents along and decide at the end of practice?”

  The group agreed, then Jim said, “On a related matter, Mathias mentioned that he wanted to head out further—twenty or so kilometers further—to a place where he feels there might be some great athletes. Right, Mathias?”

  “Right, Coach Jim,”

  “What do you think, Sarge?” Jim asked.

  “Yeah, I heard about this from Jesse,” said Rush, “and I must say it sounds pretty interesting. I’ve checked with our patrol up there and it should be safe. Might be another good reason to maybe camp out tonight, since we’ll be that much closer to Kayanza.”