An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  For fourteen young Tutsis, the strange sight at the top of the ridge stopped play, as though someone had blown a whistle. Not one of the young men had ever seen a jeep before or, for that matter, a human face that wasn’t black.

  “Do not worry,” Mathias yelled to them in Kirundi. “I grew up here many years ago, played in these fields as you are playing now. We are fans of sport and we would like to watch your football game. Please, continue to play.”

  Despite Mathias’s entreaty, the anxious lull persisted for several moments, until the tallest of the group, obviously intent on finishing the game, uttered something, and play continued.

  The visitors perched on a set of large rocks to watch. The view from the ridge was not unlike being seated at midfield in a stadium with a perfect line of sight. Within minutes, each observer could see why the tallest boy was so intent on resuming the action.

  “We’re looking at a real athlete,” commented Bill, expressing Jim’s exact thoughts.

  For the first few minutes, this boy played goalkeeper and expertly stopped several high-velocity shots. But in a creative twist of the rules, the goalkeeper in this informal game was allowed to play the field after a missed shot. When the switch occurred, another player simply rotated back into goal. After a near-miraculous save, the tallest boy employed the change of position rule, dropped the ball to the ground, kicked it out to a wing man, and received a return pass.

  Jim didn’t need to be a soccer coach to appreciate what happened next.

  The boy took the pass and dribbled several steps to his left. With a head fake and a shimmy of his shoulders, he exploded by the first defender. From that point it was, for Jim, like watching Michael Jordan maneuver through a core of Utah Jazz defenders. The difference was that this boy was zigzagging past the opposition while controlling a soccer ball.

  After rendering a string of defenders hamstrung with his quickness and ball-control skills, the young giant blasted a bull’s-eye shot to the far corner of a makeshift goal of bamboo and rope.

  “My lord,” gasped Sergeant Rush. “Did you see that?”

  Even the coach, who had a practiced eye for impressive athletic exploits, was astounded by the feat, especially because the kid was so tall.

  “He looks to be at least six-ten,” said Jim. “But Mathias, how old would he be?”

  “If he’s out on this field playing football, and not in the Tutsi army, I’ll bet he’s only fourteen or fifteen.”

  “Can we meet him?”

  “Let’s find out. . . . Young men!” he hollered. “As I said earlier, we are sport fans and we are enjoying watching you play. May we come down to meet you?”

  The boys looked to their leader, the goal-scorer.

  “Yes,” the boy shouted back in Kirundi.

  Ever the coach, Jim Keating grabbed a couple of basketballs from the jeep and tossed one to Bill, and the group scrambled down from the ridge to the field below. In the middle of their descent, four of the boys, fearful of these intruders, two of whom were carrying rifles, disappeared into the woods. But the rest, including the boy Jim was anxious to meet, stayed on.

  By not taking flight with the others, they were disobeying the orders of their elders, who would have told them, firmly, to run fast and far from any strangers. But it was obvious that the man who had yelled from the top of the hill was a Tutsi—one of them. They were also transfixed by the sight of white men.

  As the strangers approached, the boys shifted a bit closer to one another, causing Mathias to say gently, “Please do not be frightened. We are here as sportsmen to talk to you about a game. It’s a game that most of you, perhaps even all of you, have never seen. Do any of you know of the game of basketball?”

  Blank stares met Mathias’s question. Still perplexed, they didn’t even shake their heads.

  “Well, this man here,” he said, pointing to Jim. “He is a great teacher of basketball. He has come to our country from the United States on an important mission—to use this game as a means of friendship. . . . You know when I told you that I lived here—many years ago? Well, I remember the strong men of this region, warriors like Myo Hatungimana and Natare Nizigama.”

  Jim noticed the boys looking at one another. He also recalled Mathias explaining that in Kayanza, unlike certain other regions, they did use surnames due to the proud heritage of the various warrior families.

  Mathias continued, “I told this man that I was sure that some of the sons and grandsons of these great warriors could become good basketball players!”

  The barefoot boys smiled timidly at the thought of playing a game they had never seen or heard of.

  “Young men, let me have this man from America, whose name is Jim Keating, talk to you about this game called basketball.”

  Jim moved alongside Mathias. “Use the same tone I use, okay? I’m going to start gently.”

  Mathias nodded, and Jim began.

  “I enjoyed watching you play football—or soccer, as we call it in America. Do any of you know anything about America?”

  The white man’s words did nothing to lessen the boys’ shyness, still somewhat rooted in fear. When they didn’t respond, Jim continued.

  “Well, as Mathias said, I came from America to teach this game to young people like you. It’s really a simple game. What you do is throw this ball through a hoop.”

  The boys looked puzzled. “Do you know what I mean when I say ‘hoop’?”

  “No,” several of the boys replied in Kirundi, and Jim decided right then to make an investment.

  “Sarge, we have one half-moon backboard left, and I’d say put it on that tall cocoa tree over there.” He pointed. “Where the grass is beaten down.”

  “You’re on, Coach,” said Rush. He slung his M-16 across his back and hollered to Corporal Roberts. “Robbie, gimmie a hand!”

  As Rush and Roberts made their way to the jeep, Jim could no longer contain his curiosity. He turned to the prodigy— the boy who had displayed such dexterity in scoring the goal. With Mathias still at his side, the coach asked, “What is your name, son?”

  “Leonard,” replied the boy. “Leonard Tangishaka.”

  “Leonard, would you like to try something with this ball?”

  “Yes,” responded Leonard, his enthusiasm causing his companions to giggle.

  As the young man stepped forward from the group, Jim realized that his visual measurement from the ridge had been conservative. Leonard Tangishaka was at least seven feet tall, with massive hands, and arms that reached well below his knee-caps—physical traits not unusual among Tutsi men. What was unusual were his sturdy calves and strong upper body. Since Jim had arrived in Burundi, he had encountered few Tutsis with such remarkable muscular definition.

  What would six months in a weight room do for this kid?

  Jim’s interest in Leonard’s physical attributes nearly caused him to overlook the boy’s strikingly handsome face. His complexion was dark brown (Edna would have said sable, thought Jim), his eyes deep-set and lucid, and his teeth ivory white. He had that look of clear-skinned health that often comes from living a largely outdoor life.

  “Leonard, I’m gonna throw this ball very high into the air. As the ball begins its descent, I’d like you to jump into the air and catch it. Have you ever done anything like this?” Jim asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay, then let’s try it. Now keep your eyes focused on the ball and time your jump to catch it just as it’s on the way down.” Mathias imitated Jim’s movements as he translated.

  Jim Keating hurled the basketball high into the arid Burundian air. With total concentration, Leonard did as the coach told him—he eyed the ball on its upward flight. At the split second it began to drop, he soared, snaring the ball with hands so large as to obscure it from view.

  The remarkable sight gave free rein to Coach Jim Keating’s imagination.

  27

  From their vantage point at the crest of the ridge, Rush and Roberts had a clear view of Leonard’
s prodigious vertical jump.

  “Did you see that, Robbie? The kid’s amazing.”

  The Marines scurried back down the hill, half-moon backboard and small ladder in tow.

  While they nailed the backboard to the cocoa tree, Jim and Mathias learned the names of the other boys. Ever since his days as a high school coach, Jim had always made sure he knew everyone’s first and last name—and how to pronounce both. He also expected his assistants to follow his lead. In Barcelona, he even learned how to roll the R’s in names like Rodriguez. But he’d never been challenged with reeling off surnames like Nzikobanyanka, Ndimurwanko, or Bandyambona, so he decided to memorize first names only.

  “Ready, Coach!” yelled Rush.

  The boys had been glancing at Rush and Roberts mounting the backboard. Yet there was no hesitation when they heard Jim, having just gotten a Kirundi translation from Mathias, say “tugende,” (“let’s go”) and motioned for the ten young giants to move under what was the first hoop in the Kayanza region of Burundi.

  “Ingo, ingo, come close, come close,” said Mathias.

  “Now, gentlemen,” began the coach, “one of the great advantages you all bring to this game is your height. Question: Do any of you know the name Hakeem Olajuwon?”

  “No,” was the unanimous response.

  “How ‘bout Dikembe Mutombo?”

  “No.”

  “Well, both of these men have some things in common with each of you. They’re both from African countries, Mutombo from Zaire and Olajuwon from Nigeria. Like all of you, they’re both very tall. Also, they both played soccer as young boys and developed their footwork. And, like all of you, neither Olajuwon nor Mutombo was introduced to basketball until they were about your age. Last, but not least,” Jim said with a bit of a lilt, “they’re now world-famous basketball players in what is called the National Basketball Association in the United States—and they’re very rich!”

  Jim chuckled, causing the ten young men to join him in laughter, even though none of the boys understood the meaning of the word rich. And when, in his translation, Mathias mimed Jim’s buoyant tone and his emphasis on “very rich,” the kids laughed even more.

  “They’re relaxing. He’s getting their trust,” said Mathias quietly to Bill Foster.

  Mathias had been anxious about how the boys would react to Jim. Now, he was pleased, if not relieved, with the lively atmosphere created by the American coach.

  Jim decided to hold shot technique until later in the session and focus instead on a skill required of all forwards and centers, one that these soccer players might have fun practicing.”I’d like to teach you a simple move near the basket called the drop step. Now, when I say ‘basket,’ I mean that iron hoop up there.”

  He pointed to the hoop nailed into the tree. “Bill, would you come out and help demonstrate the drop-step?”

  Bill Foster quickly positioned himself with his back to the basket. With Jim talking and Bill performing, the two patiently—and expertly—worked through each move of the drop-step, starting with the footwork and finishing with the actual lay-up.

  Still spry even at sixty-one, Foster was the perfect demonstrator; the old Indiana State star had the drop-step down.

  As Jim and Foster broke the skill into parts, the coach couldn’t help but notice Leonard’s look of fascination with this simple move.

  “Remember, guys, basketball is like your game of football—you must learn offensive moves to get by the defender. . . . Robbie, come on out and cover Bill.”

  By calling out Corporal Roberts, Jim Keating used an old coaching trick: In a demonstration lecture, always choose a defender who is unlikely to cause the offensive player much difficulty.

  While thirty-plus years younger than Foster, Roberts was also a few inches shorter and devoid of basketball skills. Using his size and expert footwork, Foster easily scored three straight lay-ups.

  “Yesss!” Bill chortled after the third shot dropped in. “Tickling the twine. The first six points ever scored in the Kayanza region!”

  While not knowing what he said, the boys joined in laughter at the black American’s enthusiasm.

  “Leonard,” said Jim. “Would you like to give it a try?”

  Leonard nodded eagerly, and this was followed by a reminder from Jim.

  “Now, as I said few moments ago, before any player can execute this move, like Bill just did, we have to break it down into its parts.”

  With Foster’s help, Jim once again reviewed the elements of the drop-step move. Because of Leonard’s soccer skills, the footwork came easily to him. But blending the various elements of the move—catching the ball, chinning it up for ball protection and examining the options, faking, utilizing the proper footwork, turning to the basket, and laying the ball in the hoop—required Jim’s patience and Leonard’s full attention.

  “Catch, chin it up, fake, step, and turn,” Jim repeated met-ronomically, and Mathias expertly imitated Jim’s tone and message.

  Jim knew this experiment would take time. Not wishing to offend the other boys, he assigned Déo, Gilbert, and Bill to work with them in groups of three on the footwork. He wanted Mathias with him, for he didn’t want one word to be dropped between him and this remarkably talented kid.

  “Gentlemen, eventually I’m going to spend a good amount of time with all of you,” said Jim. “But for today, I’m just going to instruct Leonard. And until I come back again, I’m going to ask that he assist each of you with these moves.”

  Without letting Leonard shoot the ball at the basket, Jim coached him on the components of the drop-step. At first, the boy had difficulty synchronizing the parts, but his eagerness to learn and his remarkable athleticism were as obvious as they were impressive.

  Thirty minutes later, when it finally appeared that he had gained command of the different aspects of the move, Jim said, “Okay, now let’s put it all together, Leonard. First, I’m gonna pass you the ball. Now, as we just worked on, when you catch it, spread your elbows and chin the ball up. Remember, this’ll help you protect the ball and, by glancing over your shoulder, see the positioning of the defenders. Give a little head fake, just as you do in soccer. Then, using your dropstep, turn and lay the ball in the basket.”

  Hearing Jim’s words, Déo stopped his instruction, sensing he was about to witness something special. Bill and Gilbert noticed and followed suit, as did Rush and Roberts, who had moved back to the ridge for surveillance.

  Jim passed the ball to Leonard Tangishaka. On cue, Leonard chinned the ball up, head faked, drop-stepped, and, using his remarkable vertical jump, deposited the ball softly through the hoop as effortlessly as a veteran star, soaring so high his head was almost parallel to the rim.

  As the jaws of the other visitors literally dropped, Bill Foster looked quickly at Jim Keating, whose usual veil of indifference to such feats was nowhere to be seen.

  Meanwhile, the four boys who had disappeared into the woods had headed to the hut of Leonard Tangishaka, where they told his mother, Consolaté, about these strangers. The boys quietly escorted her to a cluster of trees 150 meters from the action.

  Out of sight of the group’s view, Consolaté watched intently as the first white man she had ever seen taught her son a strange game also new to her eyes.

  Like many good teachers, Jim spent the last twenty minutes of his first lesson preparing the students to train without his supervision.

  “We’ll be back next Thursday—same time. Until then, I’m going to give you a series of things to practice. Sound okay?”

  “Okay,” was the robust response of the group, now enjoying use of their newly learned English word.

  “First thing will be for all of you to work on the drop-step. Now, it seems to me that each of you has done a good job learning the various elements of this move. So, for the next week, help each other. Best way to do it—at first—is to assign one player to be the passer. Rest of you get in a line under the hoop—like so.”

  Jim called on Leonard
to be the passer and positioned the other boys in a straight line underneath the basket.

  “Simply come out one at a time, execute the move, then go to the rear of the line. If a player does something wrong, you other boys should point out the mistake. If you can, spend about twenty to thirty minutes each day on this drill as a group.”

  As he heard himself say “minutes,” the coach wondered how the boys measured time. He decided to ask Mathias about this on the way home.

  “All right, let’s try it!” he bellowed, then pointed to a boy who looked to be among the youngest in the group, but stood at least 6’5”. “Claude, c’mon out, and Leonard, pass him the ball.”

  When Claude’s large, soft hands easily embraced the pass, Jim said, “Good catch.”

  After he’d made an imperfect move to the hoop, Jim added, “Good effort, Claude.” Turning to the group, the coach asked, “But what did he do wrong?”

  Mathias translated and Leonard Tangishaka responded quickly.

  “He drop-stepped too far. Ended up under the hoop. Out of position to shoot.”

  “Exactly!” said Jim, gratified, but not surprised with Leonard’s grasp of the move.

  Another boy called out minor mistakes and helped Claude correct them. As Claude trotted back to the end of the line, Jim saw a couple of other boys gesturing to him to fake before taking the drop-step. The beginnings of teamwork.

  “Okay, within a week or two, our goal should be that everyone in line will be able to execute the move properly, so that there’s virtually no stoppage in action. As I said before, let’s see how close all of you can come to reaching the goal by practicing this line drill every day until next Thursday. Okay?”

  “Okay!” roared the players.

  Jim finished up the workout with a brief session on proper shot technique, using Bill as his demonstrator.

  “Now that you’ve learned these simple pointers about shooting, help each other on proper shot technique, as well. Remember, good shooters have good form. If you see someone taking the shot without elbows in, proper arc, follow-through, or backspin, or if their feet are not positioned properly—or if you see anything else that they’re not doing correctly, tell ‘em. Okay?”