An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “Are you the mother of one of these boys?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And which boy is your son?”

  “The tallest boy—the strongest boy!”

  The pride of a mother’s statement brought an even broader smile to the ambassador’s face which, in turn, caused Consolaté’s fear to completely subside.

  “Your son—he is very gifted, very special,” said the ambassador. “Tell me, do you know anything about the game he is playing?”

  “No.”

  Inexplicably, Consolaté found herself momentarily wondering if Charlé might be spying on this meeting. Anxiety beclouded her face, and Ambassador Foster sensed that Consolaté’s concern had nothing to do with the conversation. She decided to take a bold step.

  “Do you fear for your son?”

  The question took Consolaté by surprise; she was not quite ready to expose her veiled emotions about the issue. But within moments, and disregarding the possibility of Charle’s surveillance, she allowed her deep-rooted feelings to surface and broke down in tears.

  “Why don’t we go sit on those rocks,” said the ambassador. She pointed to a few flat rocks among a pile of volcanic rubble.

  Sensing that he should not be part of this conversation, Mathias said, “I will remain here to ensure your privacy.”

  Once the two were seated, Ambassador Foster placed her hand on Consolaté’s shoulder and asked, “And why do you fear for your son?”

  Although she had met her only minutes earlier, Consolaté felt that she could trust Cynthia, at least up to a point. She also knew that she really had no choice, considering the alternatives.

  “I have watched my husband and two oldest sons go off to war to have their courage tested. All three are now dead. I do not want this fate for Leonard, who is my youngest son . . . my only family member left on this earth.”

  “Have you any ways of preventing young Leonard from entering the war?”

  Consolaté grew silent, her unsettled expression making it clear that she would be uncomfortable revealing her ambitious solution.

  “There may be a way, Consolaté,” the ambassador said. “But it would mean a major change for Leonard—and for you.”

  Consolaté’s heart raced, and Ambassador Foster continued.

  “The man who is teaching Leonard this game, which is called basketball, is an expert. He feels that Leonard could become a great player of basketball. But in order for your son to develop his skills, he would have to leave Kayanza and move to Bujumbura.”

  The ambassador intended to finish her proposal by suggesting that if such a move were to endanger Consolaté, arrangements would be made for her to move to Bujumbura as well. But before she could offer this alternative, Consolaté, her eyes welling again with tears, embraced Cynthia Foster and said, “Yes, this is what I have prayed for.”

  “But what about you, Consolaté? Will you be safe here? Because if not, you too may move to Bujumbura—I can arrange that.”

  “Oh, no. You are most kind. But no, I would not leave the graves of my husband and sons so soon after their deaths. No, I must stay here.”

  As Ambassador Foster knew, this was another of the traditions the Tutsi culture still embraced. And while pleased that young Leonard would move to Bujumbura, she was concerned for the well-being of this fine woman with whom she had so quickly connected and for whom she felt instant—and vast—empathy.

  As Cynthia Foster arose, Consolaté Tangishaka placed a hand on her forearm and posed a surprising question.

  “Would it be possible for Leonard to go with you today?”

  The request caught the Ambassador off guard. In her mind, Leonard’s move would involve at least several days of preparations. He would need to get his belongings together and say his good-byes.

  “I . . . I hadn’t thought about bringing Leonard today. Is there some reason for the urgency?”

  “There is, Madam,” said Consolaté. “You see, since I saw the white man teach my son this game seven days ago, I was overcome by a strange and wonderful feeling that he had been sent to us by God. Before I saw you today, I planned to approach the white man.”

  She continued, “Madam, I was going to ask him to do exactly what you have so kindly offered—to take my son to Bujumbura. As for making this request of you today, it is because Leonard will soon be taken by the soldiers. I am sure of this.”

  “How soon?” the ambassador asked.

  “Very soon. Weeks, maybe even days. And surely, if anyone has seen me talking to you, they’ll tell the warlords. These men—evil men—will think it strange for me to be talking to an American queen. If they suspect that Leonard is moving to Bujumbura, they will surely act to prevent this.”

  “And their way of preventing it would be to force Leonard into the army,” the ambassador thought aloud.

  Ego-

  The ambassador looked away for a moment, and then turned back to Consolaté. “I’ll be right back,” she said, placing an assuring hand on her forearm before walking away.

  She walked over to Mathias, spoke with him briefly, and Mathias nodded. She returned to Consolaté and said, “Yes, it can be done today, and Mathias, the man with whom I just spoke, has offered to host Leonard in his home. But because we must depart soon, Mathias suggests that he quietly tell your son to leave the practice session and go straight home to see you.”

  Once again, Consolaté hugged Ambassador Foster. “

  I will go to our home and wait for Leonard.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Leonard Tangishaka entered the mud-floored hut, only to find his mother weeping softly.

  30

  “You will love your children so much that their lives will become more important to you than your own.”

  Solange Irakoze had said these words to her daughter Consolaté only hours before Consolaté’s marriage to Leonidas Tangashika. At the time, Consolaté wondered about the accuracy of this seemingly extreme statement, but her doubt had disappeared after she bore her three sons.

  The death of a husband and two sons burdened Consolaté’s soul with unbearable grief, intensified by having to yield to Charlé’s sexual demands. Her only source of hope—of strength—was Leonard, whose strong body and mind were matched by the might of his devotion to his mother.

  Consolaté selflessly returned the devotion. She would not diminish the happiness Leonard drew from good times with his many young friends, so she internalized her grief. And to ensure her son’s safety, she consented to Charlé’s lust.

  Now she would complete her cycle of self-sacrifice. She would set her only living son free, knowing that their reunions would likely be few and that—perhaps forever—there would be a distance between them.

  “Mother, what is the matter?”

  Before answering her son’s question, Consolaté sank into Leonard’s muscular arms, her gentle crying intensifying to sobs. Leonard could recall only one other time when his embrace had released such powerful feelings in his mother. It was moments after she had learned of the deaths of his father and brothers—together, all three had been hurled into the quagmire of tribal hatred and together all three had perished in a brutal encounter with the Hutus.

  Despite his powerful physical appearance, Leonard’s emotional make-up was still that of a fourteen-year-old. Without knowing the reason for his mother’s reaction, he joined her in a flood of tears.

  When Consolaté was finally able to regain her composure, she escorted her son to one of the two wooden chairs in the hut. Looking deep into his trusting eyes, she spoke in a tone that expressed both affection and regret. “My son, God has sent these people to save your life. I am as sure of this as I am of my love for you. Without your knowledge, I have watched you learn this new game.”

  “How so?” asked Leonard.

  “I have hidden behind the bushes in the forest. And while I know nothing of this game, I do know that the white man who has taught you is a good man. Leonard, I am sure that God has sent this man here
so that you will not have to follow your father and brothers into the terrible war.”

  “But how could this be so?” he asked.

  “This man, my son, and the people with him are going to take you today to the capital city, where you will be safe. You will stay in the home of the Tutsi man—the kind man who just sent you to me—and you will learn about this game from the white man. And by doing this, Leonard, I believe great things will happen for you.”

  “ But mother, what about you? Surely you will come with me ?”

  “In time, I will, son. But not now. Not so soon after the deaths of your father and brothers. You see, I cannot leave their graves—not just yet.”

  “Then I cannot go without you, mother,” Leonard insisted. “I cannot leave you here alone.”

  Out of respect for Consolaté, Leonard did not mention the real reason for his reluctance. In his heart, he knew that a move to Bujumbura might place his mother’s safety at risk. Leonard knew that Charlé had beaten several other widows he had sexually abused.

  One revealing encounter had convinced Leonard that his presence prevented such abuse. Late one evening, Charlé had approached the hut. Consolaté was ill, and, at her request, Leonard told Charlé of her condition. A muscular, wiry man with a vicious temperament, Charlé showed no sympathy and instead tried to brush the boy aside and enter the hut. While only fourteen, Leonard was already bigger than Charlé. Although fearful of this evil man, Leonard concealed his fright and blocked the entrance. To Leonard’s surprise, not only did Charlé with-draw, but in his eyes the boy detected a strange and surprising fear. At the time, Leonard had the feeling that he had intimidated a demon who could someday return to harm him.

  Consolaté interrupted her son’s recollection of Charlé. “My son, you have been a most obedient boy, and you must now do as I say. I know of your concern for me, but, for the present at least, I must stay and you must go.”

  In the end, Leonard Tangishaka knew that he must obey his mother. He hugged her hard, leaving Consolaté almost breathless. In silence, they packed Leonard’s modest belongings.

  Leonard had slipped off quietly, before his friends could ask questions. When he departed, Mathias whispered the new plan to Jim, and the coach felt equal measures of surprise and exhilaration.

  After Leonard left, Jim wrapped up his lesson on inside defense: “Basketball is a game that requires you to outthink and outwork your opponent. This is especially true when you’re defending a player in the low post. Guys, if you relax down low—mentally or physically—even for just a split second, it’ll likely cost your team a basket. . . . Okay, line up, gentlemen. Time for the shooting contest.”

  As usual, there was no hesitation. Whoops, hollers, and clapping followed almost every shot. One of the boys, Emery, won for the first time and jumped up and down waving his prize New Jersey State camp t-shirt over his head. Clovis, the other winner, was already wearing a shirt he’d won earlier. He laughed as he pulled his new prize over the first.

  Jim smiled. He walked over to Bill. “Bet he wears ‘em both to bed.”

  “Guaranteed,” laughed Bill.

  “I’ll be back next week,” Jim shouted, knowing the plan could change with an increase in the violence and wondering how he could get word to the boys, should such an outbreak prevent his travel.

  As the players headed through the woods for a swim, Ambassador Foster asked Mathias, “How long would you guess Leonard will spend with his mother before he returns?”

  “From what I can gather,” Mathias replied, “his hut is a fifteen-minute walk. He probably has only a few belongings to pack, but I’ll bet he’ll need a good deal of time to say good-bye—as will his mother.”

  As Ambassador Foster and Mathias discussed their reaction to the swiftness of Leonard’s move to Bujumbura, Jim Keating’s attention wandered back to the early ‘60s, to a recurring dream, one well remembered. In the dream, he discovered in a remote Pennsylvania town a young giant, fifteen, 6’9”, powerfully built, blessed with fine athletic talent, and unschooled in the fundamentals of basketball.

  As the dream evolved, Jim decided to teach this great prospect to copy the skills of the most proficient big men in the game. The boy would learn the George Mikan hook shot, the Wilt Chamberlain finger roll, the Clyde Lovellette short jumper, and, naturally, Bill Russell’s techniques of defense and rebounding.

  Of course, the exhilarating experience of developing the boy ended when Jim awoke, but one result of the dream was that Jim always thought such an approach with a young phenom had merit. As the group continued their wait for Leonard, Jim told Bill Foster about his fantasy and about a strategic teaching plan for Leonard.

  “In other words,” said Foster, “you’ll decide which center had the best jump shot and teach Leonard that shot. Same with the hook shot, power move, outlet pass—the whole package!”

  “That’s it,” said Jim.

  “I love it.”

  “Well then,” said Jim, “while we’re waiting for Leonard, let’s talk about it. Let’s start with the jumper. From among the great centers, which jump shot do you like the best?”

  “You know,” replied Foster, “if you look at the best centers, Russell and Chamberlain being the most obvious, a lot of the great ones were not good jump shooters. But I guess the five who come to mind right away would be Robert Parish, Willis Reed, Bill Walton, Patrick Ewing, and David Robinson.”

  Jim Keating was pleased that Bill’s suggestions were also at the top of his own list.

  “So, which jumper would you choose for young Leonard?” asked Jim.

  “Well, because of Leonard’s long arms, I guess I’d teach him the Parish jump shot. As you know, Jim, because of his arm extension and arc, Parish’s jumper is difficult to block.

  This kid—with his long arms and all—could develop one that would be damned near impossible to get at.”

  “I agree, so we’ll go with a Parish jumper. Okay, how ‘bout the hook shot?” asked Jim.

  “Well, with deference to George Mikan and even Russell, that’s a no-brainer!”

  “Kareem?”

  “Absolutely!” said Foster.

  As the two continued to wait for Leonard, they had a wonderful time choosing the premier practitioners of the various big-man moves. In making their choices, they not only considered the highly-skilled players, but also paid attention to the particular physical attributes of those players—and matched them up to Leonard’s.

  “Walton—he was the best passer,” said Jim. “Kevin McHale, even though he was mostly a power forward, had the best inside drop-step move. By the way, I don’t think we should teach the kid McHale’s up-and-under move, simply because Leonard will be too tall to go under anyone.”

  “You’re right on that,” Bill agreed.

  “And on defense,” Keating continued, “I’d like to get some films of Russell. There’s a famous one called Block Art. The film does a good job of not only showing the way he blocked shots, but also the way he positioned himself. Also, the way he’d psych out his opponents by blocking a shot and then timing his next block to always keep the opposition thinking.”

  “And it would be great if we could get some of the books that Russell wrote,” said Foster. “Perhaps part of Leonard’s instruction in English could be to read Russell’s books, especially the ones about his defensive philosophy.”

  “Right on target, Bill,” Jim said, then suddenly found himself ducking under an errant pass thrown by an apologetic boy.

  “Still got the quick reflexes, Coach,” said Bill. “But let’s head over to safety!”

  As the two moved away from the spirited young players, the coach continued. “Now, as far as rebounding is concerned, how ‘bout if we have him watch films—if we can get them here. We’d have him watch Walton on the offensive board, and Olajawon, Kareem, and Russell on the defensive board. You know, John Wooden taught his players to go right to the ball on the defensive board instead of boxing out.”

  “I
remember,” said Foster. “He also taught them to always have their hands above their shoulders. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of Kareem or Walton near the hoop without their hands well above their shoulders.”

  While her husband and Jim discussed strategy, Ambassador Foster took pleasure in their unbridled enthusiasm. Finally, she couldn’t resist yelling over to them, “It’s like the two of you are thirty years old again!”

  As she spoke, Leonard Tangishaka and his mother came into view. Watching mother and son holding hands, Bill placed his arm around Jim’s shoulder.

  “Here he comes, Jim . . . our special project.”

  “What a privilege!” said the coach.

  Each September, Jim made it a point to greet his freshman recruits when they were dropped off at orientation by their parents. It was an important rite of passage—for both parent and child—and Jim recalled many poignant, often surprising, acts of tenderness by boys hiding in men’s bodies. In one such case, back in the early ‘60s, Jim remembered a tough, burly 6’8” player breaking down in the arms of his 4’11” mother.

  But, of course, at no time in his life had Jim Keating ever been part of such a unique and complex convocation as Leonard Tangishaka’s departure for Bujumbura. Clearly, this move was not only one of uncommon adventure for the boy, but also one that might likely imperil the safety of his mother.

  “When he leaves, there will be no one to protect her,” was the somber comment by Mathias.

  As Consolaté and Leonard walked toward the makeshift basketball court, each carrying a small satchel full of Leonard’s belongings, Jim knew he must carry out the same function he had performed so many times as a college coach. He must offer gentle words of encouragement to the boy and, perhaps more importantly, words of reassurance to the mother.

  Ambassador Foster had similar thoughts. After greeting mother and son, she asked Consolaté to join her in quiet conversation. Jim, in turn, asked Mathias to translate his message to Leonard.

  With Mathias at his side, Jim looked into Leonard’s trusting eyes and began, “Young man, I know this is a difficult move for you. To be honest, you will probably find yourself missing your mother and your friends a great deal. Sometimes you’ll miss them so much that you’ll want to turn back. But please trust me, for what I am about to tell you is the truth.”