An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “He sure is all business,” Cynthia whispered to Jim.

  Jim just smiled, nodded, and thought: So young, so ambitious. How well I remember!

  The day before the game, Jim put his team through a brisk ninety-minute workout. After the workout, he took Jesse Abbot’s advice and convened those members of the media who wanted to talk with Leonard Tangishaka.

  While Leonard seemed to enjoy the attention, he carefully followed his coach’s guidance by answering all questions with politeness and modesty. Asked to name his favorite player, he drew smiles from the thirty-odd journalists. “I have five: Parish the jump-shooter, Hakeem the rebounder, Walton the passer, Kareem the sky-hooker, and Russell the defender and shot-blocker.”

  The reporters were as charmed by young Leonard as they were skeptical of a statement made by Finbar Finnegan at the conclusion of the press briefing: “He’ll be better than all of them!”

  After the briefing and one-on-ones with the Times and Sports Illustrated, Jim and Leonard joined the rest of the team at Ambassador Foster’s home. Cynthia had offered the full use of her “palace”—as the players quietly dubbed it—for the entire weekend.

  “Staying here will allow the young men who live out in the country to avoid having to make their way into Bujumbura on Sunday,” she said to Jim. “Since we sold tickets in the rural communities, as well as in the city, I’ve got a feeling that the trains will be quite full on Sunday. I don’t imagine you want any one of your players being forced to cycle twenty miles on game day!”

  At dinner that evening—a buffet of vegetable soup, ugali, kidney beans, sweet potatoes, roasted lamb, and fruit— Ambassador Foster proudly announced to the players what Jim already knew. “We’ve sold every ticket to tomorrow night’s game!”

  Well-publicized in the Bujumbura Gazette and posted on bulletin boards within a thirty-mile radius of Bujumbura, the ambassador’s sales plan worked to perfection. Phase One had been successfully executed at the last two open practices. Ambassador Foster had ordered that ticket outlets be placed at the Nimbona Court. “This will take care of the basketball loyalists,” she had predicted to Sergeant Rush, who, along with Private Roberts and five other Marines, would man the outlets.

  Her prediction proved accurate—more than fourteen hundred tickets were sold on the two nights of practice.

  “We have seven hundred left,” the ambassador had said to Rush. “We’ll sell them on market day.”

  Saturday was market day in Burundi, and every Saturday morning, even during the rainy season, people gathered at outdoor markets in Bujumbura and in the countryside to purchase their supplies for the upcoming week. The ambassador positioned Marines and embassy personnel with blocks of tickets at makeshift ticket outlets at every market within a thirty-mile radius of Bujumbura. The remaining seven hundred tickets were sold by noon.

  “You know, Cynthia, you may have chosen the wrong profession,” kidded her husband.

  That evening, the Bujumbura Gazette ran a special game edition with the headline: “No Tickets Left.” Large posters repeated the same message, pre-printed by the confident ambassador and distributed in and around Bujumbura.

  Sundays were generally quiet on the streets of the capital city. With their fidelity to the Catholic faith, even the two warring sides generally rested on the Lord’s Day. But by 11:00 AM on Game Day Sunday, large crowds congregated in the city’s business district.

  Jim’s team had a light breakfast at the Embassy, followed by a private Mass in the chapel on the third floor of Ambassador Foster’s spacious home. After Mass, the team was driven to the Nimbona Court for a thirty-minute shoot-around. When word reached city center that the team was practicing, a crowd of more than six hundred converged on the court. Jim felt the unmistakable buzz that surrounds a big game.

  The coach was well aware that none of his athletes had ever played in any game of such importance. “And my best player has never played in any formal game at all!” he said to Bill Foster on the van ride back to the Embassy.

  Mindful of the importance of relaxation for his inexperienced crew, Jim had arranged a special treat at Ambassador Foster’s home.

  “How many of you have ever seen the movie Rocky?” Jim asked his team.

  Not one player raised his hand, and Jim turned to assistant Déo and said, “Coach Déo, lead the group into the library. Then hit the light switch.”

  When the violence had escalated, the only movie theater in Burundi, a sixty-seat amphitheater in the Bujumbura business district that showed second-run films from Belgium, had closed down. Watching the French-dubbed Rocky on Ambassador Foster’s forty-six-inch color television was a special treat, and the players became thoroughly engrossed in the movie. While unable to understand much of the translation, Jim found himself amused at Rocky Balboa giving voice to French phrases like bon soir and a bientot in low, guttural tones.

  Leonard Tangishaka had never seen a movie before, and for him the experience was thrilling. By the thirteenth round of the white underdog’s valiant effort against the dark-skinned champion, Leonard and his black teammates were cheering every one of Rocky’s punches. The emotion in the library grew so intense that Jim wondered if he had made a mistake. “Hope it doesn’t sap their energy,” he whispered to Bill, as Rocky received between-round instructions from Mickey Goldmill, played by Burgess Meredith. But at the pre-game meal of pasta and beef, the players seemed completely relaxed—and ready.

  As two domestics—one Hutu and one Tutsi—cleared the dinner table, Ambassador Foster entered the dining room. “Play hard tonight—and play as sportsmen,” she said. “Win or lose, you have made Project Oscar a success.”

  As the coach nodded in agreement, he once again thought to himself that winning would make Project Oscar an even bigger success.

  It had been a long time since Jim Keating had felt the butterflies of a big game, and he found himself actually reveling in his state of anxiety. It struck him that he had not been this close to a team since his days at St. Thomas, nor had his mindset brimmed with such confidence—coaching to win as opposed to the corrosive fear of losing that had been so prevalent at New Jersey State.

  “Gentlemen, it’s now 3:45 PM. Head back to your rooms for an hour of rest, and let’s gather back here at 5:00 PM sharp. The vans will be here to take us to the Nimbona Court.”

  38

  When two Marine vans pulled into the dirt parking area adjacent to the Nimbona Court, the sellout crowd—early to arrive and aroused—turned their attention from the preliminary game to the grand entrance of the Burundi National Team. As the players made their way from the vans to their makeshift locker rooms, a thunderous cheer erupted.

  To assure some privacy for both teams, Ambassador Foster had asked the Marines to pitch two large tents on opposite sides of the court. Clive Rush, in a ref’s jersey and shorts, led Jim and the team up the hill. As they approached the home team tent, Jim said, “Looks good, Sarge. Looks about the same as what we used to call a squad tent.”

  “About the same,” said Rush. “But this one’s a bit bigger— figure about three Leonards wide and five Leonards long. Take a look inside.”

  Jim pulled aside the flap and walked into the tent. He smiled and shook his head. The Marine contingent had outdone themselves. The tent was replete with folding chairs, a cooler full of Gatorade and water bottles, and a metal rack with hangers.

  “First class, Clive. I’ve been so fixated on basketball that none of this entered my mind.”

  “We enjoyed doing it, Coach. And by the way, the Rwandan tent is the same.”

  Several minutes after the Burundi team had settled inside the tent, the Rwandan squad—which had just walked the 300 meters from the Novotel Bujumbura almost in formation—entered the grounds and was met by the other Marine referee. The applause from their 250 fans, while spirited, was inaudible in comparison to the clamorous welcome just accorded the Burundians.

  “Ain’t no doubt whose got the home court advantage,” laughed
Corporal Roberts, who was overseeing game security.

  Roberts and his fellow Marines, along with Jesse Abbot (titled Event Manager by Ambassador Foster), had done a splendid job attending to the many details required by what was “clearly the most historic game in any sport ever played in Burundi,” as described by the Bujumbura Gazette. Special yellow and blue tickets allowed access to the catered, courtside VIP section cordoned off for “corporate supporters,” such as the owners of the Novatel Bujumbura, and dignitaries such as Burundian President Peter Buyoya. Responding to the recent popularity of Greek food in Bujumbura, Ambassador Foster’s staff served up moussaka and tzatziki along with Burundi’s famous Chapati bread and Urwara wine.

  “This kind of event hospitality is so new to us,” raved Burundian Minister of Sport, Claude Ntahombaye. “Seeing how it is done will help us run events in a proper manner in the future.”

  Eighty-six credentialed media were seated courtside. Abbot had even arranged for a computer hookup for reporters to file their stories immediately after the game—a convenience unheard of at any prior Burundian athletic event. The security was tight, but friendly, the weather was seventy degrees with a slight breeze (“perfect,” as Mathias said), and the fried plantain and sombé from the vendors situated throughout the grounds produced a wonderful aroma.

  Cynthia and Bill Foster walked toward their seats next to the Burundian President. The ambassador was dressed in a tan skirt and an ensemble of red linen jacket, white cotton blouse, and light green silk scarf that merged the colors of the Burundian flag. She walked with a measured gait befitting her position, but she was brimming with excitement. She turned to Bill and, almost bursting with enthusiasm, said, “It’s electric.”

  Bill, attired in a navy blue team jacket and khaki slacks, said, “Indeed, it is. You’ve done a terrific job, my love. But you’d better hang on to me or I’ll be joining Jim on the bench!”

  Halfway up the hill, the Burundian National Team’s tent was situated in a perfect spot to watch the preliminary game between the “Celtics” and the “Bulls.” As fans roared their approval over each move in the prelim, their reaction—and the enjoyment of the participating players—prompted Jim to approach Bill Foster.

  “Making up the two extra teams was a great idea on your part,” said the coach. “You can join me at halftime, right?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Send him to the right tent, Madam Ambassador,” said Jim.

  “I promise, Coach.”

  With ten minutes remaining in the preliminary game, Jim directed Déo to drop the sides of the tent. “Okay, gentlemen,” the coach called out. “Time to get ready for business!”

  Jim went on to review the strategy: “We’ll start in full-court man-to-man pressure—to get the blood flowing. Then we’ll change our defense throughout the game—but everything will be based on pressure. On offense, we’re looking to run when the opportunity presents itself. When it’s not there, we want to take good care of the basketball. Remember guys, this game is one of percentages—take high percentage shots—and also remember that the ball is gold!”

  As soon as the prelim ended, the Burundian National Team made their way down the side of the hill. As they jogged onto the court, a booming roar erupted. Walking behind the team, Jim Keating felt the chills of a big game—but he remained focused and full of positive energy.

  “It doesn’t get any better than this,” he said to his assistants Déo and Gilbert.

  Both assistants smiled. Over the months of practice and travel, they had become infused with Jim’s passion. Two men—a Hutu and a Tutsi—who once simply enjoyed basketball had, because of Jim’s influence, come to love the game.

  Mathias remained behind in the tent for a few moments and scanned the huge crowd. His eye was caught by a Mediterranean-looking man who was mixing in with the other spectators, yet appeared to be alone. “Must be a coach from the Middle East,” Mathias thought, realizing that the ban on visas did not extend to a number of countries.

  A palpable electric surge ran through the crowd, a frisson of energy and excitement few of the spectators had ever experienced. Jim, Mathias, Déo, and Gilbert—they could all feel it. First of all, attendees had the clear sense that they were part of something historic. Several in the diplomatic community even believed that the name of the visionary diplomat who conceived of the game and nurtured the idea might well appear one day in history books for the impact of her humanitarian ways.

  Then there was the notion of this public spectacle serving as a catalyst to bringing warring tribes and competing nations together in an event the likes of which no Burundian had ever seen. Mathias had called Jim to relate the gist of a story in the French daily, Le Renouveau.”This article was on the front page, Coach. As you Americans say, ‘above the fold.’ I’m sure my translation is correct. They called the game ‘a cathartic force.’”

  Jim smiled, pleased with the news.”I like your translation.”

  The presence of credentialed media and the specter of television cameras and bright lights added yet more drama and importance to the event. And, of course, there was the wunderkind, whose grace and power were evident, even during the usually predictable routine of a lay-up line.

  “I’ve been to a couple of Final Fours—the college championships in our country,” said Bill Foster to President Buyoya, sitting in the VIP section of the bleachers. “But I’ve never experienced anything quite like this. The combination of history, competition, expectations—what drama!”

  “I know of your Final Four, so that is quite a statement,” responded Buyoya, his eyes skimming over the players on the court and settling on Leonard Tangishaka.

  In what was Leonard’s first-ever pre-game warm-up, he thought back to a Jim Keating lesson: The warm-up is generally twenty minutes, Leonard.

  First, you want to loosen up your muscles. You do this by breaking into a light sweat. Don’t do anything too physically strenuous in warm-ups. It’s more a half-speed approach to get loose.

  Next, loosen your mind. You always want to enter a game with a clear mind, a state of what I call relaxed focus. The idea is to block out any negative thoughts and get into that area of untroubled confidence. Think positive thoughts during the warm- ups, Leonard. Imagine great success. Know that you are the best player on the court.

  By the time the warm-ups ended, Leonard Tangishaka found himself in a zone of self-assurance. He could not wait for each step of the game to unfold—from the first minutes on the bench observing to his entry into what would surely be a new and more civilized type of pitched battle than the violent sort from which his mother had protected him.

  The thunderous noise that pervaded the grounds abated to respectful silence when two pairs of singers—first a Hutu and Tutsi from Rwanda, then a Hutu and Tutsi from Burundi—walked to center court to sing their respective national anthems. When the Burundian anthem concluded, Eric Nicumbura, a sixty-two-year-old Tutsi who, before the onslaught of violence, had gained some acclaim as a stadium announcer at soccer games, strode to the microphone.

  On a stanchion, the mic was a bulky hexagon, and Jim had to smile. Looks like the one Sister Angelita used during Friday afternoon assembly at St. Peter’s Elementary School.

  Snatching the mic and leaning it first left, then right, Nicumbura, with great relish, announced the Rwandan starting five to raucous cheers from the 250 Rwandans in attendance and polite applause from the rest of the crowd.

  As the last of the Rwandan starters jogged onto the court, Jim edged next to his young star and asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Manifesting an assuring combination of focused intensity and serenity, Leonard said with quiet conviction, “I am feeling great. I will be ready whenever you say, Coach Keating.”

  “AAAND NOWWW,” roared Nicumbura, “Forrr the hoOOmmmme teeeeAM!”

  Nicumbura followed with a sonorous introduction of the Burundian starting five that caused a cacophonous combination of cheers, clapping hands, shouts, and scr
eeches. The din was punctuated by the use of a djembe, the goblet-shaped drum covered by African goat skin and used for the famous African drum calls. Brought to the game by a Hutu who had never seen basketball played, the call, in this case, was to exhort Burundian fans to cheer on their team.

  After the introductions, the rumbling combination of drum and crowd noise continued, causing Rush to blow his whistle at fourth octave, signaling both coaches to wrap up final instructions and send their teams onto the court.

  “Okay, it’s game time, gents,” referee Rush bellowed to Coaches Keating and Banda.

  Ten perspiring players broke from their teams’ huddles and walked to center court amid an atmosphere of charged anticipation.

  39

  Rwanda controlled the opening tap, and a 5’9” Hutu guard was short on a baseline jumper. But 6’8” Burundian Venuste Nsadimana, as nervous as he was inexperienced, missed a box-out assignment, and Mutara Boshoso, the bullish 6’11” Rwandan team center and one of the two players from Zaire, muscled Nsadimana and converted an offensive rebound.

  After the basket, Rwanda employed full-court man-toman pressure. Jim was pleased that Albert Obadele, his 5’10” Hutu point guard, advanced the ball into forecourt with little difficulty.

  On their first offensive possession, the Burundian team ran the passing game well. After six “touches,” Obadele curled off a down screen and missed an easy eight-footer.

  “Good execution!” yelled Jim, surprised that Rwanda had opened in man-man defense.

  But moments later, there was more trouble on the defensive backboard. After a Rwandan guard missed a three-point attempt, Boshoso, once again maneuvered by Nsadimana, grabbed the offensive rebound and scored.

  Rwanda 4-Burundi 0.

  Burundi scored on its next possession, a fifteen-foot jumper by a sinewy 6’8” forward, Adolphe Bagaza. But over the next four minutes, Boshoso continued to pound the offensive board, scoring on three more put-backs. And while the Rwandans seemed slightly off balance in their attack of Jim’s changing defenses, they moved the ball well and took judicious shots. At the Rwandan defensive end, Jim could see Temple Coach John Chaney’s influence on Billy Banda. After the first Burundi possession, Rwanda had set up in a tight, aggressive 2-3 match-up zone.