by Dan Doyle
Jim also knew that information that had been given to him just hours before the game by Ambassador Foster would have a profound effect on Leonard. In the northwest section of Rwanda, just over the border from Burundi, a Hutu priest had offered sanctuary in his church to a band of Tutsi warriors who had been engaged in fierce fighting with their Hutu foes. The Tutsis were in dire need of a night of rest in a safe place. The priest had offered it “in the name of the Savior.”
As the men lay asleep on wooden pews, fifteen Hutu guerrillas were quietly let into the church. Once in position for their attack, the church lights were switched on. Within minutes, the unsuspecting Tutsi warriors were all dead.
The person who let the guerrillas in—the Hutu priest— had conspired with them in the whole barbarous plan. He had done so because he viewed their mission as one inspired by God.
“You must remove the bodies and their blood” had been his only condition.
Among those slaughtered was Charlé Tinyabokwe.
When the reception was over, Jim Keating and Ambassador Foster decided to meet with Leonard Tangishaka to inform him of Charlé’s murder. As his coach led the way to Cynthia Foster’s study, Leonard sensed that the meeting was one of consequence. Moments later, as the news of Charlé’s death was related to him, the boy sat stoically and felt not one grain of remorse. Charlé Tinyabokwe was an evil man and Kayanza was well rid of him.
“Leonard,” said the ambassador, “we learned of the massacre from a Hutu nun who was mortified that a priest was part of the conspiracy. From what we can gather, Tutsi guerrillas in and around Kayanza have also learned of the priest’s role. They have banded together and crossed the border to Rwanda in search of the killers—including the priest.”
“Would my friends have been taken into the group of Tutsi fighters?” Leonard asked.
“I wish I could tell you. We simply don’t know,” the ambassador said. “But because all the fighting is now over the border in Rwanda, what we do know is that it may be safe— at least for the time being—to travel to Kayanza.”
The moment she finished her thought, Leonard said in earnest, “Then I must go—to see my mother.”
“I know that is your wish. But Leonard, before we can agree to take you there, I have asked the Marines to survey the Kayanza area to make sure it is as safe as we have been told. We should hear back from them in a day or two.”
Jim’s initial reaction to Leonard’s request had been one of concern for the boy’s safety. After hearing the ambassador’s security plan, he felt somewhat relieved.
The following evening, Sergeant Rush reported to Ambassador Foster that two Marine Fire Teams, a total of eight men, had spent the entire day patrolling the Kayanza area. “From what they observed, there are no armed fighters from either side in the region. All the warriors seem to be engaged in the battle across the border.”
“But the fact that there are no Tutsi warriors in the region to defend women and children—wouldn’t that open the way for a Hutu attack on Kayanza?” she asked.
“Not likely,” said Rush. “First, the Hutus have all they can handle defending themselves over the border in Rwanda. Second, the Tutsi women and children in the Kayanza region are so spread out that the Hutu warriors would probably not think it worth their while to attack.”
Ambassador Foster called a meeting to confer on Sergeant Rush’s estimate of the situation. Present were Rush, Jim Keating, Mathias Bizimana, Terrence Ndayisiba, Jesse Abbot, and her husband, Bill. After thirty minutes of discussion, it was agreed that Leonard Tangishaka could visit his mother for Christmas, which was only eight days away.
The boy would be transported by Marines. To ensure his safety, the Marines would remain in the Kayanza region on patrol. They would also bring along more balls and hoops, in the hope that Leonard’s friends would somehow find the means to continue their interest in basketball.
“And at the end of Leonard’s Christmas visit,” said Ambassador Foster, “I will travel to Kayanza with a Marine guard to try to convince Consolaté to return to Bujumbura with her son.”
The ambassador began to gather her notes. “Thank you all. If you need me, I’ll be in the office for the rest of the day.”
Jim didn’t get up to leave, but swung around and gazed outside. He was still slightly uneasy about Leonard going home. But because of the boy’s intense desire to see his mother, coupled with the protection of a Marine patrol, he agreed with the plan.
Plus, Jim was discovering that the Christmas season was a very special time in Burundi, hopefully a time when all Burundians would reflect on the merits of a truce.
For three days prior to the Burundi-Rwanda game, CNN had aired a short promo to boost ratings for the feature that would run within hours after the final buzzer. The promo began with snippets of the widely viewed piece that had been shown several weeks earlier and concluded with Finbar Finnegan on camera at Nimbona Court: “We’ll see if Project Oscar—and the career of young Leonard Tangishaka— will take flight on Sunday evening. This is Finbar Finnegan reporting from Bujumbura, Burundi.”
The discovery of a superstar, in a sport or the arts, always generates lively interest. Yet in this case, the Leonard Tangishaka story, with so many fascinating sidebars, stirred uncommon curiosity that extended beyond the sports world.
“This has all the elements of high drama. A strife-ridden region whose plight might be lifted by the genius of a diplomatic plan—and the emergence of an athletic prodigy who may change the face of the sport,” trumpeted the International Herald Tribune.
“The fond hope of the organizers is that Leonard Tangi-shaka will go far beyond being merely the face of Burundian basketball and be thought of as a force for peace,” read the AP wire story dispatched to over one hundred countries.
In response to the widespread hype, Sid Hawkins, Finnegan’s boss at CNN, decided to pull out all stops; Show Me Sid was now a believer. The plan would make full use of the Irishman’s considerable journalistic skills, as well as clever camera work, and, thankfully, the cooperation of Leonard Tangishaka in the form of some dramatic plays.
The feature began with a shot of the crowd, including the djembe drummer, and the hypnotic excitement that enveloped the Nimbona Court. It then focused on Leonard and his striking skills. The final segment was television at its best. Thanks to a Jim Keating comment to Finbar Finnegan after the game about the storied but largely forgotten Bill Russell-Jack Coleman play in the 1957 NBA Championship game, CNN tracked down footage of Russell’s tour de force. The CNN piece concluded with the Russell play and then Leonard Tangishaka replicating it.
CNN went so far as to convince legendary Celtics coach Red Auerbach to appear at the station live. Even Auerbach, whose praise was generally confined to players wearing green uniforms, was persuaded.
“I never thought I’d see anyone do that again. I mean, when Russell did it, it brought together so many of his qualities— his speed, timing, vertical jump and, mostly, his heart.”
With his customary glibness, and drawing on an ever-present cigar, Auerbach continued: “Now, what the kid did can’t compare to Russell’s play; I mean my guy did it in the seventh game of a world championship series. But, I must say, I’m damned impressed. He looks like a hell of a prospect.”
The seven-minute feature received the highest ratings in CNN history in the “features category.” The piece was viewed by 50 million people in more than 125 countries, and the reaction was so strong that CNN decided to air it over four consecutive days at various hours.
In his first game in a sport he had picked up less than three months earlier, Leonard Tangishaka was quickly becoming a household name. As Jim watched the clip alone in his apartment, his concern about Leonard being discovered too early was somewhat neutralized by a real possibility that, only weeks earlier, would have been nearly unthinkable: This young man could well be the greatest of all time.
Leonard had watched the CNN piece with Mathias.
“He enjoye
d it, Coach,” Mathias told Jim on an early morning phone call. “Yet I certainly did not see any swelling of his head. Your lessons about modesty and focus have surely sunk in. But I’ll tell you, he is certainly looking forward to today’s trip home. The Marines are picking us up in about an hour. Leonard wants to say goodbye to you—and wish you a Merry Christmas. We’ll stop by on our way out of Bujumbura.”
“Thanks, Mathias. I’ll be waiting out front.”
After Leonard related his excitement over his approaching reunion with his mother and friends, Jim said in a quiet, fatherly tone, “Leonard, please give my best Christmas wishes to your mom and those boys. And please be careful.”
Strong from the outset, the bond between the two had coalesced like many such devoted coach/player relationships—and then some. Leonard’s early admiration for Jim had evolved into a love that a son, in the best of family ties, accorded a father. As he prepared to leave, and without hesitation, Leonard bent down and hugged his coach hard. “A very Merry Christmas, sir. I will see you next week.” Jim simply smiled and nodded. He couldn’t speak, for if he opened his mouth, he feared he’d break down.
As the jeep departed, Jim heard the phone ringing in his apartment.
“Good morning, Coach,” said Ambassador Foster. “Did Leonard stop by yet?”
“He did . . . just left. What a terrific kid. I miss him already.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a minute. He’s a special gift to all of us,” she said. Without missing a beat, she continued. “Jim, since we have a bit of a break, I’m calling with a thought. When you first arrived in Burundi, I mentioned that it might be good for us to discuss some issues related to race. You know, I’ve never really had what I would call a deep, penetrating conversation with a white person about race relations. What do you think?”
Even though Jim was struck by the slightly forbidding sound of a “deep, penetrating conversation,” he quickly responded, “I’d love to, Ambassador. No doubt I can learn from you.”
“And I from you, Coach. How about if we start tomorrow at my home? If it’s okay with you, I thought we could focus on some things that I’d like to share . . . things that I have been storing up for years . . . things that might give you a better perspective of how I, and many other people of color, feel about certain issues.”
“That would be great,” said Jim.
“Would 10 AM work?”
“Perfect.”
41
When Jim arrived the next morning, he was still a bit on edge at the thought of a discussion on race with a woman of color. But his nerves abated when he was greeted warmly by the ambassador.
“I’m looking forward to this, Coach.” “So am I.”
“Then let’s get started!”
As the ambassador ushered Jim toward her private office, the coach was struck by the dazzling panoply of Christmas adornments that brightened each room.
“Your decorations are beautiful.”
“Some of the ornaments and other decorations are from Indianapolis. Many of the others are ones I’ve collected over the years in my various diplomatic postings. I’ve had assignments in six different countries and they’re all represented. But the tree decorations are strictly Burundian!”
Jim marveled at the variety of the decorations hanging radiantly from a very tall tree taken from a stand of spruce planted by the Belgians. He felt a twinge of nostalgia looking at the vivid mix of colorful glass, cookies, ribbons and lights, especially two large ornaments near the top: the flags of Burundi and the United States. Jim’s dad always put a small American flag near the angel at the top of their tree. In memory of Frank Keating, Jim, Edna, and Sarah did the same each Christmas Eve. The placement of the flag, always done by Sarah from the time she was old enough, was followed by Jim sharing a story or two about his late father.
As they entered the ambassador’s private office, Jim once again took note of her personal library. The array of books, all neatly stacked on three oak bookshelves, was marked by section including Africa, women, race, international relations, poetry, and, to Jim’s delight, basketball.
“You know, as I mentioned yesterday, I’d like to have this conversation serve to help you gain a greater perspective from a black point of view. If it’s okay with you, let me begin with a story from my youth.”
“Sounds great.”
“There was an incident, Jim, one that I’ve only spoken about to my sister, Carolyn, who was with me at the time, and to Bill. Growing up black in Indianapolis in the thirties was not easy, but my mother did all she could to raise my sister and I to be people of goodwill. When this incident occurred, I was eight and Carolyn was ten. Daddy had passed five years earlier, so my mother had the double duty of raising two daughters and working as a domestic for a family in the Golden Hills section of Indianapolis, a job she took after Daddy died and kept until my sister and I finished college,” she said.
“That must have been tough for your mother. I can’t even imagine trying to raise Sarah without Edna at that age,” Jim said. The ambassador nodded in agreement and continued.
“There was an ice cream shop, Jim, about ten blocks from our home in a white neighborhood. For many years, there was a ‘No Coloreds Allowed’ sign in the window. Then, a new family purchased the shop and removed the sign. This was cause for great joy in our neighborhood. A mark of progress. And so, one Saturday morning, my mother dressed my sister and me in matching outfits. Since we had no car, we walked the ten blocks to the ice cream shop. Even as a little girl, I knew how much hope this small step forward brought my mother.
“‘Things are changing, girls,’ she said to us on the walk. ‘Slowly, but for the better, things are changing.’”
The ambassador picked up a paperweight shaped like half a basketball from her desk and ran her fingers along the grooves as she spoke.
“When we first walked into the ice cream shop, I felt such a rush of joy. I remember there were colorful posters of famous people on the walls, including one of Clark Gable. A moment later, I saw a group of white men sitting off in a corner booth. Right away, their presence made me uncomfortable. As soon as they saw us, one of them let out a large groan and then said loudly, ‘Let’s hope they got plenty of chocolate ice cream today.’ The other men laughed.
“My mother ignored the comment and quietly ushered us to the other side of the shop to an empty booth. She asked each of us what we would like. As she spoke, I could see the hurt in her eyes, and I found myself fighting back tears.”
Jim examined the ambassador as she spoke and noticed that even though she was physically present at that very moment, her mind was back in the 1940s at the ice cream shop. He knew from the distant look in her eyes that she was replaying the memory as she told him the story.
“Then, one of the cruelest acts I’ve ever seen occurred. Even to this day, it’s hard for me to think about what happened, let alone talk about it.”
Cynthia stopped for a moment—distress visible in a deep frown.
“Jim, my mother was a large woman and quite overweight. As she walked to the counter to place her order, that same belligerent man said, even more loudly, ‘Bet the husband—if there even was one—cut ‘n’ run. Can’t blame him. Can you imagine f--king that heifer?’
“Now, I had heard the f-word in our neighborhood, but I didn’t know what it meant. Only that it was a forbidden word in our house, as was the n-word.”
The ambassador paused, taking a deep breath to gather herself. For the first time in their relationship, Jim thought that he detected a trace of bitterness in her eyes. A moment later, she continued.
“It was following that remark that I would see the greatest example of courage and restraint in my life, a reaction by my mother so extraordinary, so admirable, that it has stayed with me to this day.”
The ambassador paused again to sip her ice water, and Jim felt himself leaning forward.
“My mother brought our ice cream sundaes to the booth. Her face now reflected,
not anger, but a look of ineffable sadness and despair. ‘Eat your sundaes, girls,’ she said softly, and we did, but with no pleasure, certainly no joy. . . . As we were leaving, that same dreadful man could not resist another cruel taunt. Emboldened by no fear of consequences for his actions, he said, ‘Surprise she’s not getting a second helping,’ causing another burst of laughter from his friends.
“Once we were outside, my mother put one arm around my sister and the other around me. ‘We will talk about this when we get home, girls,’ she said.
“As soon as we arrived at our apartment, Mother hugged both of us and asked us to sit with her at the kitchen table, her favorite place for important discussions.
“What she then said has forever shaped my life. ‘Cynthia and Carolyn, what you just saw was the worst of human behavior. But I want both of you to promise me that you will never judge an entire race or religion based on the ignorance of certain people of that race or religion.’
“So my first point: I have kept that promise, Jim. It hasn’t always been easy, but I have kept that promise.”
After yet another pause, she said, “How about if we take a hot tea break?”
“A good idea,” said Jim, for it was clear that this revelation had stirred deep-felt emotions in his friend, who rose and headed for the kitchen.
When tea was finished, Jim spoke up, “Ambassador, I’ve never heard anything more moving. I can see how it shaped your life.”
“Well, Coach, it surely did, and I appreciate your reaction. I felt I had to tell you about it because I thought that as we continue our discussions over time, this might give you a glimpse of what I call the ‘Black Experience.’ But now, I’d like to share a more positive example.”
She sat back and smiled. “Let me tell you something about African Americans you may not know, something that might surprise you. We know who the good guys are!”