An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  Jim furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure what you mean, Ambassador.”

  “Well, as a case in point, we knew that your friend Bob Cousy was a good guy, that he once took an overnight train with his black Celtics teammate, Chuck Cooper, when a southern hotel wouldn’t let Cooper stay with the rest of the Celtics. That was the kind of information that spread quickly through the black communities—and still does. Did you know the Cousy-Cooper story, Jim?”

  “Yes.” Jim smiled, pleased at the ambassador’s reference to Cousy, a man he admired.

  “Well here’s one you may not know about; one that was a key to Bill attending Indiana State. You see, before our school was called Indiana State, it was called Indiana State Teachers College. In 1946 and 1947, the school had a future legend as its coach.”

  “John Wooden!”

  “Yes. And I’m not surprised you know that Coach Wooden was at our school just before he went to UCLA. But let me tell you what John Wooden did. In his first year, the team had an 17-8 record, good enough to be invited to the NAIA National Tournament in Kansas City. But the NAIA had a no colored rule, and the team had but one player of color on the roster by the name of Clarence Walker.

  “Well, Jim, Coach Wooden refused the invitation, pointing out the unfairness of the rule. By the way, Clarence Walker was one of the last players on the bench, but that didn’t matter to the coach.

  “And so, the school’s basketball program became known in the black community as one of fairness, which is why Bill chose to play there.

  “The larger point I’m making is that there is a great deal of discussion among blacks about who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are.”

  Jim nodded in fascination. He had never heard this point of view.

  “For example, Boston was a frequent topic of discussion and a real paradox. We knew the Celtics and their Coach Red Auerbach were color-blind. Yet when I was a girl, and even through college, we thought of the Red Sox as racist.”

  “Which they probably were,” said Jim. “I heard that many times about that era.”

  “I’m not surprised. You know, Jim, there was a story around our neighborhood about the former Red Sox owner, whose name slips my mind.”

  “Tom Yawkey.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, as the story goes, when Jackie Robinson was among several African Americans trying out for the Red Sox, Yawkey allegedly ran out of the dugout yelling ‘get those n—s off the field.’ We also heard that not only did Jackie try out for the Red Sox, but so did Willie Mays. Can you imagine being so racist as to not want Willie Mays on your team?”

  “I cannot. But, and this is interesting, Ambassador, I once read an article about Yawkey which suggested that, in the later stages of his life, he changed his views. Growing up in Worcester, I was a Red Sox fan, so I knew quite a bit about Yawkey, including the rumors that he was a racist. Yet this article, which was written after he died, pointed out that Yawkey and his family set up a charitable foundation, which, to this day, helps kids from at-risk neighborhoods.”

  “Now, that is interesting, Jim. And to be honest, I never heard that about Yawkey, and I’m glad to hear it now. I believe, strongly believe, that many inherently good people are in this category. You know, I remember a college philosophy professor saying to our class that many of us have false beliefs, and that when we see the truth it’s up to all of us to change our beliefs. Now, bear in mind, this was a white professor at Indiana State in the ‘50s. There were several African Americans in the class, and we all wondered if he was directing his comments toward white people and race. And you know what? The very next class I summoned my courage and asked him if this was his intention. And, Jim, in front of the whole class, the profes-sor said, ‘That’s exactly what I intended!’”

  Jim smiled again, and said, “You’ve always had courage.”

  “Not always, but I appreciate the compliment.”

  And then, with a look of mischief and vitality in her voice, the ambassador said, “Jim, guess who my favorite baseball player was?”

  “Willie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Jackie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I give up!”

  “Teddy!”

  “Ted Williams?”

  “Ted Williams!” she confirmed. “You know, Coach, I will never forget the first time I saw Ted swing the bat. It was the summer before I went off to college and I was at a friend’s home who had a television. Her dad was watching what I believe was called the Game of the Week, the Red Sox against the Yankees. I was mesmerized by his swing. It was flawless, the most beautiful execution of a sports skill I’d ever seen, and that even included Oscar’s jump shot. About a month later, I read an article about Ted in The Sporting News. He was so authentic, so much himself.”

  “I agree with that, Ambassador. As a young man, other than the Cooz, Ted was my favorite player.”

  Jim shifted forward and put his hands on the arms of his chair, feeling like their conversation may be coming to an end.

  However, the ambassador spoke up. “Coach, before you go, I have one final story about the racial lens, a personal experience that had a lot of meaning for me.”

  “I’d love to hear it; I want to hear more!” said Jim.

  “Well, when I was a sophomore at Indiana State, I took an introduction to poetry class, which changed my life in a variety of ways. The professor was white and wonderful. Her name was Dr. Wilma Sheehan, and she had a particular love of Emily Dickinson. By the way, Professor Sheehan always called the poet Miss Emily. Our text contained a number of Miss Emily’s poems, including one of her greatest, ‘I Measure Every Grief I Meet.’”

  The ambassador continued, “Professor Sheehan assigned our class to read the poem and produce a paper that provided analysis and interpretation. The analysis, of course, involved our thoughts on syntax, imagery, and the like. But, as I mentioned, we also had to offer our interpretation of the poem.

  “Well, there were twenty students in the class, eighteen of whom were white, my friend, Marilyn Nixon, and I being the only two students of color. I found the poem to be both extraordinary and very sad. My God, Jim, it is so beautiful, and it so poignantly reveals the kind of courage and strength that those who grieve must possess in order to get through life. By the way, it was clear that much of the poem was written based on the personal experience of Miss Emily. I’ll make sure to get you a copy.”

  “I would like that.”

  “But here’s the point! In the interpretation part of our papers, all eighteen white students saw the poem as relating primarily to the loss a loved one through death. But independent of each other, Marilyn and I both saw the poem as one related to race as much as or more so than to death. In other words, we connected grief to the racial hurts inflicted on people of color. So, eighteen whites see it one way, the two African Americans see it in a completely different way.”

  “Now that, too, is interesting!” said Jim, at once absorbed and motionless.

  “It surely is. And for me, it made the case that virtually all people of color, myself included, most definitely see things through a racial lens. A lot of white people ask about those deep thoughts that go back generations. The truth is, because people of color so often see things through a racial lens, we are, at least in my view, several generations away from removing that lens. But, Coach, on the other hand, we simply can’t let our lens shade our views of all things white. I hope in my case, my lens has been one of brightness rather than one of darkness.”

  “Madam Ambassador, you radiate brightness.”

  The ambassador smiled, then looked at her watch. “You know about my 11 o’clock meeting. And I realize I’ve done all the talking. But I hope that this at least gets us off to a good start.”

  “It sure does,” said Jim. “Thank you for such a great conversation.”

  “A pleasure. And I’m looking forward to seeing you on Christmas Eve.”

  “Can’t wait,” said Jim.

 
“Coach, may I conclude with one final message?” “Sure.”

  “When you arrived in Burundi, and throughout your stay, I’ve sensed that you need to purge from your mind the doubts, the troublesome thoughts, caused by the Robert Frazier incident.”

  “You’re right on, Ambassador.”

  “Well, do me a big favor. Please leave this meeting knowing that you are no racist. In fact, you’re just the opposite, both in your words and, most importantly, in your spirit. So, if I may borrow from the Bible, go in peace, Jim, for you deserve peace.”

  As Jim prepared to depart, he thought to himself, I must reach out to Robert Frazier.

  The two good friends stood, embraced, and felt the fruits of mutual respect.

  After he left, the ambassador sat down and leaned back in her chair. Now, why didn’t I tell him more about Ted Williams? she wondered.

  42

  Christmas Eve

  It would be Jim’s first Christmas in a foreign country. Even during his stint in Spain, he was always able to make it home for Christmas Day, an improvement over his intercollegiate coaching experience. The travel schedule required to compete in Division-I holiday tournaments often precluded spending December 25 with family, an ill-advised practice he never liked.

  Though Jim had saved enough money to get to Worcester for the holidays, the decision to remain in Bujumbura had been an easy one. He was immersed in his job, and he felt anxiety about returning to a place where his life had careened into clinical depression. Even if he went back, where would he go? Sarah had made plans to spend Christmas with her boyfriend’s family in Chicago, and Jim did not think it fair to ask her to cancel the trip. He’d kept his apartment in Worcester, but the notion of staying there alone was not appealing. Plus, life was on the upswing in Burundi, and he knew that his daughter was saving to visit him.

  Christmas in Burundi turned out to be better than Jim could ever have imagined. The Christian culture of the country included a variety of traditions that Jim enjoyed, especially the presence of drummers and tambourine dancers, both of which raised the festivities far above the “Silent Night” level he was used to. But the primary source of Yuletide cheer came from Ambassador Foster, who did her utmost to make the Christmas season a joyous experience for everyone around her.

  This was especially so on Christmas Eve.

  Years earlier, Ambassador Foster had served as Cultural Attaché at the American Embassy in Rome. While in Italy, one of her friends had invited the Foster family to a Christmas Eve cena at which the friend introduced the Fosters to a lovely Italian tradition that Cynthia had replicated on each Christmas Eve since—the Italian “7 Fish” dinner.

  The hostess, Juliana Coppola, had explained the tradition. “The reason behind it, Cynthia, is that Christmas Eve in Italy was always part of the Vigilia Di Magro, a day of abstinence in which the Catholic Church prohibits the consumption of meat. Please understand that, over time, as the stricture became less observed, the tradition has continued . . . even flourished.”

  The ambassador had been taken by the elegance of that night, not to mention the savory taste of the slithery eels, bowls of heaping shellfish, and other delicacies served by Juliana. Cynthia decided to make it her own annual Christmas rite, and Juliana had surprised her by eagerly offering her various Christmas Eve recipes, which had been passed down by Juliana’s family over many generations.

  In her posting in Burundi, Cynthia always planned Christmas Eve dinner well in advance, including flying in seven kinds of frozen fish.

  The night of December 24, Bill Foster rang a small ornamental bell he’d retrieved from the Christmas tree, and the guests, including all embassy personnel as well as Mathias and Terrance, dined on broccoli rabe, a choice of vermicelli aglio e olio (or vermicelli with garlic and olive oil), and a seven-fish main course that included roasted eel. Cynthia had chosen wines from the Piedmont region, a Pinot Grigio and a Cortese.

  The ambassador wrapped up the meal with a caponata di pesce, a delicious fish salad, followed by desserts, tiramisu— Jim’s favorite—and Amaretto truffles.

  On the way out that evening, the ambassador approached Jim and said, “I hope you enjoyed yourself, Coach.”

  “It was wonderful, Ambassador . . . wonderful.”

  “By the way, Jim, this came to our office.” The ambassador handed Jim what was clearly a Christmas card from Sarah. Later that evening, surrounded by darkness and no small measure of loneliness, Jim felt comfort from a beautiful message written by his daughter that concluded: You are the most important person in my life, Daddy. And I just knew that Burundi was the perfect place for you! I love you so much.

  He missed Sarah dearly. He also admitted to himself that he missed the comfort of female companionship. He looked much better; the Burundian air and sun, daily exercise regimen, and a low-fat diet had resulted in a twenty-five-pound weight loss—and a healthy, outdoor mien.

  But any thought of a new relationship was tempered by an old question: Could any other woman arouse the feelings of warmth and excitement he still felt for Edna?

  His thoughts then turned to their final moments together.

  “Can you hear me, love?”

  Edna’s eyes flickered, and she squeezed his hand tightly.

  Of the thousands of messages he had imparted to Edna since their first brief meeting on a cold winter February in 1941, and knowing she was but breaths away from passing, Jim wanted to get this last one right.

  Leaning closer, he whispered, “I remember reading something, Edna—a quotation from one of your favorites, the sculptor Saint Gaudens: ‘Don’t come down from the high place I hold you in my heart.’”

  Edging yet closer, he kissed his beloved wife on her forehead and said, “And you never have, my love . . . ever.”

  Edna mustered one last gentle squeeze of her husband’s hand . . . and then departed.

  She was so strong. How can I not be? And she would surely want me to be happy.

  43

  Two evenings later, the first soft knock went unheeded. One product of Jim Keating’s renewed state of contentment was deep and restful sleep. The second knock, more intense, caused Jim to adjust his pillow and assume that the vague intrusion of sound must be part of a dream. The third knock, loud and insistent, startled Jim, and he fully awoke.

  The old coach abruptly rose from his bed and looked at the clock. 2:11.

  Jim’s first reaction was concern for his personal safety. While no American had been attacked within the confines of Bujumbura, Jim knew that such aggression was conceivable. As he stepped cautiously toward the back door, he grabbed a large knife from the kitchen counter. In a robust voice that camouflaged his fear, he asked, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Jim,” said Jesse Abbot, in an ominously spiritless tone.

  Jim set down the knife, switched on the light, and opened the door. Abbot stood before him, his face twisted in stark despair.

  “It’s horrible news, Jim. Horrible . . . horrible.”

  As Jesse Abbot’s words succumbed to a fit of tears, Jim’s mind raced through the dreadful possibilities. Within seconds, Abbot regained enough composure to confirm the most heartbreaking option Jim had considered.

  “It’s Leonard, Jim. He’s dead.” Holding back another sob, Jesse said, “And so is his mother . . . his wonderful mother.”

  The news rendered Jim helpless. Instinctively, he wanted more facts, but his grief was so immediate, so powerful, that he could not speak. For several moments, the two men faced each other, both crippled with anguish. Finally, the one who would carry the heaviest weight of sorrow, the one whose once-shattered spirit was remarkably sanguine again here in this African land, somehow summoned his self-control.

  “Jesse, we must sit down.”

  A sip of water helped Jesse Abbot regain enough composure to tell Jim all he knew. “Ambassador Foster called me half an hour ago. The Marine patrol returned at about midnight and went straight to her home.”

  Agitated, Jim c
overed his face with his hands. “But I thought they were on patrol to protect Leonard?”

  “They were, but fighting broke out near the border, about fifteen miles from where Leonard lived. They went up there to check on the situation, primarily to make sure that those involved were not heading toward Leonard’s region. When they showed up, they were fired on and pinned down.”

  Abbot paused to sip more water. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He went on to tell Jim what the ambassador had shared with him: After taking intermittent fire for several hours, things suddenly got quiet and the Marines realized that their attackers had fled. But before they took off, they managed to disable the Marine jeeps—shot the tires out. The Marines radioed for help. Six hours later, a UN peacekeeping force showed up. The UN people immediately brought the Marines to Leonard’s area. By the time they got there, Leonard and Consolaté had been murdered.

  “That’s all I know, Jim,” Abbot said. “But the Ambassador and Bill are on their way over here. She’ll give us more details.”

  For a moment, the two men sat in silence, which Abbot finally broke. “Jim, I’m so sorry.”

  For Jim, the terrible implications of the two deaths were now in clear focus. Jesse’s despair and the Fosters’ impending arrival caused Jim to withdraw into a Spartan stoicism.

  I won’t break down.

  Yet despite this façade, Jim knew that the tragedy might force him, once again, into the depths of severe depression. As he held his emotional ground, there was a gentle knock at the door.

  As soon as the Fosters entered the apartment, they broke down in tears, which set to rest Jim Keating’s plan to stifle his own grief. Jim, who had changed from his sleeping clothes, hugged the two and wept himself.

  When the long embrace drew to a close, Ambassador Foster spoke in a near whisper: “I was just on the phone with President Buyayo. He is concerned about what the reaction will be over the murders. He feels, and I agree with him, that when the Tutsis learn of the deaths, they might react violently.”