An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “I agree,” said Bill. “In fact, Mathias called me to say that the players are anxious to resume practicing. I’ll talk to Jim. My guess is that he’d like to get going as well. . . . What’s your second thought?”

  With a look of mischief, Cynthia leaned over and whispered into her husband’s ear.

  “Hmm,” said Bill, grinning at his wife’s ingenuity. “An interesting idea. Well, you get it printed. In the meantime, I’ll find Jim.”

  When Bill Foster reached Jim, the coach eagerly agreed to resume regular practice.

  “Let’s have a team meeting,” he suggested.

  In truth, Jim Keating had felt the specter of depression invading his senses. Leonard Tangishaka had been a near life force for him. And although Jim had concealed his emotions well, he had become inwardly unraveled over the murders, feeling there was but one slender psychological membrane separating him from hope and despair.

  In the days that immediately followed Leonard’s death, Jim’s waking hours had taken on a disquieting pattern that no doubt related to his competitive nature. Early morning was the most difficult. He would lie in bed, knowing he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, and would be unable to settle back to get more. During this “first period” phase of his day, he would remain in bed for about half an hour, then rise, mind racing, feeling that he was starting his day fifteen points behind, and that to advance to a state of equanimity, he would have to get certain things done—many of which were quite challenging. Were it not for Bill joining him, he would have skipped his morning runs. He also found that he had to push himself toward his other daily activities.

  If, over the course of his day, he felt the reward of accomplishment, by evening, his emotional discomfort would abate to a few hours of moderate contentment, especially during the dinner conversation. And then, the cycle would repeat itself the following morning.

  Yet when it became obvious that Leonard’s body would probably not be found, Jim reflected on the significance of his work and began to find himself in a better psychological state. I must move on.

  Without Leonard, Jim knew that his team would have no chance at winning an Olympic berth—a prospect that had so excited him. And even a trip to the States might be off, though the murders had generated significant US media coverage and, thus, great interest in Project Oscar. But in bitter irony, Jim also concluded that Leonard’s death made his own presence even more important. He vowed not to succumb to despondency and, knowing that his contract would run out in three months, began to think about his possible future in Burundi. But from where would the funds come?

  At the team meeting, his players confirmed his critical value to their lives. They made clear their appreciation to Jim Keating . . . and expressed their hope that he would stay on.

  Myo Niyongabo, a 5’8” Hutu, captured the squad’s common sentiment when he said earnestly, almost devoutly, “You are our leader, Coach Keating—our savior.” Jim noticed players nodding and smiling.

  Moved by his players’ allegiance, Jim said, “Gentlemen, I appreciate your support. Now, how about if we get together tomorrow night at six for a practice session?”

  As they had done in the past when given news that pleased them, the players clapped loudly, and Jim headed back to his apartment feeling like he’d just dropped a fifty-pound backpack.

  We may not make the Olympics, he thought as he walked toward his front door, but this is as good a group of guys as I’ve ever worked with ... and this work is by far the most meaningful I have ever done.

  As he fumbled for his keys, Jim was surprised at the sight of a blue envelope and gift-wrapped package affixed to the door by a large red bow. His curiosity was so piqued that he immediately opened the envelope.

  To James Patrick Keating: You are cordially invited to join the Emily Dickinson Society of Burundi. Our next gathering will be on Wednesday night at 8 in Ambassador Foster’s home.

  Keating opened the package. It was a book titled Selected Poems by Galway Kinnell. Inscribed on the inside flap was a note from Cynthia Foster: Jim, Galway Kinnell is one of our leading American poets—a Pulitzer Prize winner! I think you will like his work. Warm regards, CF.

  As the coach gazed at the invitation, Ambassador Foster sat alone in her study contemplating yet another enterprise for Burundian basketball—and Jim Keating. She then looked through her mail and found one letter postmarked Rome and bearing the perfect penmanship of a dear friend.

  FRANCESCA CIMBRONE

  21 VIA VENTO

  ROME, ITALY

  Dear Cynthia:

  Your kindness since Nino’s passing has been a much-needed fountain of forza. And my wonderful children have been there for me in every way a mother could hope. This includes frequent visits by my grandchildren; what better gift could one have?

  But I do feel much pain and loneliness. To be honest, dear friend, there are times when I have felt without purpose.

  And then I read the most extraordinary article in the International Herald Tribune about Project Oscar and the tragic death of young Leonard. I was so moved by the article, so saddened by the tragedy, and so proud to know the woman who created this magnificent program.

  The American, Mr. Keating—he seems like such a good man, the perfect leader for Project Oscar. The article seemed unclear as to his future and the future of the program. Such a noble concept must continue.

  Which leads me to a proposal: I know well from Nino’s various ambassadorial posts that funds for such a worthy program are always a challenge. Nino has provided me well. As part of my proposal, I would like to make a donation to help fund the continuation of Project Oscar and Mr. Keating’s work.

  The other part of the proposal is more personal in nature, and I appreciate your indulging me, for I have given this much thought.

  You know of my love of dance. Well, from the moment I finished the article, I began to read about the Burundian culture, only to confirm that dance has a special place in the minds and hearts of the Hutu and Tutsi. So I wondered, might there be a place for a Burundian program similar to Project Oscar, but with dance as the medium of goodwill?

  And, if I may be so bold, might I be able to come to Burundi at my expense to explore this possibility with you and others? I have time and energy, and I would love to be part of such a movement.

  One of your most wonderful qualities is your honesty. Please tell me what you think and I will respond accordingly.

  Con Affetto,

  Francesca

  47

  Sitting on his veranda with a glass of Perrier, calmed by the last glimmer of daylight, Jim Keating smiled at the engraved invitation.

  Ever since the night in Kayanza when the ambassador had read under the dazzling stars, Jim had found himself attracted to poetry; intrigued by, if not somehow drawn to, the notion of trying it himself. He now realized that in the weeks since Leonard’s death, his veiled interest must surely have been laid bare by a series of not-so-subtle hints to the Fosters. In one such instance, he told Bill how much he had enjoyed Cynthia’s reading and asked, innocently he thought, about her poetry group.

  “Meets every Wednesday night,” Bill had replied. “And you know, Jim, Cynthia has looked at some of the documents you’ve written about Project Oscar. She’s impressed with how clearly you write—feels you have a natural flair. I know she’d love to have you join the group.”

  Jim smiled. “Oh no, not a chance. I mean, Bill—hell—I was thirty years old before I knew that Joyce Kilmer was a man. I’d surely embarrass myself—and the ambassador, too.”

  Bill Foster had simply grinned at Jim’s reply and, of course, had promptly reported the coach’s coy interest to his wife. Shortly after Leonard’s death, she had pulled Jim aside and said, “Jim, often in a time like this—during a period of mourning—it’s good to have an outlet. For me, my outlet is my poetry. It’s cathartic.”

  At the time, Jim had limited his response to a polite nod. But now, as he gazed out over Lake Tanganyika, he realized that som
ehow he had betrayed his quiescent interest in poetry. He finished his Perrier, picked up the Galway Kinnell book and headed to his bedroom.

  Keating had never read a book of verse, and he had difficulty grasping the meaning of some poems in Selected Poems. But the more he read, the more he began to appreciate the pleasing rhythm of Kinnell’s style—and to comprehend the many poignant messages that lay beneath the poet’s words. And then, with a turn of a page, he came upon a poem called “Parkinson’s Disease.”

  Jim’s mother had suffered from this cruel affliction, and he vividly recalled the dignity and courage she displayed in her daily battle with the ailment. As he read “Parkinson’s Disease” slowly, he thought the stanzas were written as if the poet had known Mary Keating; from her bright squint in reaction to food she enjoyed to her permanently clenched right hand. When he read the last line, “For him to pass from this paradise to the next,” he felt a sudden rush of emotion and tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Jim put the book down, wiped his cheeks, and turned off the light. Usually, he was so tired he would fall asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. But some nights, like tonight, when he turned off the light, the darkness would press in on him and fill him with loneliness.

  I’m going to join the group, he decided.

  Ambassador Foster’s private line at the Embassy rang at 8:30 am. Before Jim Keating could relate his budding interest in Galway Kinnell, the ambassador said, “So, Coach—you liked Mr. Kinnell’s work, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” said Jim, not surprised at her intuition. “In fact, he kept me up ‘til after midnight!”

  “You’re not the first person to lose sleep over that man,” she kidded. “So—is this call to say that you want to join the Emily Dickinson Society?”

  “Well, um, Ambassador,” he said awkwardly, “according to the invitation, you meet on Wednesday nights.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, I mean . . . Wednesday is only two days off.” “Correct.”

  “Should I actually come this Wednesday?”

  “Correct!”

  Jim thought he heard her chuckling, but she continued in an earnest tone. “Seriously, Jim. We’d love to have you come to this week’s session. Now, you must understand that one of our primary objectives is to listen to each other’s poems— and critique them.”

  “Does that mean I should try to write something?”

  “Exactly! But don’t be too concerned. The whole point of poetry is to write what you feel. You know, Coach, poetry has many fine earmarks. It slows us down, helps us to question, to contemplate—and to discover. And, remember, a poem doesn’t have to rhyme!”

  “Kinnell certainly doesn’t always rhyme,” said Jim. “That took some getting used to—I grew up with Kipling. My favorite was ‘If.’”

  Cynthia laughed. “My favorite, too . . . and not a bad beginning. But rhyme or no rhyme, a poem should penetrate the senses, express a certain spiritual dimension—the best of them possess the ‘music of the soul,’ as Voltaire once called great poetry.”

  “A bit daunting, Madam Ambassador!”

  Cynthia picked up on Jim’s somewhat teasing tone, but also noted his underlying concern.

  “Please don’t worry about bringing a ‘Galway Kinnell’ on the first night. Just try to let your feelings be revealed on paper. And while you’re struggling to get your thoughts out, take comfort in the fact that revealing oneself is a major challenge—even for old veterans like me. The more you work on it, the more comfortable you’ll feel.”

  “Okay,” said Jim. “I’d like to join.”

  “Glad to hear it, Jim. And you’ll find that the group will help you with metrical form, imagery, alliteration, and other guiding principles of poetry. But between now and Wednesday night, just try to get something on paper that Wilma Sheehan, my old English professor at ISU, used to say, ‘incriminates you’.’’

  Easier said than done, thought Jim.

  National Team practice didn’t start until six, so Jim spent the morning and early afternoon on his veranda struggling to compose his first poem.

  Cynthia Foster had advised him well: “Don’t worry about issues such as rhythm . . . we can get to these issues later. For now, get your feelings on paper—and write about something that moves you.”

  There is so much that moves me in one way or another, Jim thought. Edna’s death, getting fired, being labeled a racist, financial woes, coming to Burundi, feeling worthwhile again, losing Leonard.

  Could a poem—his first poem—incorporate all of those acute and indelible experiences? Despite knowing very little about the craft, Jim was sure that most poets would tell him to focus on just one thought—one experience. Yet he had noticed that in some of Kinnell’s poems that the poet would focus on one thought and in others he would blend various experiences into one poem.

  Jim would try both ways.

  Over the last two decades, basketball—despite his love for the game—had given Jim Keating enough heartache to justify a divorce. But at the National Team’s first workout since the Rwanda game—a game that seemed like an eon ago—Jim’s romance with his sport was requited.

  For ninety minutes, Jim’s players responded to his every word, immersing themselves in an intense, especially enthusiastic practice. Their zeal caused Jim to reflect on a simple, self-evident truth he had first comprehended in the Catskills many years earlier—when he had worked with a callow Wilt Chamberlain on post-up moves.

  Nothing is quite so rewarding as teaching this game to an eager young player.

  When the session concluded, Jim headed back to his apartment, arriving at 8:30 pm. It would not be dark until 10, so he went out on the veranda. For the next hour or so, he struggled with a poem whose hatching, for him at least, was as tough—and often as aggravating—as coaching players with little skill or recruiting a kid who has little interest in your school. He finally went to bed, read several of Kinnell’s poems, then fell into a deep sleep.

  Jim spent the following morning in further pursuit of the elusive verses. While he was not making much progress and continued to find the experience somewhat frustrating, he also found it to be as Cynthia had suggested: cathartic, a challenge, but, at the same time, a release.

  In the early afternoon, Jim met with Mathias and Bill to discuss getting Project Oscar back out into the rural areas.

  He returned to his apartment at 4:00 pm, spent another hour working on the poem, produced something that he “wasn’t totally ashamed of” and had a light dinner with Jesse Abbot.

  “So, how’d it go with the poem, Coach?” asked Abbot.

  Jim chuckled. “Jesse, I used to ask a friend how his golf game went. He’d say ‘Well, I didn’t embarrass myself.’ I hope that’ll be my answer to your question about the poem.”

  At 7:30, Jesse drove Jim to Ambassador Foster’s home and his first session with the Emily Dickinson Society of Burundi.

  48

  “You seem a bit on edge, Coach,” said Jesse as he pulled up in front of the ambassador’s home.

  “I am. I wasn’t this nervous coaching my first game at St. Pius. You know, on the way over, I considered asking you to turn back.”

  “And risk my job! Seriously Jim, you should relax and enjoy yourself. As a matter of fact, I know that the ambassador and her friends are really pleased you’re joining the group.”

  “They may not feel that way after I read my work. Anyway, thanks for the ride, Jesse. I’ll see you at 9:30.”

  Since his early youth, when his beloved mother, Mary, had tried, often in vain, to convince Jim to sign up for such uninviting activities as ballroom dancing or piano lessons, he had steered clear of most non-sport-related undertakings that made him uncomfortable. But tonight, escape was not an option; Cynthia Foster was waiting at the front door!

  Her attire was casual—jeans and an Indiana State University t-shirt that read: At ISU, The Defense Never Rests!

  As always, she was attractive and, on this night, particu
larly cheerful. And just as she had done in their first meeting months earlier, the ambassador disarmed the coach with a warm greeting and a radiant smile.

  “I am so glad that you are here, James Patrick Keating. Now you come with me; there are people eager to meet you.”

  Taking him by the arm, Cynthia walked Jim into the library, which was bedecked with posters of Emily Dickinson’s most famous lines. Keating noticed one in particular: “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.”

  “I would like to welcome you, Mr. Jim Keating!” roared a tiny woman in the rear of the library. Other enthusiastic greetings followed—the perfect antidote to the awkwardness Jim felt.

  As he shook hands with each member of the society, he noticed that the makeup of this small poetry group reflected the basic concept of Project Oscar. Of the nine poets, five were women and four were men. Along with Ambassador Foster, one other member seemed to be an American (a Peace Corps volunteer, Jim would later find out). Four seemed to be Hutu and three appeared to be Tutsi.

  Before he could comment on the group’s harmony, the ambassador apparently read his mind, “It’s the Project Oscar of poetry, Jim.”

  Cynthia poured sherry into Waterford goblets, toasted the arrival of the new member, then invited everyone to sit in their customary circle.

  “Who would like to go first?” she asked, and Erisa Mulifi, the elf-like Hutu woman who had welcomed Jim, responded, “I will go.”

  The next ninety minutes was an intellectual journey unlike any Jim Keating had ever taken. While he found some of the poems difficult to grasp, the common element in all of the readings was the spirit the authors brought to their poetry.