by Dan Doyle
“Finbar, bottom line, we need to keep you out of the public eye for several months. I’d like you to come to Johannesburg, work out of my office, and conduct an investigation into postapartheid South African sport. Hopefully, your investigation will lead to a major special on the role of sport in contemporary South Africa.”
Hawkins himself was the subject of a critical memo written by the CNN ombudsman and circulated among the company’s higher-ups. The memo proposed that Hawkins should have waited until there was more evidence that the bacteria had implications beyond Leonard and Consolaté. In a counter-memo, Hawkins vigorously defended himself, pointing out that he had followed CNN’s rigid set of procedures regarding the release of a major story. He also noted that this was the first time that following the procedures, which he had helped draft, had failed.
Hawkins offered to resign, but a senior vice president refused to accept it, pointing out in his own memo that “Sid Hawkins is quite likely our most effective producer.”
Finnegan was angry about the reassignment. He still believed in his story and vowed not to let Operation Deliverance pass without somehow finding more answers. Like Fish, he felt that the antidote research should continue. But for the time being, he had no choice but to accept the reassignment—there were simply no other job prospects.
As for Jim Keating, he was not affected, professionally at least, by the residue of the panic.
52
Despite the murders of Leonard and Consolaté, no signs of melancholy invaded Jim’s senses—and he knew why. Following the accepted anti-depression practice of keeping busy, the coach filled his days and nights with basketball, poetry, and reading. Infusing these activities was a new sense of spiritualism.
Jim’s love of reading now found him drawn to the writings of philosophers ranging from Saint Thomas More to Aristotle. The Fosters had an extensive library in their den, and Cynthia had encouragingly said, “Help yourself!”
He took particular interest in Aristotle’s discussion of the Golden Mean. Trying to recover from the haymakers of Barcelona, Jersey State, and Leonard’s death, Aristotle’s treatment of the constant pursuit of the mean that lies between deficiency and excess resonated with Jim. And Jim’s new affinity for poetry helped him come closer to that desirable balance.
Ambassador Foster continued her key role in Jim’s active life. Suppressing the strain of the Senate inquiry, the ambassador not only maintained her enthusiasm for Project Oscar, but also kicked it up a notch. Her letters and personal calls to various grantors, including a special appeal to the UN Charities Division, resulted in more equipment and a cash gift by a US foundation to construct badly needed outdoor basketball courts in various sections of Burundi.
One location selected by the ambassador and Jim was the very dirt surface in Kayanza on which Jim had first taught the game to Leonard Tangishaka. The court would be named in honor of Leonard and Consolaté, and Mathias would make a trip to Kayanza to implore the warlords to refrain from blocking the court’s use. Another site related to an important component of Ambassador Foster’s grand plan, which was still known only to Bill and a few select others.
The grant covered the costs of the new courts, plus adjacent shacks to house the balls, nets, and other maintenance equipment. In a bold policy decision, the ambassador decreed that the honor system would be followed. THESE BALLS AND NETS ARE COMMUNITY-OWNED EQUIPMENT. PLEASE DO NOT TAKE THEM, read the sign on each shack.
The courts spurred even greater interest in basketball and, as the ambassador and Jim hoped, caused Hutus and Tutsis to continue to play together—a small but meaningful alliance germinated amidst the chaos of on-going conflict.
“The chipping effect in action,” the ambassador said to Jim, who added, “Yeah, the kids are playing and the honor system is working. Barely a basketball has disappeared. Plus, our Marines on patrol in Kayanza report that those kids are using their court with no problem.”
Jim ran youth clinics five days a week at various sites and trained the National Team at four weekly evening sessions. Though he’d just turned sixty-eight, and no player on the National Team was close to Leonard’s caliber, the coach continued to teach the game with a relish he had not known since the early stages of his career. He also hoped to develop a girls program that would lead to meaningful basketball opportunities for young women in the country. Entrenched traditions would make this difficult, yet he saw much value in the idea itself, not to mention in the athletic potential of both Tutsi and Hutu women.
As for his rebirth of spiritualism, it was, he knew, the direct result of the brutal deaths of Leonard and Consolaté.
“My Catholic faith has not gone unchallenged,” he wrote in the diary he began to keep after joining the Emily Dickinson Society. “Yet, despite my continuing disagreement with some aspects of church teachings, the recent pain that I have faced causes me to embrace the comfort and consolation granted by the Holy Ghost. And for the first time in my life, I am not in fear of my own mortality.”
In gravitating toward another source of inner peace—his poetry—he would rise each morning at six. With the spectacular view of Lake Tanganyika as his companion, he would spend his first hour on the veranda writing, all the while taking tips from Ambassador Foster’s most helpful book. Before retiring in the evening, he would re-check his early-morning work then read more of Galway Kinnell. Ambassador Foster had also introduced him to contemporary poets, such as Robert Pinsky and Eamonn Grennan, and highly regarded poets from the past, notably W. H. Auden. He made sure to record in his diary one of Auden’s most thought-provoking lines: “If equal affection cannot be/Let the more loving one be me.”
This line reminds me so much of Edna. Perhaps the best advice I have ever read for all relationships, including marriage. I must tell the ambassador about it... and Sarah.
To Jim’s pleasure—and surprise—his poetry was improving, causing members of the Emily Dickinson Society to praise his work. The ambassador was still encouraging, but also more circumspect in her comments. This was fine with Jim—her candor was an important element in his development as a poet.
One night in April, at the end of a session at her home, the ambassador reminded the group, “Our annual Emily Dickinson Summer Solstice reading will take place on June 22 here at the Embassy. We will invite approximately 150 people. Each member of the Society will read two poems.”
Jim had made a note about the session, but he’d put it out of his mind. Now, the thought of reading his work to such a large crowd caused him discomfort. On the other hand, he knew that such an event would motivate him to work more diligently toward his two “Galway Kinnells.”
What he did not know was that Ambassador Foster was already planning to make this evening one that would reach a new level of meaning for Jim Keating.
V
Seeking the Truth
53
Johannesburg, South Africa
Raised a Catholic, Finbar Finnegan understood the literal meaning of Purgatory. But in recent weeks, the word took on a slightly different connotation when Sid Hawkins said, “Finbar, it’d likely take you a good while to get out of your Catholic Purgatory, but in this situation you can get out fairly soon—you just need to be patient.”
In Finnegan, Hawkins and other CNN executives recognized they were the custodians of a major talent. Yet the news giant was still smarting from the fallout from Operation Deliverance. Because of heightened sensitivity at the home office, Hawkins’s idea of personally overseeing Finnegan made sense to the higher ups in Atlanta. And so, Finbar was temporarily assigned to “Joburg,” where Show Me Sid would keep the young Irishman busy with a new project regarding the state of sport in post-apartheid South Africa—and also off the air until the aftershock of Operation Deliverance had subsided.
“Sid, he’s a gifted young man who, now more than ever, needs your supervision,” said Robert Geissler, Hawkins’s boss in Atlanta. “Keep him on track—and let’s make damn sure that these sports reports are
top shelf.”
One of Finbar’s specific assignments was to examine the discriminatory reign of Rugby Union leader Louis Luyt. Since Nelson Mandela, an avid sportsman, had gained power, he and Luyt had been locked in a fierce struggle over Luyt’s refusal to open the sport to blacks. Despite legal pressure from the Mandela government, rugby had remained a predominantly white sport, and Luyt continued to loudly maintain his apartheid beliefs. Frustrated by Luyt’s defiance, Mandela finally appointed a National Sports Council Judicial Commission to study allegations of racism and corruption in the Luyt administration. Luyt’s response was to force Mandela into court, compelling the president to publicly justify the Commission.
“Even some of the most ardent of Luyt’s followers found his action to be uncalled for,” Hawkins told Finnegan. “However, it is fact that rugby—and Luyt—are important examples of diehard pro-apartheid supporters refusing to accede to the wishes of the new administration. It’s these kinds of conflicts that make South Africa one of the most fascinating human laboratories this side of Belfast—and a place where a good reporter like you can come up with some important stories.”
While the assignment did have journalistic value, Finbar continued to seethe at being made the scapegoat of Operation Deliverance. He knew, as did Hawkins, that he had followed proper journalistic protocol in reporting a potentially major story.
In a memo sent to his superiors in Atlanta, Finnegan vented his displeasure: “My professional conduct throughout Operation Deliverance was properly cautious and above reproach. In my reports, I avoided generalizations and predictions, and I consistently let my audience know what was fact, what had been disproved, what was in dispute, and what was unknown. I am being singled out unfairly for what was, by all accounts, an exclusive that had possible international ramifications.”
Hawkins, copied on the memo, called Finnegan to his office.
“Finbar, there’s not one thing in this damn memo that’s not true. Nonetheless, you—and CNN—are associated with Operation Deliverance. Now you’ve vented, and, fortunately for you, they appear to have accepted your right to vent. My advice is to put it out of your mind and focus on developing a first-rate story on the South African rugby situation. And remember this, if the people in Atlanta didn’t realize your talent, they wouldn’t have put you behind a desk for a couple of months—they’d have fired you.”
Finnegan followed Hawkins’s advice, confining his anger to staring several times each day at a portrait that he had received in the post a few days earlier. A note by its sender, Ambassador Cynthia Foster, accompanied the portrait.
“Enclosed is the rendering of the Mediterranean-looking man whom Mathias spotted at the Rwanda game and whom Mutara and Hibimana, the two Burundian boys, saw outside of the Tangishaka hut. Mathias and the two boys spent two full days with Daniela Retkova, an illustrator with UN Security Forces. The three all agree that the rendering is a lifelike portrait of this individual.”
The ambassador concluded her note with a statement that Finbar knew to be accurate. “If we can find him, he might be able to unlock the whole mystery.”
Finbar Finnegan found the new South Africa to be a country not without its growing pains and serious problems—basic safety being one.
Since the post-Mandela election turmoil, violent crimes, including rapes, had erupted, particularly in urban areas such as Johannesburg. The predominantly white media vigorously reported on the alarming trend, and the black government, while dealing harshly with offenders, often attributed the dilemma to decades of oppression.
Of particular interest to Finbar was the varied reaction of whites. Some viewed the situation as hopeless and took their leave—Australia and New Zealand were favorite stations of relocation. Others aggressively protested the upsurge to their politicians—both white and black. In most cases, the elected officials were helpless to offer aid, so strangled were they by the bureaucracy of an infant government. Still other whites, much smaller in number, looked at the predicament as penance for the sins of apartheid.
Yet all who stayed and who had grown accustomed to safe passage in their neighborhoods prior to the Mandela election had one thing in common, as explained by Sid Hawkins to Finbar: “Everyone, and I mean bloody everyone, no matter their neighborhood, has a modern security system.”
Hawkins continued in an avuncular tone. “I know you like the diversity and excitement of Johannesburg. But my advice—strong advice—is that you take a place in Sandton. The downtown area is just too dangerous. And wherever you decide to situate, make sure that you join the masses and buy a damned good security system.”
Finnegan knew Hawkins well enough to realize that his statements were not racist—just objective as well as practical, and he took the advice of his boss on both counts. He leased a luxury flat in Sandton, just twenty minutes outside of downtown Johannesburg, and purchased the most expensive alarm system he could find.
Yet despite these issues of personal safety, Finnegan loved living in South Africa. The climate was mild and dry— “salubrious,” as Hawkins described it. Many of the women— black and white—were beautiful and, as Finbar was discovering, attracted to fair-skinned Irishmen. And a number of the sports he was researching, including his favorite, would offer important angles for his story.
“Sid,” said Finnegan, “soccer and rugby might dominate the South African sports pages and even produce world-class teams, and I’m looking into the Luyt situation. But let me tell you something—basketball, while still not played at a very high level, is gaining remarkable popularity. Plus, I’m told the people connected to the game are a lively bunch.”
Visibly, through sponsorship of youth programs and investment in the newly founded South African pro league (the first professional basketball league in the country), government officials and a new wave of young entrepreneurs were pushing the sport forward. Television coverage, both of the South African league and an occasional NBA game, contributed to the interest, as did the involvement in the league of several fine American players and coaches, like Sam Vincent, the former Michigan State All-American and exBoston Celtic.
The acknowledged leader of this “basketball revolution,” as the media termed it, was an accomplished and fascinating twenty-nine-year-old named Albert Tshewete, whose acquaintance Finnegan would soon make.
The Roseleigh Basketball Complex, on the outskirts of Johannesburg, was the hub of Joburg hoop activity. The complex featured four lighted courts, as well as a renovated home that served as administrative headquarters for the entire South African school basketball league, a program that encompassed more than three thousand young players.
Roseleigh had another earned distinction: It was the best place in town to “get a game.”
Within weeks of his arrival back in the city, Finbar Finnegan, always keen for a good hoop workout, had gravitated to Roseleigh. There, on a hot Sunday afternoon, he was introduced to Albert Tshewete, a compact and very quick 6’4” guard.
As opponents in a three-on-three game, Finnegan and Tshewete had employed the Doberman defensive practices standard on all asphalt courts throughout the world: hand checks, muggings on open lay-ups, and “nose jobs.”
The latter improvisation had first been explained to Finbar by an American coach at a Dublin clinic years earlier. “A good nose job involves your hand grazing the schnozz of the shooter just before his release.” Finnegan had tried the tactic on Tshewete, whose only reaction was a heightened resolve to win the game. When the South African banked home a ten-footer to seal the victory, he was mildly surprised that the competitive Irishman immediately approached him with an extended hand.
“Let me guess,” said Finnegan. “You played ball in the States—and for a good coach.”
“How did you know?” responded a surprised Tshewete.
“Since I arrived in Joburg a few weeks ago, I’ve been playin’ the odd three-on-three game here at Roseleigh. You’re the first guy I’ve guarded who knows how to move without the ball.�
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“Thank you. You play well yourself, especially for a guy who wears sun block,” winked Albert.
It was now Finnegan’s turn to be surprised—such a daring remark was surely not common between the races in South Africa. Yet Finbar recognized that the quip was made as a sign of friendship. He also knew that a basketball court was one of the few places in the country where such politically incorrect banter would be accepted.
Finnegan had picked up on something else unusual about Albert Tshewete. Despite appearing to be only in his late twenties, he was addressed by most of the other basketball participants as “sir” or “Mr. Tshewete.”
“Why do they call you that?” asked Finbar.
“Aw,” Albert replied sheepishly, “it’s this job that President Mandela gave me.”
“And what job would that be?”
“Well, I’m Director General of Home Affairs.”
In South African government, the Director General of Home Affairs was in charge of immigration. For someone so young to hold such a lofty position must surely involve special circumstances. Journalist that he was, Finbar was curious to learn the full particulars, and Tshewete was just as interested in Finbar’s background.
“Buy you a Coke?” Finbar asked.
“You’re on,” replied Tshewete, and the two headed to the nearby lunch wagon.
54
Finbar had made enough friends through basketball to know that accelerated bonding was a common offshoot of the sport. Under the shade of a white Karee tree at the Roseleigh Complex, that was exactly what occurred between Finbar and Albert.
As the two perspiring players drained their Cokes, Finnegan gently probed the background of his new friend. What he found was a remarkable story—and a surprising willingness on Tshewete’s part to tell it.