The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Read online

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  I was so bad that the first few times I played, my teammates kicked me off the court. They would mockingly refer to me as “Mulayi ya busoba,” the rough translation of which is “Stupid Tall Man.” I could have just given up, or succumbed to pride and ego and said, “Okay, the hell with these games. I am out!” But for some reason I didn’t look at it that way. I wanted to get better. I wanted to prove them all wrong. So I persevered. When I wasn’t practicing by myself, I would aim to get into games with the more junior players who took over the court when the better players left. They were mostly younger and smaller than me, but were much more experienced and fundamentally sound. They were patient with me, and by playing with them I naturally began to improve.

  On some nights, the older players would hold a dunk contest. It always drew a huge crowd. While only a few players from the Congo have made it to the NBA, the country’s junior ranks are filled with tall, athletic basketball players, many of whom are spectacular dunkers. Among the best in these contests was a young man named DMX Kisenga. I liked Kisenga a lot: smart and funny, without ever being mean, he was one of the few older players who treated me with compassion and respect. I think he recognized my love for the game and my willingness to work hard.

  “Keep practicing, Blondy,” he would say. “Good things will happen.”

  Kisenga was already 6-foot-7 and probably 230 pounds. Although he was still in high school, he looked and played like a grown man. Although he never made it to the United States, he did eventually leave the Congo to play professional basketball in Europe, an accomplishment that not only made me happy for him, but gave me further hope about what I might accomplish. If Kisenga thought I had potential, then maybe I really did.

  Sometimes during the dunk contests Kisenga would walk over to me on the sideline and ask me for a suggestion. One time he even invited me to join the contest. I looked out at the older players, soaring through the air and ramming the ball with such authority and confidence. I lowered me gaze and shook my head.

  “No, I can’t.”

  Kisenga gave me a pat on the shoulder. I looked up. He was smiling broadly.

  “Do not worry about these people,” he said. “They don’t know anything about you. Do what you must in order to get better.”

  His words of motivation had a great effect on me. Not so much that I was brave enough to join the contest that night, but such that I nursed a kernel of hope that someday I could. And so I continued to watch and wait and work.

  Inspiration is wherever you can find it; similarly, knowledge and wisdom can come from the most unlikely source. After the games were all through, I was working out on the court all by myself, practicing my dribbling and shooting, occasionally trying unsuccessfully to dunk like the older guys. Suddenly I was approached by a small boy. He was maybe ten years old and was, like me, shooting around by himself. He was so young that he rarely got a chance to play, so he would wait for the courts to clear, no matter how late it got.

  “I can help you,” he said after watching me lose control of the ball on another failed dunk attempt.

  I looked at him dismissively. “Shouldn’t you be home, little boy? It’s dangerous out here after dark.”

  This was true—when darkness fell, soldiers would patrol the city and surrounding villages, enforcing curfews in ways that had less to do with ensuring public safety than with extorting and terrorizing the citizenry. A child or adolescent caught outside after dark would be stopped and questioned. Inevitably, he would be asked to turn out his pockets and hand over anything of value. If he had nothing—which was often the case—the mere fact of his impoverishment might provoke a violent outburst from the soldiers. I knew many boys who were beaten and robbed by soldiers. I knew some who disappeared altogether. Thus, my question to the little boy at courtside was legitimate, although my motive for saying it had less to do with concern for the boy’s safety than with the fact that I was offended by the notion that I had anything to learn from one so small and young.

  The boy smiled and shrugged.

  “You look like you’re having trouble.”

  I gave him a hard look.

  “And you can do better?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I mean . . . I can’t dunk, but I know how it’s done.”

  Was it possible? Could this little boy, a foot shorter and five years younger than me, have secrets worth hearing? I thought about it for a moment. I remembered the classmates who had called me Shaka, and the older basketball players who wouldn’t let me on the court. I knew what it was like to be judged (or misjudged) by people based solely on appearance. How many times had I felt diminished by the treatment I had received. Why should I be like those people? Why not be more like DMX Kisenga, who saw good in other people, and value in those whose worth was routinely questioned.

  “Okay, little one,” I said, trying hard to smile. “Teach me.”

  And so he did. He showed me how to hold the ball so that it would not come loose when I turned my hand over to dunk. He showed me how to time my approach to the basket, and how to leap naturally off one foot, rather than stopping in front of the basket, planting both feet, and trying to explode upward. This is the hardest way to dunk, for it robs you of all forward progress and results in the equivalent of trying to get upward momentum from a standstill. It was amazing that the boy knew so much, simply from having watched a lot of basketball. Despite his diminutive stature, he was smooth and graceful, and I had no doubt that he would become a very good player in his own right. Already he was an amazing teacher!

  On my first attempt, I lost control of the ball. On the second I slipped and barely got off the ground. On the third, I soared higher than I had ever soared before and became so overcome with excitement that I slammed the ball off the back of the rim. The fourth, fifth, and sixth attempts were all close. Soooooo . . . close.

  Finally, on the seventh try, with my legs beginning to burn, I timed everything perfectly. The approach, the takeoff, the dunk itself. I knew as I brought my hand up, the ball tucked tightly into my palm, that this was the one. I could see the rim, twisted and netless, glistening in the fading evening sun, approaching fast. It seemed so close, closer than ever before, and suddenly my hand was in the sphere. I flicked my wrist downward and released the ball.

  “YESSSS!” I shouted, as I fell to the ground, arriving at almost exactly the same time as the ball.

  And from the edge of the court my voice echoed in the little boy.

  “YESSSS!”

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Time would melt away on the court.

  Even when it was just me and a ball and a hoop, with no one else playing and no one else watching, I would become lost in my own little world. In my head I could hear the roar of an imaginary crowd, and the announcer calling the game.

  Baruti drives to the basket; he goes up over Mutombo . . . and throws it down! Oh, what a dunk by Baruti!

  I loved the rhythm of the game, the sound of the ball, and the feeling of a perfectly executed shot. I wanted nothing more than to be out there playing and practicing, every waking hour.

  But opportunities for basketball players were few and far between in the Congo. In some African countries—Nigeria and South Africa, for example—basketball is played with passion by many young men, and their promise is identified early and nurtured through sports academies and corporate sponsorship. Although there is talent in the Congo, the political unrest makes it far more difficult (and dangerous) to foster these types of programs. This was especially true more than a decade ago, when I was introduced to the sport. But if you are serious about playing sports, it is understood that you must join a private club team like ONATRA, a respected organization sponsored by the Congo’s Office National des Transports (“ONATRA”). It was one of the best club teams in the whole country, although it was more than ten miles away and designed for older boys. Still, I made up my mind to practice as hard as I could and become a member of this team. It was that simple . . . and that pre
posterous.

  And so I played ball . . . hour after hour. If I wasn’t in school, I was playing basketball. I would get home at eight or nine o’clock, and have to wait until eleven o’clock to eat. This was the one family meal, and it was designed to sustain us for the next twenty-four hours. I’d go to school every morning with my belly rumbling. All I knew was one meal a day; lunch was available in school, but my grandmother could not afford to give me any money, so most days I went without.

  It wasn’t so bad, really. Living in the jungle, on the run, had changed me. While many of my classmates complained whenever they got hungry (or worse, complained about the quality of the food that was served), I said nothing. Hunger becomes a habit, a source of strength, even. There was no food in the jungle, and the memory of that ceaseless hunger gave me power to cope with almost anything. Even today I can go two or three days without eating if necessary. It doesn’t bother me; it simply reminds me that anything is possible.

  Throughout the summer months, I kept playing ball, either by myself or with the younger kids. I began pushing the envelope in terms of how late I would stay at the court. One night I did not return home until after nine o’clock. When I left the court, the sun was fading into the horizon. By the time I reached my grandmother’s house, it was pitch dark. Uncle Joseph met me at the door, his eyes filled with fury and fear.

  “What are you doing, you stupid boy! Do you not understand what could happen out there?”

  I lowered my head, apologized, and went off to complete my homework. I understood precisely what could happen, and I realized on some level that my behavior was selfish. But I was willing to take the risk; I loved basketball so much that I was willing to put my life on the line for the sake of a silly game.

  Except it wasn’t silly. On the basketball court I felt free, at peace in both mind and body. And with that freedom came hope—hope for a new and better life.

  By the end of the summer, I was allowed into some of the local pickup games with older players on a more regular basis. By this time, I had become savvy enough to know what I could or could not do on the court, and I used those limitations as a guideline. For example, I was still awkward and unskilled; my body was growing and changing so quickly that my mind could not keep up with the changes. It sometimes felt as though one arm was longer than the other, with fingers that looked like tendrils; or that my feet were like those of a clown—five sizes too big for the body they supported. Such is the nature of adolescence, but in my case the development seemed particularly fitful and frustrating. Every time I began to sense a natural equilibrium, something would change. And then I would find myself struggling against my own body, fighting just to stay upright without tripping over myself.

  Discretion being the better part of valor, I took few chances when I was allowed to play with the older guys. I knew that my offensive skills were poorly developed, so I rarely shot and only when wide open and in close proximity to the basket. The last thing I wanted was to throw up an air ball from twenty feet and get kicked off the court for being both arrogant and a poor teammate. Instead, I concentrated on playing good defense, moving my feet as quickly as possible to make sure I stayed in front of my opponent. Athleticism is required to play defense—the stronger and quicker you are, the harder it is for an opponent to get by you. But defense is less about natural talent than it is desire.

  I quickly discovered that ego plays a huge role in basketball. It is a game of artistry and beauty; of lightning-quick moves to the basket and no-look passes that would make a magician envious. But it is also a game of strength and will. Everyone likes to put the ball in the basket. Everyone likes to score. These are the things that people notice and for which praise comes easily. But just as important to the outcome are the more subtle and laborious aspects of the game: defense and rebounding, for example. These are often overlooked by the casual fan and treated with indifference by the players themselves. Scoring is fun. Defense is . . . well . . . hard. If you get a rebound and pass the ball ahead to a teammate, and he drives to the basket and scores, who gets the credit? Who gets the accolades from the crowd? Not the player whose rebound started the entire sequence. But that’s okay. Other players notice the hardworking defender and rebounder, and they want him on their team. Coaches want him on the roster, as well. There is a place for the unselfish, industrious player who is content to do the job others find unappealing.

  I decided very early in my basketball career that I would be that player.

  So even though I rarely scored, I gained the respect of my teammates simply by outworking everyone else. By making sure that I was in position to rebound, and that I attacked the rim on every play. I developed a knack for sliding away from my man at the last second when another player drove to the basket, so that I could challenge his shot. I remember the first time I blocked one of the older player’s shots, and the rush of adrenaline I felt as the ball exploded off my palm and into the night air, eventually landing in the dirt, some twenty feet off the court. I remember the howls of approval from my teammates, and the look on the other player’s face, a mix of anger and grudging respect. And the way he nodded subtly, as if to say, “Good job.”

  After a few weeks of playing in these games every night, I was invited to take part in one of the dunk contests. The time had come, I would have my chance! When my turn came, I was so nervous that I felt like I was going to throw up. My hands were so wet that I could barely control the ball. I thought briefly about withdrawing; then it occurred to me—what was the worst that could happen? I would miss the dunk and everyone would laugh. So what? No one ever died from being laughed at.

  I started about fifteen to twenty feet from the basket, on the left wing. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my racing heart. Sweat poured from my brow and into my eyes. I wiped it away and looked past the edge of the court, past the crowd of onlookers and players, and toward the sun fading into the horizon. It was such a beautiful night! A surge of confidence and adrenaline rushed through my body. I lowered my head and dribbled hard two or three times before catapulting myself toward the basket. I knew as soon as I left the ground that I had it nailed. As I threw the ball down I could hear the other players (and some spectators) erupt with applause and cheers. I turned to face them, with a huge smile on my face. No longer was I “Stupid Tall Man.” Now they were chanting my name.

  “Blondy! Blondy! Blondy!”

  It was a moment I will never forget.

  SOME OF THE BEST games occurred on Sunday afternoon, when everybody got out of church. These contests included not just teenagers, but veteran players from around the region, some of whom were extremely talented and experienced, but for one reason or another had not escaped the Congo to further their basketball careers. Some of them had played with Dikembe Mutombo, or at least claimed they had. It sometimes seemed as though every basketball player in the Congo had a story to tell about having shared a court with the great Mr. Dikembe. This was not true, of course; it was all bluster. For this reason and others, I disliked many of these veteran players. They were pretending to be best friends with Dikembe to boost their own egos. Some of them did indeed have connections to help young African kids who wanted to reach the U.S. through basketball scholarships, but I never saw them put this influence to use in my neighborhood.

  The first few times I showed up for the Sunday games, I was not allowed to play. These games were highly competitive—usually the veterans would insist on playing together as a team against the younger players, and I longed for a chance to show that I belonged. Eventually my patience was rewarded and I was welcomed into the game. Again, I did not push against the boundaries of what was permitted in this setting. I was one of the youngest and least experienced players on the court, so I deferred to my older teammates and worked as hard as I could while trying to defend opponents who in some cases were a decade or two older than I was. They may have lacked the fitness and energy of youth, but they were big and strong, and incredibly tough. They pushed me around and
made fun of me, but I said nothing and betrayed not a hint of emotion.

  I kept growing and improving, until one day, at the age of fifteen, I decided I was ready. It was time to try out for ONATRA. I had to take an hour-long bus ride with many stops to attend evaluation sessions in the neighborhood of Matonge. ONATRA had plenty of funding, which meant quality coaching and uniforms and practice facilities. Mutombo had been a product of the ONATRA program, and his legacy continued to help attract the majority of the Congo’s best basketball players. I wanted desperately to be a part of ONATRA.

  Every day, when school got out, I would run straight to the bus station in order to get to practice on time. Classes did not end until 1 p.m., and practice for the Division II players (the younger players) began at two. I had little time to spare. I would get off the bus and run straight to practice. Sometimes I was late, but the coaches believed in the importance of education and therefore didn’t give me a hard time.

  For three months I worked my butt off in practice. I didn’t expect anything to be handed to me; I felt like I was playing well and had a good attitude. But there were lots of talented and ambitious young players who wanted to be part of ONATRA, and most of them not only were from Matonge, but came from families with far greater resources. They had access to better shoes, clothing, training, and food. In every way, they had advantages over me, so I knew it would be a challenge to make the team.

  Finally the big day arrived: the final practice before cuts would be made. I played well and hard. I did my best. Afterward, the coach told us to hang around for a little while. Then he met with each player in person to deliver the good or bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Blondy,” the coach told me. “You played very hard, but right now there are too many players ahead of you.”

  I said nothing, just nodded and blinked back a tear.

  “Keep practicing,” the coach said. “Maybe next year.”