The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Read online

  I was disappointed, but not terribly surprised. I saw it coming.

  Rather than sulking about something I could not control, I decided to try out for another club team in Matonge. This one was a rival of ONATRA called Molokai, which, although in lowercase letters, was an acronym comprised of the first letters of some of the busiest streets in Matonge. On the very first day of tryouts, I was less nervous because I had already practiced with ONATRA. I was thrown into a game with other boys who hoped to join the club. There were five of us at the tryout, playing games of two-on-two and two-on-three. When we finished I was invited to stay. A man told me that he thought I had promise (I was by now 6-foot-4, which was probably my strongest attribute). Molokai had three different levels of teams: A, B, and C. I was assigned to the C team, and could not have been happier. Finally, I was a real basketball player!

  We practiced four or five days each week. My family did not have enough money for me to take the bus every day, so many times I would make the ten-mile trek on foot. As soon as school ended (around 12:30 or 1:00), I would start walking or jogging. I learned a few shortcuts that cut the trip to maybe six or seven miles, which I could cover in roughly an hour. After practice I would walk home. I realize that probably sounds incredible, but it really isn’t all that uncommon in Africa. Most people do not have cars, and they become accustomed to walking great distances simply to go about the business of daily life. I did not consider it a big sacrifice to spend two hours a day walking just so that I could play basketball. I considered it a privilege. I would have walked twice that distance if necessary.

  There were other, smaller, inconveniences. For example, I had at that time only one pair of underwear, and I wore them to school and to play basketball. At night I would remove my underwear, soaked and stiff with sweat, and wash them by hand and hang them to dry so that I could wear them again the next day. After a few months, my lovely underwear had faded from blue to gray, and was pockmarked with holes. I developed a rash in my groin area from wearing the same bedraggled shorts every day. But I didn’t care. That’s how much I wanted to play.

  If there were ever moments where I felt beaten down by my circumstances, like putting on damp underwear or feeling my toes poking out of my fraying basketball shoes, I would hear my mother’s words in my head: “Don’t let anything hold you back. Have faith. Believe. You’re not alone out there. God will always have your back.” It was a familiar refrain from our exodus through the jungle and throughout my childhood and adolescence.

  I loved basketball so much that on the days when we did not have practice, I would play pickup ball. Sometimes I would walk or jog directly from practice with Molokai back to my neighborhood and jump into pickup games. Yes, even after walking twelve to fifteen miles round-trip and practicing with my club team for two hours, I still wanted to play pickup ball with my friends! In some ways I enjoyed the pickup games even more than playing with Molokai. The games were informal but intense, with lots of trash-talking and acrobatic play. Every night most of the same guys would show up and we would always try to play together.

  I became one of the better big men in the nightly pickup games. I became proficient at dunking the ball, both in games and during contests. My favorite dunk was one made famous by Michael Jordan, in which he would run from half-court and take off at the foul line. It took me a long time to master this dunk, but eventually it became my specialty. Nobody else could do it; my friends were so impressed that they gave me yet another nickname: “ShakaFly,” because I could hang in the air for such a long time.

  There was a dunk contest in which I had to face one of my best friends, a very gifted player named Serge Ibaka. He came from the Republic of the Congo (a smaller African country not to be confused with the Democratic Republic of the Congo), but had begun spending lots of time in the DRC, where he was considered a basketball prodigy. Serge was seventeen years old and already 6-foot-10, with a massive wingspan and the strong, muscular build of a young man headed for the NBA. He was a beast in pickup games, an immovable force in the lane who could do anything he wanted—block shots, rebound, score, pass. Many people were legitimately afraid of guarding Serge: they didn’t want to be embarrassed by having him dunk on them, nor did they want to catch an elbow to the face, which sometimes happened if you got too close. Everyone figured Serge was headed for great things. But to me he was more than just a tremendous athlete; he was like my brother. While our dunk competition was serious, it was also filled with joy, as Serge and I tried to one-up each other.

  So it was that night. I took off from the foul line for my signature dunk. Serge looked on and smiled and then he did the exact same thing. When he placed two people in the foul lane, on their hands and knees, and then jumped over them on his way to the rim and a thunderous dunk, the crowd went crazy. I stood there and applauded. Then I put three people in the lane and jumped over them on my next dunk. This time Serge applauded and smiled. He waved a finger of admonition and summoned a fourth person from the crowd, and then easily cleared this human hurdle for yet another spectacular dunk.

  “Your turn, ShakaFly,” Serge said with a laugh.

  As the four spectators started to walk off the court, I summoned them back.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. “We’re going to do this again.”

  Gamely, they walked back into the foul line and got down on the ground. I walked back to half-court, took two quick dribbles, and then ran full speed toward the foul line. As I soared above the four brave spectators, I glanced briefly at Serge. Then I threw the ball down and pumped my arms furiously in celebration, as Serge came over and gave me a hug.

  “Well done, my brother,” he said. “Call it a tie?”

  I shook my head. “Not while there is daylight.”

  It went on like that for another hour, until we were trading dunks in the fading light. Eventually we did decide to end the contest and call it a tie. It was one of the best nights I have ever experienced on a basketball court. Afterward Serge and I walked off together, his arm around my shoulder like I was his little brother.

  What I admired most about Serge (in addition to his personality) was his ambition. Like me, he loved playing basketball and saw it as a ticket out of Africa: a way to change circumstances for himself and his family. And, like me, Serge had grown up in poverty, which helped to fuel his desire for a better life.

  One night, we were walking off the court together when Serge betrayed just a hint of despair over his lack of resources, something he rarely did.

  “Shaq,” he said, using a shortened version of my nickname, one I liked because it reminded me of Shaquille O’Neal. “I’m not sure what to do. I do not have shoes to play ball anymore.” He paused, ran a hand along the tattered soles of his shoes, which had become separated from the upper. “I only have one pair of shoes left, and they are for school. But I might have to start hooping with them or I won’t be able to play.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes there are no easy answers. I myself had frequently played barefoot or in sandals or school shoes. You do what you must.

  “Keep your head up, brother,” I said. “It will pay off. I know it will.”

  I thought of this conversation a year later, when Serge’s sacrifice and hard work did pay off as we had both hoped and dreamed. He was selected to play in the U-18 division of the Africa Cup tournament, where he was seen by influential scouts and offered a contract to play professionally in Spain. I was sad to see Serge leave, but excited and happy for him at being offered such an amazing opportunity; it also gave me confidence that I might follow in his footsteps. He was my inspiration: my brother from a different mother, connected by history and hardship and hope.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  “It was like a war!”

  My teammate said this with something like bloodlust, his eyes filled with excitement. We were sitting together in the locker room, right before a game, and I didn’t know how to respond.

  After less than a
year I had been promoted to Molokai’s B team, where most of my teammates were several years older and far stronger. I was nearly 6-foot-7 now, skinny but quicker, with the good sense to focus on what I could do well. I was still a somewhat weak and unpolished offensive player, not particularly smooth or skilled. But I could play defense and block shots. I could rebound. I could outwork almost anyone. Unlike most kids, I didn’t care about the glory that came with scoring; I just wanted to be on the court. I wanted to play. There were games when I would barely score at all, but I would block ten shots and grab ten rebounds, which was more than enough to please my coach.

  I became eager to join the A team, to get a chance to play with Molokai’s best athletes. Some days I was invited to practice with the A team, and I did my best to show I belonged. One day after practice I was told that I was being promoted for the next game, against a club team called Heritage. The last time that Heritage and Molokai had played, the previous season, there had been a controversial ending and a fight that started on the court and spilled over into the stands. Many people were injured. Understandably, there was a lot of tension heading into the rematch, which made me feel both excited and apprehensive.

  The next night, before the game, the players all got together to discuss strategy, but most of the conversation centered around what had happened the last time Molokai and Heritage had played. And it wasn’t about basketball. It was about fighting and bloodshed.

  “We wanted to kill each other,” someone said.

  “It was like a war . . .”

  Everyone nodded in agreement. They seemed to relish this idea, of fighting for something so passionately. But I couldn’t help but think to myself, No, this is not a war, even if people get hurt. This is just basketball. It is just a game. I have lived through war. There is nothing that compares.

  Despite this affirmation, and my best efforts at meditative reasoning, I found myself nearly overcome with anxiety as game time drew near. In warmups, as the other players bumped fists or patted each other on the back, and exchanged words of encouragement, I could barely speak. My heart was racing—beating so hard that I felt it might jump out of my chest. Oddly, I was not even sweating. My skin was cold and dry.

  As the game began, I took a seat near the end of the bench. I was the new kid on the team and did not expect to play very much. To my surprise, the coach called my name at the end of the first quarter.

  “Blondy! Let’s see what you can do.”

  Not much, as it turned out. I had never felt so lost on a basketball court. A place that had been a sanctuary to me suddenly felt foreign and overwhelming. Everyone was so big and strong and fast. The intensity of the competition was like nothing I had experienced. I felt like I was moving in slow motion. I could not stay in front of my man on defense. I tried to get in position for a rebound, only to have two players from the other team leap over me and grab the ball. Not necessarily because they were more talented than me (although this was probably the case), but because I was glued to the floor. I don’t know how to explain it, except to acknowledge that I suffered from a catastrophic anxiety attack. It was almost as if I had forgotten everything I had learned about the game of basketball. My mind went dark and my body became immobile.

  “Blondy!”

  The voice came from the sideline. My coach wore a look of exasperation. He held out his hands, palms facing the ceiling, as if to say, “What are you doing?” I had no response. I didn’t say a word, didn’t even move. The coach shook his head, pointed to one of my teammates on the bench. Then he pointed at me. The buzzer sounded and the substitution was made. I walked sheepishly to the end of the bench, without making eye contact with any of my teammates or the coach. I did not return to the game. My entire shift had lasted less than one minute.

  After the game, the president of the club came over to talk with me.

  “You were scared.”

  I shook my head defiantly. “No sir. It was just . . . different than I expected.”

  The president smiled. “I could see it in your eyes, son. You were frightened.”

  I hung my head. “Yes, sir. Maybe a little.”

  He nodded. “It happens sometimes . . . when we ask too much of someone who isn’t ready.”

  So that was my chance, an opportunity squandered in what felt like a heartbeat. The next day I went back to practicing with the B team. I was upset and embarrassed, but I knew it was the right and fair decision; I wasn’t ready to be promoted, so I went back to my old team and worked hard to improve. I became one of the best rebounders and shot blockers in the entire division. In many games, I would block more than ten shots. It became my greatest source of pride. I felt like I was on the verge of being promoted to the A team again when I made a poor decision.

  My friend DMX convinced me that we should leave Molokai temporarily and join another team located several hundred kilometers away, in Matadi. We would be gone just a few days while playing a couple of games with the team to help them qualify for the Congo Cup, a national championship tournament featuring the best teams in the country. If we were successful, DMX explained, we might be paid a nice bonus and maybe given a chance to join the team for an extended period. I never received a salary for playing club ball, but such bonus payments, while not strictly in accordance with amateur guidelines, were not uncommon. I had never known anything but poverty; the chance to make even a small amount of money for playing basketball was appealing. In order to make this happen, I had to convince Uncle Joseph. This was not easy since, it meant I would miss a few days of school, but Uncle Joseph was supportive of my basketball career and agreed to let me go. My mother was traveling for work at the time, so I did not have to seek her approval. I did have to come up with an excuse for missing some practice time with Molokai.

  “I have a family emergency,” I told my coach, which wasn’t entirely a lie, but certainly wasn’t the truth, either.

  Unfortunately, we split our two games and the team did not make the Congo Cup. DMX and I received no money at all, not even bus fare for the trip back to Kinshasa. We ended up staying in Matadi for more than a week, trying to figure out how to get home. Eventually, when we got hungry enough, I decided to call Uncle Joseph and explain to him that things had not gone exactly as planned. To put it mildly, he was not happy, but in the end he agreed to send us money so that we could buy bus tickets and return home.

  I finished the season with Molokai’s B team, and wound up with respectable numbers: sixteen rebounds, eleven points, and eight blocked shots per game. When the season ended, I did not take a break, but instead played every day—usually twice a day!—with my friends at Foyer Social. Throughout the summer, I would get up at five in the morning and lift weights in an effort to put some muscle on my slender frame. On Sunday mornings I would join several of my friends for a long workout. We would run several miles to Tata Raphaël, a fifty-thousand-seat stadium in Kinshasa. Once there, we would run the massive and steep stadium stairs until we were ready to collapse from exhaustion. Then we would rest for a few minutes and run back home. The entire workout consumed nearly three hours and more calories than any of us could spare. I would get home and fall on the floor. (I didn’t even know what “calories” were until I moved to the U.S. It was only then that I realized that the more you run, the more you burn calories; you have to eat and drink healthy food to replace the calories burned. But back then I had no clue.)

  “Can I have something to eat?” I would ask my grandmother.

  “We will have dinner later,” she would say.

  “But I am hungry now,” I would plead.

  “I am sorry, Blondy. There is nothing else.”

  On the occasions when I was desperately famished, I would visit a neighbor’s house and ask for food. It was humiliating, to go begging this way, but in the battle between hunger and pride, hunger will usually win the day. You do what you must to ease the sting of an empty stomach. Often dinner was nothing more than a bowl of rice cooked over an open fire fueled by f
allen tree limbs I had gathered for my grandmother. I saw less and less of my mother, as her business trips grew more frequent and longer in duration. Still, there was never enough money or food. This was just the way it was for me and for many people in my neighborhood.

  Basketball, with its promise of a better life in America, sustained me. Whenever I would get depressed or hungry or begin to feel sorry for myself (and I am ashamed to say this happened frequently), I would go to Foyer Social and play ball with my friends. In those games, on that court, my problems and fears melted away. I was young and naive, without a clue as to how I would make my dreams come true. I had no connections, and no knowledge of the mysterious inner workings of the machinery that could potentially take one from the Congo to the basketball team of an American university, or, God willing, the NBA. I just knew that my destiny was to achieve these goals, and somehow it would all work out.

  Many people felt I was indulging in a pathetic fantasy.

  “Blondy, why are you wasting your time playing that stupid game?” some of my neighbors (and even my own relatives) would say when they saw me leave the house in my basketball shorts. “It will never bring you anything. Focus on school.”

  “There is room for both,” I would respond with a smile. And this was true, although it is also true that I was far more devoted to basketball than I was to my studies. But I worked hard enough in the classroom to get decent grades and to ensure that if I had a chance to attend school in the U.S., I would not be deemed unworthy of the opportunity. But I didn’t love schoolwork (what sixteen-year-old boy does?). I loved basketball.

  That summer I played pickup ball with Serge Ibaka on many nights, and afterward we would walk home together and talk about what we needed to do in order to improve, and how we could make our dreams come true. Serge was definitely more talented than me, but he was endlessly encouraging and thoughtful. He would kick my butt all night, scoring as many points as he wanted and swatting my shot if I had the temerity to challenge him inside. Afterward, though, he would shake my hand and tell me “good job.” Within a few months Serge would be in Spain, one step closer to fulfilling his dream. I remained in the Congo, following his exploits from a distance, and determined to follow the same path.