Sooley(32)

How many shots could he take alone in one hour with a reasonable amount of hustle? There was a clock on the wall and he timed himself. He talked to himself before each shot and mentally went through the basics. From behind the arc, he hit the first two, then missed three. Two-for-five. Three-for-six. Four-for-ten. Six-for-fifteen. Twelve-for-thirty.

Sixty minutes later, he had taken 200 shots and made a third of them.

That wasn’t good enough.



* * *



·?·?·

The tent was six meters by six with a thick plastic floor, a door that zipped open and closed, and three windows that opened for ventilation. Beatrice, a tall woman, could almost stand upright without ducking her head. It was too large for a hiking tent and too small for the army, and must have been designed for refugees. Beatrice didn’t care how or why it was designed. It gave her and the boys their first moment of privacy and sense of place in many days. After they moved in, with nothing to move, she zipped the door and windows closed and huddled with James and Chol in the complete isolation. But as the air grew thick and hot, she quickly unzipped it all and stepped outside. Her friends from Lotta were on either side, and both were convinced she had managed a miracle to get the tents.

Their journey was over. They had survived the massacre and the nightmare of fleeing, and they had arrived in a place that promised safety, food, water, and now a roof.

The children at first hung around the tents, too timid to venture far, but by dark they were playing down the street with a group of kids. The tents, and there were thousands of them, all identical, were staked in a perfect grid, block after block. Each tent was exactly two meters from the one next door, so that through the vinyl fabric walls a family spat four tents down was shared by many. Once inside, the women and children soon learned to whisper about everything.

The small plots provided for two meters of ground in front of the tent and next to the street, and two meters behind for cooking and urinating. A few outhouses were scattered through the community, but not enough. Long lines of people waited while others relieved themselves wherever they could. The stench of shit and urine permeated the air. The acrid smoke from cooking fires hung like a fog over the area.

Beatrice longed for the day she would have something to cook.





CHAPTER 22





Monday, August 17, the first day of classes. Samuel woke up early, turned on lights, slammed drawers, showered making as much noise as possible, but was completely unable to rouse his roommate from his nightly comalike hibernation. Samuel dressed, left the dorm, and hustled over to the student union to drink coffee and watch the coeds. He had roamed the campus for hours and knew every building. At nine he had Sociology; at ten, African Studies; at noon, General Math. The most exciting part of the day would begin at three in The Nest when the team met with the coaches for the first practice. Under the current NCAA rules, they could be on the floor for exactly one hour four days a week until late September when the real work began. The first game was in early November.

He had been in the U.S. now for almost six weeks, and on campus for the last two, and the culture shock was fading. He marveled at the students and their affluence. Every single one had a cell phone and laptop, and most of them, especially the girls, did little but stare at their screens. And the clothes. Most wore cut-offs, tee shirts, and sandals, but there seemed to be an endless supply. Murray’s small closet was filled with more shirts than any ten men had in Lotta. Samuel realized immediately that no student could function without just the right backpack. He purchased one with his first paycheck, and with Murray’s help. He was startled at the number of students who owned cars and brought them to school. Parking on campus was difficult and highly regulated, but the traffic was still a mess.

In spite of his burdens, he was thrilled to be on an American campus and starting classes. When he walked into Sociology, there were a hundred students in a large hall, and at first glance he didn’t know a soul. Then, near the back, he saw the smiling face of a freshman football player. He sat beside him as the professor called things to order. All laptops opened.

Samuel took a second and closed his eyes and thought of his mother.



* * *



·?·?·

At 2:55, Coach Britt blew his whistle and all warm-ups stopped. He herded the players to a section of the bleachers and said hello.

There were sixteen of them: ten returning, two transfers, two freshmen, and two invited walk-ons. Of the ten returning, three were seniors, five were juniors, two, including Murray, were sophomores.

Coach Britt began by introducing the Director of Athletics and invited him to say a word or two, which he seemed delighted to do. He welcomed the team, talked about what a great season it would be, and so on. His real purpose, though, was to talk about their two teammates, both now out of jail but facing serious charges. He took responsibility for their dismissals and said the university had no choice. If they were eventually cleared, then he and the President would consider reinstatement. He did not want the incident to distract the team.

The AD left, and Coach Britt took over. He introduced the five student managers, all volunteers, and went on about how important they were to the program. He introduced his associate head coach, Jason Grinnell, and his two assistant coaches, Jackie Garver and Ron McCoy. The four had been together throughout Lonnie’s four-year tenure at Central. He introduced the director of basketball operations, the director of player development, the assistant director of operations, the team doctor, and the two trainers.